Blown Away (A Romantic Comedy) (Five More Wishes Book 1) (8 page)

Cade pushes me behind him, but there’s no safe place. We’re surrounded.

The car doors open, and four gorgeous men hop out. They’re all dead ringers for Antonio Banderas, except they have mustaches. Each mustache is a work of art in different sizes and shapes. Our pursuers look like seventies porn stars who’ve escaped from the Playboy mansion. Each one is a genetic mutant for good-looks.

The shortest Antonio Banderas with a handlebar mustache waves a large gun at us. One Antonio Banderas grabs my arm and another Antonio Banderas grabs Cade’s arm, while another Antonio Banderas takes the cooler.

They pull us away from each other, but I scream and hold onto Cade as if my life depends on it, and I’m pretty sure it does. “Let’s calm down and talk about this,” Cade tells them. My arms are wrapped around his middle, and he’s holding onto me, too. Even though they’re four people with four guns, my brain is telling me that as long as I’m touching Cade, I’m in the safe zone and nothing can hurt me. Oh, my, how Cade has grown in my estimation.

Any bra-freezer in a storm, I guess.

They pry my hands off of Cade, but he holds tight, and I’m not going anywhere. “Come on, guys,” he says in his best diplomatic voice. “I think you’ve made a mistake. We’re journalists from Summer Island. We just made a wrong turn.”

Oh, boy. He said it all.

“No mistake,” the guy in charge says, waving the gun at us. “Let’s go.”

One Antonio Banderas yanks me hard, and I go flying into his arms. Cade pulls me back, forcefully with one hand and with his other, he sucker punches the guy. He flies backward with a loud crack as Cade’s fist makes contact with his nose. Antonio Banderas releases me while he falls to the ground. Free from them, Cade acts quickly. He takes my hand and begins to run away from the porn stars.

We run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. Even barefoot and scared out of my mind, I manage to run like Usain Bolt. Well, I run like him if he was in a one-meter race. That’s as far as we get.

One meter.

Three feet.

One. Two. Three.

By the time we get four feet away, we’re captured. Cade is heroic, punching one of them right in his mustache, but they’re four men with guns, and we’re two barefoot journalists armed with nothing but a killer way with words. Luckily, nobody gets shot. The guy that Cade punched in the mustache sends a flying Taser wire into Cade’s back, taking him down to the ground.

I scream, again.

I’m not proud of my wimpy female scream-queen behavior. I always thought that I would be a kickass Katniss Everdeen or GI Jane when confronted with this kind of situation, but I’m totally Scarlett O’Hara. Worthless.

Dropping to the ground, I’m overcome with emotion at the side of Cade’s prone body. I only manage to get a couple tears out before an Antonio Banderas picks me up and swings me over his shoulder.

I hit his back with everything I have, but it doesn’t stop him. Within a couple minutes, my hands are zip-tied behind my back, and I’m thrown into the back of the Mercedes. An unconscious Cade is tossed in next to me. His hands are zip-tied, too, and he slumps against my shoulder. As we begin to drive off, he comes to, groaning. He opens one eye and looks up my nose.

“I’m thinking this isn’t good,” he croaks.

“Perceptive.”

He struggles to sit upright. “Are you okay? You feeling okay? Is the—you know—doing all right?”

Sure I’m being abducted, but I can’t help feeling warm and fuzzy from Cade’s concern over the little bundle of joy in my middle. I’m starting to think that this accident, mistake, life-altering, screw up might be a good thing. An image of little Beryl riding on Cade’s shoulders fills my mind, and it makes me happy.

“About our agreement,” I begin.

“Our agreement? We’re being abducted.”

“I know, but…”

“Don’t worry. I won’t pressure you. We’ll do this in your time. I understand if you don’t want us to be a couple. Hey, I’m a big boy. I’m not a stalker. Don’t worry about me. I’ll lay off.”

“Oh,” I say. It’s the opposite of what I want him to stay. “Not even a little bit of a stalker?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Oh.”

“On the other hand, the Pulitzer is all mine. I’m not sharing a byline.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is my Pulitzer,” he says smiling wide. “This is a great story.”

“We’re being abducted. We could be dead in an hour.” Any hint of romance has flown out the window. “They could torture me or worse. They could torture you, too, you know. They could shove hot pokers up your ass and feed your eyes to feral cats. They could pull your tongue out with needle-nose pliers and force you to listen to Kanye West award speeches in a never-ending loop. They could electrocute your balls and give you a home permanent with sulfuric acid.”

“Am I wrong or have you given torturing me a lot of thought?”

“No, no of course not,” I say.

“Then you just pulled that out of your hat? Feral cats eating my eyeballs?”

“I might have been saving it,” I say.

“No talking!” our driver shouts.

“No talking,” I say, changing the subject. The good thing about being rejected by the father of my child is that it totally takes my mind off of being abducted and the fact that the circulation in my hands is being cut off by the zip ties.

“I’m not going to let them hurt you,” Cade whispers. “I’ll protect you.”

My eyebrows knit together, and my lips purse into a tight oval. Cade’s hair is standing up because of the Taser, his socks are torn from running outside in them, and he’s sitting on his hands. “You’re going to protect me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How? You brought someone with you?”

“Shit, Millie. That hurt worse than feral cats.”

“No talking!” the driver yells, again. The Mercedes follows the other cars through a gate and parks in an empty lot in front of a dilapidated, empty factory building.

“We’re in New Mexico,” Cade whispers in my ear. “I caught a sign. If you get out of this, and I don’t, call for help and let them know we’re in the northwest corner of New Mexico.”

“What do you mean if you don’t get out of this?”

Cade doesn’t answer. His door is opened, and two men drag him out. He doesn’t fight them, but it’s hard for him to catch his balance, and they more or less drag him to the factory building. I pinch myself behind my back. Nope. I’m still awake.

Bummer.

My door opens, and an Antonio Banderas takes my arm. “I need to pee,” I say, calmly. “It’s the baby. Ever since I got pregnant, I have to pee every twenty minutes.”

I’m not lying and I haven’t peed since my last morning pregnancy test hours ago, but I’m just trying to get my abductor’s sympathy. I figure I should get special treatment if I’m going to become fat, get hemorrhoids, suffer morning sickness, and cry for no reason. At least I should get special dispensation, like not getting murdered in the middle of nowhere.

Or murdered anywhere.

“Hey, Felipe,” the man shouts. The man with the handlebar mustache shows up, and he seems annoyed.

“What’s taking so long?”

“She’s with child.”

Felipe stares at my flat stomach. “You’re pregnant?”

“Four months,” I lie. I’m only fifty-one days pregnant, but four months sounds more substantial, more like I should be in the first group to be allowed on a plane. “I carry well.” Whatever that means.

Felipe nods and pulls a long, hunting knife out of his pocket. I flinch and hold my breath. Before I can scream and dive for the floor, he pushes me forward, and with a flick of his knife, cuts my binds and frees my hands.

“You want some water? Milk?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t say no to a cream soda.”

Gently, they help me out of the car, like I’m a delicate flower. An Antonio Banderas takes my arm and escorts me to the building.  I’m still kidnapped, but I’m breathing easier.

The inside of the building is exactly what I expect. It’s a vast empty shell with bubonic plague-filled puddles on the cracked concrete floor and tetanus-laden rusted metal everywhere. In the center is the kidnapper’s stereotypical standing lamp with a single light bulb, an old desk, and two chairs. Cade is sitting on one of the chairs. His eyes track every step I take. Either he’s worried about me or jealous that my hands are free, while his hands are still tied behind his back.

Even though my hands are free, I’m scared. Really scared. This is just like a Quentin Tarantino movie. I’m half-expecting Samuel L. Jackson to appear, call me a motherfucker, and shoot me in the face.

Felipe takes my hand and helps me sit, like he’s my date at the prom. They’ve forgotten about getting me to a bathroom…maybe because there is no bathroom, but I don’t have the courage to remind them about my pregnant bladder. A bottle of water appears from nowhere, and they hand it to me. Two of the Antonio Banderases huddle by the door, speaking in hushed tones, and the other two are somewhere else outside of the building. I take a sip of my water.

“Funny meeting you here,” Cade says.

“How’s your Pulitzer coming along?” I ask.

“The story is heavy on drama but light on detail,” Cade says. He’s right. We have no idea what’s going on. Obviously, the gorgeous mustachioed kidnappers are the bad guys, but what kind of bad guys and why have they abducted us? What do they want with us?

Cade isn’t much help. He’s hopping around in his chair. Useless.

Felipe and his friend walk back toward us, and Felipe points at Cade. “Why are you here?” he demands.

“Because you abducted us and dragged us here.”

“Where is the cocaine?”

“In the cooler,” Cade says.

“Not that cocaine. Where’s the rest of the cocaine?”

Cade stops hopping around in his chair. “The rest of the cocaine?” he asks.

“There’s more cocaine?” I ask. The other Antonio Banderas is eating a burrito, and it smells wonderful. “Is that a carne asada burrito?” I ask.

“Doughnut burrito,” he says with his mouth full.

“A doughnut in a burrito?”

“You want some?” he offers.

Disgusting. He can’t be serious. “Are you serious?” I ask. “Like a real doughnut?”

“Krispy Kreme. It’s still warm.”

I put my hand out, and he hands it over. The doughnut burrito is delicious, and I scarf it down in three bites. Cade stares at me, and I don’t think it’s because he wants a bite. I shrug. “I’m eating for two,” I say.

“Where’s the cocaine?” Felipe demands again, impatient.

“This is a mistake,” Cade says. “We were trapped in the balloon. Olivier Samba tricked us. Do you know Olivier Samba?”

I have a feeling they know Olivier Samba. I have a feeling that Samba tricked them, too. Where’s the cocaine? Where’s the cocaine? Samba probably ripped them off for a lot of cocaine.

“I ask the questions, here,” Felipe says.

“Sorry. Work hazard,” Cade says.

“We don’t know about the cocaine,” I say. The atmosphere has changed. The burrito-sharing, concern for the pregnant woman vibe has altered, and I’m pretty sure that we’re heading into a Reservoir Dogs vibe. The shit is about to hit the fan. We’re up a creek, and there isn’t a paddle anywhere. Even Dick’s Sporting Goods has run out of paddles. In a burst of a self-preservation and a monster doughnut burrito sugar rush, a flood of words flies out of my mouth.

“We live in a small town, and we had the exclusive interview,” I explain. “I mean, I had the exclusive interview. Cade just tagged along. And then Samba jumped, and I ate the caviar, but I swear I didn’t touch the cocaine. Look, I admit that I haven’t read What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and it’s doubtful that I’m going to start eating kale or royal jelly just so that my baby’s brain will be big. I mean, her father is Cade so no amount of kale is going to make her smart. But even though I’m not a kale eater and I really don’t know what I’m supposed to eat, I do know I’m not supposed to be playing around with cocaine in my condition. Cocaine is bad. Good mothers don’t snort bad cocaine. Not that I’m a good mother. Actually, I’m kind of new to the whole mother idea. Motherhood wasn’t in my plan. I was supposed to work for the L.A. Times, not burp babies. I had a plan. Now my plan has been unplanned. But you can understand that no matter how unplanned my plan is, cocaine is not in the unplan or the plan. No cocaine. No plan. Sure, I ate the caviar. I admit it. But we left the cocaine alone. We’re Amish. Amish people don’t snort cocaine. That’s not true. We’re not Amish. We’re Seventh Day Adventists. We don’t eat meat or snort cocaine. That’s not true, either. We eat a buttload of meat. Lots of cows. But we didn’t know about the cocaine. We don’t do cocaine. I’ve never even been to Studio 54. I don’t like disco music. Read my lips. No cocaine. Phew. I really need to pee.”

With the last word, my sugar rush ends, and the sugar crash begins. I’ve run through a dictionary, and I’m out of words. The Antonio Banderases focus on me, as if they’re trying to translate what I said, and I don’t blame them. It would be near impossible to separate the English from the blah-blah.

“What I mean is,” I begin again, but I’m interrupted when Cade stands up. Somehow, he’s managed to get his hands free, and he’s lifting the chair over his head. The mustachioed Antonios are just as surprised as I am, and even more so when Cade slams the chair on Felipe’s head and side-swipes the other one. They fall like bowling pins.

A strike. Cade wins.

“What did you do?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. As our kidnappers lie unconscious, Cade riffles through their pockets, coming out with a Taser and a key ring. Smart guy. Maybe he’s right, and he does deserve the Pulitzer.

He grabs my hand, and we run out through the back of the building. When we get outside, we hear voices, and we slam our backs against the wall. “We’re so going to die,” I say.

“We’re not going to die by the hands of drug smugglers. I’m going to have a fatal heart attack bonking your brains out when we’re eighty.”

“Eighty? Does that mean we we’re going to be together for fifty years, or do you mean that we’re going to go our separate ways and then look each other up on Facebook in fifty years and you do some kind of booty call?”

“You’re a lot of work, do you know that?”