Barbie & The Beast (2 page)

“Sounds good to me,” Barbie replied, very honestly relieved. The promise of cookies and ice cream seemed a fitting end to
the silliness of their current predicament. As a matter of fact, cookies and the mass consumption of them was beginning to
seem a fitting end to every situation. “Let’s go,” she stated firmly. “We don’t need this.”

Before she could take a backward step, Angie’s voice rang out. “Hang on! Barbie, did you hear that noise? Over there?”

There was no way could Barbie see where her friend was pointing, if she was pointing. “Damn. I hope no one heard us,” she
muttered.

“I hope that noise isn’t coming from a severed head,” Angie said, tone again high-pitched, as though her own hand might be
on her throat, squeezing. “Detached heads don’t still have vocal cords, do they?”

“Not unless they’re in a Stephen King movie.” Barbie didn’t actually hear anything. “Most likely it’s someone from the party.
I’ll bet if we can’t see them, they can’t see us, either.”

“Then no one would see us run,” Angie said.

“Can you run in those shoes?”

“I’d be willing to give it a try. Can you run in yours?”

“Remember the punch line of that old joke? I don’t have to run fast, just faster than you.”

“Hmmm,” Angie conceded. “It might be a good idea if I took these heels off for a few minutes.”

“And step on all those body parts with your bare feet?”

“Geez, Barb!” Angie’s subsequent expletive was muffled. No doubt she’d bent over to remove her shoes, chin pressed
to her substantial and much-envied bosom. “Did you have to remind me of that joke? Or of Stephen King? That kind of stuff
gives me the willies!”

Surprisingly, Barbie couldn’t respond to that. Something had encircled her right wrist with a viselike grip, and it couldn’t
be her friend. Angie would have been worried about breaking a nail.

The suddenness of the touch rendered Barbie speechless. She was pulled sideways, struggled to remain upright with the damn
pencil skirt inhibiting knee action, and heard Angie’s voice crack slightly. “Okay. Shoes are off. Ready to sprint, Barb?”

Then, “Barbie? Quit playing tricks. Not funny. Say something.” Angie’s nasal whine returned, following Barbie into the darkness.
“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. You there, Barbie?”

Barbie was just too stunned to answer.

The shriek Barbie finally uttered barely made it past her constricted throat and ended up sounding more like a sneeze. She
turned, ducked, and got a mouthful of something that tasted like damp Christmas tree. There was no time for a second vocalization.
The big hand that had latched onto her was pulling her through a bunch of bushes. She had to wave her free hand to keep from
getting scratched, and kept her mouth closed to keep out leaves and God knew what other sort of graveyard debris might get
in there. Tugged along at a brisk pace, she had to concentrate, trot on her tiptoes, and pray she wouldn’t fall flat on her
face.

Whoever had hold of her dove through another batch of greenery. She followed. Clear of that, they hit wet grass. Her heels
sank down into the earth, pitching her off balance. She tipped like the famous leaning tower in Italy.
Thook.
Her heels then unstuck, and she hurtled toward what ever person was still attached to her via a firm handhold, thinking as
she fell that this grab-and-run had to have something to do with the party—the party she and Angie had decided not to attend.
This nocturnal kidnapping routine could only be thought up by party boys.
Men.
Young single men who, having heard her
and Angie wavering, were gathering them up before a full retreat.

Considering this, Barbie swallowed a tempting shout for help. She and Angie must have sounded so silly, so chicken, talking
about all those heads. They might as well have flapped their elbows up and down and made clucking sounds—

“Oof.” She rammed into something hard—her abductor, most likely. The air puffed out of her lungs as she was lifted off the
ground and tossed over a meaty shoulder like a sack of potatoes, leaving her legs dangling and her hair in her eyes.

“You have got to be kidding!” she exclaimed. But the guy carrying her didn’t react to her exclamation or offer up so much
as a single introduction, explanation, or apology for what might easily have been grounds for cardiac arrest.

And wait a minute! Assuming they’d both been abducted, Angie seemed awfully quiet for a person who always had something to
say.

Dang, Barbie thought, bumping along upside down on her abductor’s shoulder. If this really was the welcoming committee, it
didn’t bode well for the party. Although her man-wishes hadn’t been about finding a male too in touch with his feminine side,
neither did she want to be around a bunch of brutes.

All she could see now was. . .well, nothing. She couldn’t even make out what kind of jacket the guy carrying her was wearing,
though it felt sort of silky as she clung on for dear life. Food for thought: if it was a tux or a nice expensive dinner ensemble,
both she and Angie were dreadfully underdressed. Of course, tuxes were rarely worn by weirdos, right?

Relaxing her grip slightly, Barbie shuffled once more through her options. Shout, kick, get to her feet and cause a fuss—all
seemed like good ones. Combined, they should just
about do the trick to get her free. At the very least, they’d scare the bejesus out of this guy.

Problem was, she couldn’t move her legs. The brute must have had an arm over them. Without the use of extremities necessary
for a getaway, the only sensible thing to do would be to. . .adapt. Adapt and hope she would someday regain the feeling
in her feet.

Really, since the decision of whether or not she and Angie would actually get to the party had been taken out of their hands,
she might as well make a concerted effort to remain polite and ladylike in a very unladylike position, obliging these party
boys for a few minutes more. Surely she could find the patience, the humor, to deal with a wise guy like this one, short-term?
Perhaps talk to him?

Of course, talking required breath, and a broad, muscled shoulder seemed to be cutting off her air. Ditto for Angie, she supposed,
whose colorful murmurings should have been audible by now.

Spitting some of the dangling hair out of her mouth, Barbie managed a grimace and the word “Fudge.”

She tried again. “Are we going far?” Her voice sounded bouncy and staccato, though the guy’s gait was, thankfully, fairly
smooth.

“Not far now,” a very deep, masculine voice replied from beside her left hip.

Wow. Communication. Good start.

“Ummm. . .you must be very strong,” Barbie said. “I don’t hear you panting or anything.”

“I have my moments,” the guy carrying her replied.

“Is this one of them? Because I can walk, you know. Been doing it for twenty-two years now, give or take.”

“Ah, but we wouldn’t want you to step on any of those stray body parts, would we?” came the wry answer.

Barbie knew wry when she heard it. She was, after all, a
Bradley. Wry was a common Bradley middle name. She tossed back, “But
you’re
willing to step on them?”

“I’ll miss them.”

“Oh? Eyes of a bat, maybe?”

“Bats have radar,” he replied.

“A wise guy, huh?”

“I like to think so.”

“Nothing wrong with your ego, then,” Barbie muttered.

“Had ages to perfect it,” the guy agreed, slowing slightly before veering to the right.

After a hesitation, Barbie asked, “Are we going toward the light?”

“Is that a metaphysical question?” he returned.

“Nope. Haven’t got a metaphysical bone in my body. I did see a light back there, though. And I am inquisitive. For instance,
I’m wondering why you’re carrying me.”

“I liked your voice.”

“You pick up everyone whose voice you like?”

“Those under two hundred pounds.”

Very funny. A true wit. So wait, wit meant brains, right? Brains and brawn in the same guy? Surely this was a step in the
right direction toward that New Year’s resolution.

“I’m also suspicious by nature,” she offered.

No comment from her abductor.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the suspicious part?” Barbie asked.

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

“You’d prefer I asked about it?”

“Conversation might make this situation a bit more civilized,” she suggested.

“You’re talking about the sack-of-potatoes style of transportation? I’d have carried you differently, in a more civilized
manner, but I needed both hands free.”

“What for?”

“To open the gate.”

“I don’t see any gate.”

Of course, Barbie didn’t have eyes in her butt, and that part of her anatomy was front-facing at the moment.

“We haven’t gone through the gate yet,” the guy told her.

“Those lights looked fairly close when Angie and I were standing
back there somewhere.”

“Lights are deceptive,” came the reply.

“Well, we can’t have deceptive lights, can we?” Barbie did an eye roll. “I mean, who
can
you trust?”

Had the guy laughed at that? Barbie swore she’d heard a rumble. She felt a quick shake of his shoulders. Either he’d laughed,
or his stomach growled loudly.

Didn’t they provide food at this party?

“You sure this isn’t a fraternity bash?” she mumbled, suspicions coalescing into images of beer kegs, sawdust on the floor,
and rowdy twenty-year-olds. She imagined platters of Triskets and Cheez Whiz in the can. Kinky abductions without explanation
would be just the sort of thing a frat boy might do, while beating his chest with his fists and making Tarzan noises like
. . .

“Ungawa!”

“Did you say something?” her abductor asked, slowing.

“I said, ‘Ungawa.’ ”

“That’s what I thought you said. Is there something wrong with your tongue?”

“My tongue is fine. The word is a commonly used frat-boy password, I believe.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’d rather not say,” Barbie admitted, “though it could involve old movies on cable.”

She was beginning to feel a bit like a rag doll. Thing was, in this position, she couldn’t stay tense. If she didn’t relax,
it
would be murder on the abs. “What if I tell you I’m getting seasick, all upside down like this?” she asked.

“I’d wonder if it was the truth or merely a ploy to get me to set you on your feet.”

Blowing the hair out of her face, Barbie muttered half to herself, half to him, “Wouldn’t want to spoil your nice, soft jacket
by barfing up late lunch, is all.”

Expecting to hear choruses of those Tarzan vocalizations any minute now, Barbie was surprised when the guy stopped walking.
Whoever said that men weren’t vain about their clothes?

“Well?” she asked when he made no move to set her down. “I’m waiting,” he told her.

“For what?”

“The volcanic eruption.”

“I’m not really going to barf. Not right at the moment, anyway.” Shoot. It was a stupid burst of honesty, Barbie realized
too late.

“Good.” He started off again.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind,” she warned, lifting her head, trying to look at him.

“Nice of you to warn me,” he said. “Very civilized.”

Scanning the dark as she tried to keep the hair out of her eyes, Barbie
realized it certainly wasn’t getting any lighter. They should have reached the party by now. The way she was draped over this
guy’s shoulder had to be as uncomfortable for him as it was for her; though she’d been going to the gym regularly for the
last year, she still had a couple of pounds to lose.

Her fingers were starting to tingle. Blood was rushing to her head. Not to worry, she told herself. She’d read somewhere that
being upside down, in the form of head-and handstands, brought blood and nutrients to your brain. This meant, according to
what she had read, that a person could
think better, feel better, and look perfectly pink cheeked without an application of blush.

Okay, so the last part was her own take on the matter. Still, it remained a fact that a good percentage of people were on
either their feet or buttocks most of the day. Maybe it made sense to return some gravity-challenged blood up north.

“You know,” Barbie pointed out, not so sure about anything, since she could no longer feel her toes, “this kind of over-the-shoulder
stuff went out with the cavemen.”

“Did it? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” the guy said.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t listening?”

“I’m quite a good listener, actually. I heard you mention you’re a teacher. And something about Oreos.”

“That’s called eavesdropping, not listening,” she growled.

“You weren’t whispering, you know.”

“My friend and I were having a private conversation.”

“In voices that would wake the dead.”

“Oh? Is there a law against talking in a graveyard?”

“Not that I know of, though noise does carry farther than you’d expect. Cemeteries are usually on the quiet side.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s why it was chosen for the party.”

“Party?”

Not realizing that an upside-down stomach could perform a flip until hers did, Barbie stifled a yelp. There was something
in the way he had said that. As if he didn’t know about the party.

“You aren’t actually going to be sick, are you?” he asked, slowing again.

“Put me down. Right this minute. This position is barbaric.”

“You’ve never dreamed of being swept off your feet?” he asked cockily.

“Oh. That.”

The guy laughed again, soft and low and just loud enough
for Barbie to hear, the rumbling sound toying with her attempt at reviving a reality check. Her stomach had, mere seconds
before, done an impossible one-eighty, for Pete’s sake. She was numb all over, and he was laughing?

Maybe she could kick him with one of her partially paralyzed legs? Then she could mess up his hair. Guys hated hair mussing
when they were all dolled up for a party. His hair smelled faintly—and rather nicely, come to think of it—like spice.

As she thought briefly about how pleasant good-smelling hair was on specimens of the male gender, the brawny brute beneath
her had the audacity to laugh again, shaking her up, sabotaging her little revenge plan. Thing was, she had to admit, this
particular brute had a nice laugh. She liked guys who were able to laugh easily and freely. She liked all the little eye wrinkles
on old men’s faces caused by a lifetime of merriment.

One thing was certain: laughter was high on her checklist of male characteristics acceptable for further exploration. As was
spice-scented shampoo.

So. . .?

No! Do not go there!

Bad Barbie!

Brutes do not warrant consideration of that sort!

Wildmen are not to be taken seriously! Unless your name is Angie Ward, of course, for whom the word
wild
, when applied to a man, would elicit pure, unadulterated glee.

Which had to be why Angie remained so quiet. She was probably having the time of her life.

Barbie shook her head. To get back on track, trying hard not to sound agitated she said, “I can’t say I’ve ever envisioned
this position in my dreams of being swept off my feet. I mean, it’s not really very romantic, is it?”

“What’s unromantic about it?” her abductor asked.

“Oh, it could have something to do with my rear end being so near to your face. Not to mention the fact that you’re wrinkling
the clothes I recently spent all my hard-earned cash on, and I won’t be able to make a proper first impression.”

“You believe that, about clothes and first impressions?”

“Not usually. Hardly ever, really.” She added a heartbeat later, “Yet I do hate to iron.”

There was now a lightness to the guy’s tone. “In that case, I guess I’d better put you down.”

“It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” Barbie agreed.

“And I,” her companion remarked, “have always striven to be a gentleman.”

Chuckling as if amused over some private joke, he bent his knees and bent his back until Barbie could feel the ground beneath
her feet. Steadying her with his hands on her shoulders, he waited until she had her balance before letting her go.

Reluctantly? It seemed to Barbie as though he’d released her somewhat slowly. His fingers ran down her arms as if getting
in a last feel.