Game On (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) (15 page)

              I looked Carter dead in the eyes, mustering the will to say something I’d never admitted before. “Carter, I know you’ve looked at my life and thought I’ve always loved being the wild child, going off from girlfriend to girlfriend with all the money in the world to spend. But man,” I said, taking a breath, “you’re the one I’ve always been jealous of.”

              Carter’s expression softened, as did the hardness in his eyes.

              “This family life, doing everything you can for the people around you and the woman you love, that’s what I’ve always wanted. And that’s what I see in Danielle, and she sees it in me. Now you tell me, if it were Anna locked up in that apartment, would you be hesitating from doing everything it took to get her back?”

              Cater’s gaze was unreadable for a long while, but finally, he stepped forward, and we clapped our arms together. “Not for a second,” he answered. “We’ll do it. But I need to know we can pull this off, Kieran.”

              “I’m a skilled climber,” I said, looking to Jamal, “and Jamal and I are trained fighters. If it comes to it, we can do what needs to be done.”

              “I promised my family I’d stay out of the ring,” Jamal said with a nod, “but this is a different matter. If I can’t use my abilities to protect what matters most, what good are they?”

              I nodded with a smile. “Then let’s go show these bastards that we don’t let threats control our loved ones.”

              It was only after hours of having to listen to my stomach growling that Tony finally broke down and ordered us take-out from a nearby Italian restaurant. I was beginning to feel like maybe Tony was almost more on my side than on Paul and Janet’s by now, especially after their big blow-out yesterday afternoon. The mafioso finally managed to fend off his wealthy client without having to break every one of his bones-- which I had no doubt Tony was capable of doing, if he wanted to. Luckily, after that, Paul and Janet decided to head out. Janet had whined that Tony’s apartment was filthy and pathetic, that every moment she spent within its walls clogged her pores and made her hair frizz up. I couldn’t deny that Tony’s apartment was less than ideal for most human standards, particularly once I was allowed to use the bathroom.

              The toilet was filthy, like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, with a towel laid down on the floor in place of a real bath mat. The wallpaper was peeling and the mirror smudged. After spending a good minute or two sanitizing the toilet seat, I finally relieved myself. All the while, Tony stood guard on the other side of the bathroom door to make sure I didn’t try anything. But I got the sense that he didn’t suspect I had any wild ideas in mind. And he was right. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about my current predicament.

              Except for try my hardest to maintain what little dignity I still had reserved.

              And that was why I asked Tony to let me use his shower. I hadn’t been able to wash my hair or body in a couple days now and I felt downright disgusting. Of course, being held in Tony’s squalid little home certainly contributed to that feeling. After much wheedling back and forth, at last he relented, under the awkward condition that he be allowed in the bathroom with me to make sure I didn’t do anything crazy. I supposed he worried I might try and hurt myself with the razor on the sink or something.

But, truth be told, I was actually just dying to clean myself up. I still had duct tape residue on the corners of my mouth and my hair was a knotted mess after being tossed around in the backseat of the Cadillac and on the bed. I had bruises and a cut from being hit with Paul’s fists. The giant, gaudy rings he wore on each hand lacerated my skin when he hit me, so that I was streaked with messily dried blood in some places. I looked a mess, and felt even worse than I looked. So, after Tony decided to take pity on me, he led me cautiously to the shower, turned on the warm water, handed me a bottle of three in one shampoo-conditioner-body wash, and told me not to take too long.

Even though the water pressure was horrible and the soap he gave me smelled like cheap bubblegum, I still relished the opportunity to finally feel like a person again. Although it was still a little difficult to get totally comfortable with Tony in the room. To his credit, he stood with his back facing me, staring dutifully at the bathroom door the whole time. I didn’t catch him sneak a single quick glance back at me, even though the translucent glass door of the shower stall would have given him a clear shot of my naked body. I was grateful for and surprised at his discretion. I never would have expected a mafia kidnapper to be so respectful of my personal boundaries. I now had little fear that he would seriously injure me or sexually assault me. After all, the shower would have been a prime opportunity to do either one of those things, seeing as I was totally vulnerable. So, in a small way, he had gained at least an ounce of my trust.

In fact, I was beginning to see that perhaps this wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. He certainly wasn’t fond of Paul and Janet, and he even seemed to regard the whole thing as more of an inconvenience than a payout. Like something he had to do, not something he wanted to do. Which was a relief; at least I knew he wasn’t taking any great joy in holding me hostage.

So when I was all cleaned up-- or as clean as I could be using the awful soap Tony offered-- I put my clothes back on and the two of us sat down in his living room while he ordered us some food. He spoke in rapid Italian to the man on the phone, his despondent face lighting up as he laughed and apparently cracked jokes with the guy taking his order. I merely sat quietly and waited, staring down at the dusty floor. In the living room, there was a small, old-fashioned TV set on an obviously thrifted wooden stand. There were two chairs, more like glamorized lawn chairs than real living room seating, and a rickety little coffee table. It appeared that Tony lived a pretty simple life, enjoying his cartoons and his organized crime like any other middle-aged mafioso, of course.

At least I was out of that wretched bedroom with the weird, childlike bedspread. And straight into an awkward, tense silence with my captor. Tony sat down in the other chair and turned the volume back on the television, the flash-bang sound effects of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon blaring into existence suddenly. As Tony settled into his chair, I watched out of the corner of my eye as a genuinely content, amused smile formed on his lips. He was truly enjoying himself. Like this cartoon was the pinnacle of art. A marvel of comedy.

What a bizarre man.

“So, you like cartoons,” I said suddenly, causing Tony to jump a little. He turned to look at me slowly, almost as though he’d forgotten I was in the room, he was that into the TV show. He pursed his lips and nodded.

“Reminds me of my job,” he said, gesturing to the TV. “See, that coyote guy is always chasin’ down that skinny bird. He never gets ‘im, though. I’d get ‘im. I’m good at my job.”

I nodded, trying to follow his train of thought, however weird it was. “I see. So, in this case, am I the roadrunner?”

Tony’s lined face broke into an appreciative grin. “Yeah, yeah, you get it.”

I smiled back at him, feeling a little nauseous. No matter how childish or silly he acted sometimes, I had to remember that I was at his mercy here. He may have been immature, but he was still bigger and stronger than me. And while he had qualms about hurting me, the smack he gave me back in the car indicated that he wasn’t beyond using physical force when the situation dictated it. I wanted to steer clear of such situations.

“What did you get for us to eat?” I asked, trying desperately to engage with him however I could. It was another thing I recalled from self-defense class: finding a way to bond with your captor so that he viewed you more as a fellow human being than a mere means to an end. I needed Tony to sympathize with me on some level to stay on his good side, and I was going to make it happen.

“Bolognese and focaccia,” he said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Oh. Hmm, sounds good,” I remarked. “Thank you.”

He seemed genuinely warmed by my response, and finally looked back at me. “The restaurant around the corner is the only one that has the same kinda food my mama used to make. They put real love in their cookin’, I can tell.”

“That’s nice,” I told him, still smiling. Tony shrugged.

“Everybody told me there’d be good restaurants out here since it’s a big city ‘n’ all, but it’s nothin’ like the Big Apple, ya know. I get kinda homesick for little Italy sometimes,” he explained, opening up in a way I never expected. Then again, I was a journalist. This was the one thing I was supposed to be good at. I just had to keep prying, and hopefully he would keep spilling his guts for me. It made the time pass more quickly, and it made him like me more. Therefore, less likely to seriously harm me.

Besides, I got the feeling that Tony didn’t often get a chance to talk to anyone, really. Perhaps he watched the cartoons because they were comforting to him or something. If he wasn’t holding me hostage, I might have been able to write up a really touching article about him.

“If you love New York so much, what dragged you all the way out here to the desert?” I questioned, trying to convey my genuine interest without making him feel interrogated. He was all too pleased to talk about himself.

“Gotta follow the money, ya know. Things kinda dried up a little back in my old neighborhood. The big boss put me out here where I was needed,” Tony said, puffing up a little with pride at the mention of his boss. I wondered if it would be appropriate to call his boss a Don. I mean, I had no real proof so far that Tony was a member of the mafia, but all signs pointed in that direction.

“So, is this like your… day job?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much. I’m the muscle, that’s what they call guys like me.”

After a pause of hesitation, I went on. “Sounds like you do the dirty work for snobby assholes like Paul Franklin,” I said softly, a little afraid that he would think I was insulting him. But to my relief he just looked validated by my words.

“It ain’t fair, ya know? I pull the hard hours and I get the biggest risks but they’re the ones pullin’ the strings. Ain’t right, I tell ya,” he agreed, waving a finger in the air. He was getting a little riled up, I could see. I’d struck a nerve. But so far he wasn’t turning on me.

“You deserve better,” I said, and Tony nodded vigorously.

“See, you understand my problems. You’re a lot nicer than most of the people I gotta work with, that’s fuh sure,” he replied, reaching over to pat me on the shoulder. I winced slightly at his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice. We sat in silence watching Wile E. struggle to catch the Roadrunner for a long time, until there was a knock at the door.

Tony turned and shushed me with a finger to his lips, then went to answer the door. I could tell it was the delivery guy with our food, and for a moment I considered crying out for help. And then it occurred to me that it was entirely possible the delivery guy was in on the whole thing, or at least affiliated with the mob in some way. Tony had been awfully familiar with the guy who took his order over the phone. So I just stayed quiet, not wanting to risk the trust I had built up with Tony so far.

He shut the door and came back, arranging the goopy bolognese and round slices of aromatic bread on plates for us both. He gave me a fork and said flatly, “Here ya go. Don’t try and stab me with it, okay? I don’t wanna deal with that again.”

Again? How many times had he done this?

As we ate the admittedly amazing food, I continued asking him questions. “It seems crazy that your-- boss-- would want to associate with people like Paul and Janet. They’re loud, flamboyant, clearly not used to working this kind of gig like you are. They don’t have what it takes. What you have.”

Tony chewed thoughtfully and then replied, “Yeah, but it ain’t up to what I think, ya know. It’s all about the boss. He knows what he’s doing.”

“You could let me go, you know,” I said suddenly, a wave of impetuousness taking over me. Tony shot me a confused look. “My friend-- my boyfriend-- he has money. We could pay you twice whatever Paul and Janet have offered you, I swear. Just… let me go. Please.”

He shook his head sadly. “You know I can’t do that. And you’re just tryin’ to confuse me. I can’t let ya go. I gotta job to do. You should know betta than that, Miss Roadrunner.”

Tony stood up and for a moment I flinched, afraid he was going to hit me. Then he set down his plate and pulled a length of cord from his pocket.

“Listen, I gotta take a leak. I’m just gonna tie your ankles to the chair, alright? Just so you don’t get any funny ideas while I’m gone. Just sit tight and enjoy the bolognese,” he told me, bending down to fasten my ankles to the chair. I sighed, tears stinging in my eyes. I had tried my best to convince him, but he was no dummy. He knew it would be hell to pay if he dared defy orders, even for a bigger payout.

Tony walked to the back of the apartment toward the bathroom and I sat helplessly in front of the TV, my food barely touched despite the hunger raging in my gut. I looked outside the window, where I had a fairly clear view of the street below from here. Squinting down at the crowded traffic, I caught sight of something that caught my interest the same way the black Cadillac had a couple days ago.

A firefighting rig. With no fire in sight.