Demanding Ransom (12 page)

“I think you’re forgetting amazing kisser,
chef, backrub giver, and guitar player.” Ran slips his fingers in mine and tugs
me toward the ambulance. It’s the second time we’ve held hands and though my immediate
reaction is to shake him loose, I find my fingers returning the playful squeeze
that his give.

“I have yet to experience that list.” I grip on
tighter to avoid slipping from his clasp, because the sweat from my palms is
becoming increasingly apparent.

“If you’re lucky, you can experience all of
those things tonight.” His ruby red lips curl upward again. “And since I know
you’re envisioning it right now, let me add sweet-nothing-whisperer to the
list.” We’ve edged our way across the parking lot and are at the ambulance now,
and he opens the back door and motions for me to go through. “Just try not to
think about them all at once, because that would take some serious skill.
Cooking dinner while simultaneously serenading you with the guitar, all while I
rub your shoulders and kiss your mouth, as well as whisper sweet nothings in
your ear?” He stares into the void behind me and releases a burst of laughter.
“On second thought, yes,
please
think
about that, because that sounds pretty damn amazing.”

“Nice to see you again, Maggie,” Trav calls out
from the front. I lift my head in a nod.

Ran hands me a clipboard with several sheets of
official looking papers. “Sign this.”

“What is it?”

“A waiver. Basically saying you won’t hold us
responsible if you, you know, die.”

I thumb through the sheets and scribble my
signature where appropriate. “So now I’m signing my life over to you.”

“Essentially.” He slips a navy blue jacket onto
my shoulders that has OBSERVER embroidered in white thread on the chest. It’s
at least two sizes too big and swallows me whole. “And it hurts that you’ve
forgotten so soon that I did a pretty decent job saving your life once
already.” Ran clutches his heart as though I’ve dealt him an injurious offense.

Some transmitted voice echoes through a two-way
in the cab and Trav calls out a list of numbers and words I don’t know the
meaning to. As he speaks, the driver turns the key in the ignition and the
engine rumbles. My breath quickens.

“Ran.” I grip my seat. When I look down at my
hands, my knuckles are white, like the sheer skin covering them is stretched
nearly to its breaking point. “I don’t know if I want to do this.”

“Don’t be scared, Maggie. It’s a Code 2. Not
life threatening.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well that makes it better. Never
mind then. Bring on the emergency.”

Ran leans toward me and squeezes just above my
knee. If he’s trying to get me to relax, he’s going to have to stop doing
things like that. “Just sit back and watch me work. Our shift is almost over.
This will probably be our last transport and then you and I will have the night
to ourselves.”

And luckily it was the last call of the day.
After assessing and driving a twelve-year-old boy with a broken—and by
broken meaning bone-pushing-so-far-through-the-skin-that-it-threatened-to-split—forearm,
Ran’s shift was over and we were ready to go back to his house for that
promised home-cooked meal.

The only thing was, I
wasn’t
ready. I’d spent the entire time in the ambulance telling
myself that the things I would see inside the vehicle were ten times scarier
than anything that could happen in Ran’s apartment. Severed bones, massive
amounts of blood, and contagious air-borne illness are much more frightening
than being alone with Ran. Those things should induce the nausea that’s been
spinning my stomach for the past two hours, not the thought of spending a quiet
evening with just him. Alone. Alone with Ran, in his house. The thought of it
makes me queasy beyond belief.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

“So I live just three miles from here.” Ran
says as we get out of the ambulance. He gestures toward his motorcycle that is
parked a few feet away. “Do you think you can handle a ride on it again?”

My stomach somersaults. “Seriously?” I throw my
hands in the air. “And you wonder why you make me uncomfortable? I thought I
asked you not to make me get on that death-mobile again!”

I realize my volume must be louder than I
intend, because the slack-jawed stares from Ran’s colleagues kind of imply that
I might actually be screaming. Just as I begin to feel the hot discomfort of
embarrassment climbing up my cheeks, Trav jogs over toward us and wraps an arm
around my shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to Ran’s, Maggie. It’s on my
way.”

Ran swiftly nods toward Trav. “Thanks man. No
detours. She’s mine tonight.”

“No worries. Tempting, though.”

There’s a beat-up Chevy truck parked just to
the left of Ran’s Ducati that I assume belongs to Trav. Mostly because the
license plate on it says TRVSTRK. Straightforward—something Ran is
definitely not.

“Hop in,” Trav instructs, holding the passenger
door that creaks on its hinges like it’s the first time it’s ever been opened.
“The seatbelt sticks a bit. You have to jiggle it to get it loose.”

“Got it.” I climb up into the cab and do as he
says, but it takes more than just jiggling; it takes me yanking with the
strength of all of my body weight behind it before the seatbelt dislodges and
allows me to slink it across my body. “Doesn’t get used much?” I infer.

“Nah. I don’t quite get the ladies the way Ran
does. No pretty passengers for me.”

Trav slips into his seat and engages the key
and the engine turns over loudly. For a moment I worry that something’s wrong
under the hood when I feel the low vibration increasing under my feet, but then
I look out my window and see Ran kick starting his bike and hear the purr of
his vehicle combined with ours. Something about the way he turns that
motorcycle on turns
me
on, and I
force my gaze out the front windshield just as I see Ran’s helmet about to
angle my way. Out of my periphery, I see him flick a wave toward us and then
speed out of the lot.

“So Ran’s cooking for you tonight?” Trav puts
the truck in reverse and follows Ran’s bike down the street.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I try everything I can not to focus on the pull
of Ran’s black leather jacket over his firm shoulders, and the way he slightly
perches on the seat of his bike, yet keeps his weight balanced effortlessly as
he cruises down the block. I try not to notice those things, but each time his
motorcycle hugs the curve of the road when we turn onto a different street, I
find my head tilting slightly to follow his perfectly fluid movements. It’s
impossible not to notice how well he handles that vehicle and to wonder what
other things he has such skilled control over, too.

Trav looks over at me. “You like him?”

Yep. Trav is straightforward all right.

“I don’t know.”

“Because he likes you.” The blinker ticks out a
steady, metronomic beat. “And he feels awful about your accident.”

“Why? He shouldn’t. It’s not like it was his
fault.” The scar under my pant leg inches and I rub my finger over the denim
covering my thigh.

“Well, maybe you telling him that would be more
effective than me.”

I’m about to ask what on earth he means when
Ran’s bike slips into an open garage and Trav guides his truck into the
driveway behind it.

“Have fun tonight, Maggie. And don’t keep him
up too late. He’s got another night shift tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, still confused by his
previous statement, but overtaken by a sudden rush of nerves that make me
unable to find the words necessary to formulate a coherent sentence.

Ran is in his garage, pulling off his helmet
and shaking out his dark hair when he catches my eye. “And you think that old
clunker is safer than my bike?” He settles the helmet on the handlebar. “Come
on, let’s cook up some grub.”

“I thought you lived in an apartment,” I say,
trailing him in through the laundry room that is located off the garage. It
fans out into a small family room with an attached dinette and substantial
kitchen next to it. There is a row of stairs just to the left and a fireplace
separating the living and dining spaces. “This is not an apartment.”

“Okay, it’s a townhouse.” He lifts my jacket
from my shoulders and I realize I’m still wearing the one from the ride along.
“You don’t need this observer jacket anymore. I’m not going to let you get away
with just observing me in the kitchen—as enticing as that might sound.”

“You’re not making me dinner?” I say, binding
my arms across me and pouting my upper lip. “I actually have to participate in
this ridiculous food preparation?”

Ran pulls open a kitchen drawer and retrieves
two aprons from within it. He knots one around his neck and extends the other
my direction. “Moments are better when they’re shared together.”

“Did you get that from a Hallmark card?” I
laugh at him outright.

“Okay. I’ll give you that one. Not my best.” He
clasps my hand—for the third time today—and spins me toward the
fridge. “Go get all of the things out of the produce drawer while I preheat the
oven.”

“What are we making?” I ask. The refrigerator
is fully stocked with more food than I’d expect to find at a bachelor pad.

“Stuffed-crust pizza. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” I say. My stomach growls in agreement.
“Sounds amazing.”

We spend the next half hour chopping up
toppings, rolling out dough, and decorating our personal pizzas until they look
like masterful pieces of artwork rather than dinner. Ran doesn’t let me do any
of the actual cutting, referencing the unfortunate scissor-waking incident,
saying I’ll have to work at gaining his trust with sharp objects. I feign
offense, but quickly forget my annoyance as I watch the way his biceps flex
under his t-shirt with each rock of the knife against the cutting board. Even
his forearms pulse with each movement.

“We’ve got twenty-five minutes until it’s time
to dine.” He pulls at my fingers. “Wanna watch some Wheel of Fortune?”

“Is that show even on anymore? Vana’s gotta be
like my grandma’s age by now.”

He gives me a sweet smile, not his typical flirtatious
grin, and for some reason it affects me more than his usual, confident smirks.

Though his living space is larger than an
apartment, there’s still not room for a full-sized couch, and in its place Ran
has an oversized loveseat. I glance toward it, realizing he’s going to take up
more than his fair share of the cushions and I’ll be forced to sit nearly on
top of him. I think the floor might be a good alternative.

Just as we’re heading toward the chair, a
shooting tingle slices through my leg and I fumble forward, lose my footing,
and I slam onto Ran’s back so my cheek is pressed up against his shoulder
blade.

“You okay?” He spins around on his heel and
steadies me with two firm palms on my shoulders. “You alright, Maggie?” His
eyes sweep over me.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“It’s your leg,” he says, glancing down at my
thigh. “I want to take a look at it.”

I shake my head quickly and the room blurs
around me. “No. That’s not necessary.”

“Yes it is,” he presses. “I’ve seen the way you
favor it, how you won’t put your weight on it completely. It should be healed
by now. Let me take a look at it.”

“You’re not getting my pants off.” When I say
it, it’s as though actually speaking the outrageous words paints my face with
the red pigment of humiliation.

“I—” Ran begins.

“That sounded different in my head. You’re not
taking a look at it. It’s fine.”

Ran shakes his head just as vigorously as I
did, but he doesn’t look dizzied by the act. He’s always so in control. “No.
I’m looking at it.” In one rushed movement, Ran swoops me off the floor and
lifts me into his arms, like I don’t weigh more than a feather. He takes
measured strides across the room and when I see the staircase creep into view,
I tense up noticeably.

“We’re going to my room. I have some shorts you
can change into and I can take a look at your scar up there,” he offers,
probably detecting my mortifying change in composure.

I don’t fight him on it because I know I won’t
win. It seems as though Ran gets his way in every scenario. I think it might be
time I surrender to this well-established fact.

Once in his room, he lifts me up over the bed
and softly rests me on top of the duvet cover. Just the thought of being in
Ran’s apartment coursed an unrealistic amount of nerves through my veins
earlier today. Sitting here in his bedroom, draped across his bed, I’m fairly
certain my entire nervous system is going to shut off. My dangerously fast
heart rate can’t keep up like this for much longer without ceasing altogether.

Ran opens his closet and tosses a pair of
workout shorts my way. “Put these on,” he directs as he links his arms over his
chest.

Making a twirling motion with my fingers, I
command him to turn around. He rolls his eyes, but grudgingly obeys my
instruction.