Demanding Ransom (20 page)

“I see
your point.” I push down my shirtsleeves but haven’t given up on my quest.
Widening my stance around the tree, I bend my knees slightly and wrap it in a
bear hug, lifting it about six inches off the gravel until my muscles tremble
and I have no other option but to set it down gently before it crashes loudly
to the ground. “Should I pay for this first?” I ask, creating an excuse and a
reason for my forfeit.

“Yeah,”
the worker says, smiling an I-told-you-so grin. “Tell Dad it’s a six footer.”

“Got
it.” I slip my wallet out and turn toward the entrance. Cora and the other twin
are pressed closer to one another than they need to be, and I can hear him
trying to upsell her on some flocking service they offer here at the lot.

“Which
vehicle is yours?” The boy who’s been helping me calls out from behind.

Without
turning around, I sag my shoulders and answer, “The blue Ford Ranger,” and make
my walk of shame toward the cashier. I still don’t understand it—I’m not
sure I ever will—but at some point, I need to learn to accept the help
offered from others. I just wish life hadn’t made that so hard for me to do.

Both my
tree and Cora’s outrageous, fake snow-covered one are strapped into the truck
bed. I’ve been waiting patiently for her and striped-scarf boy to finish up
their flirt-fest, but it’s getting dark and I really would like to head back
home before the moon makes its nightly debut. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if
I’m even home in time for Christmas.

The two
are leaning up against the passenger side of the truck, still talking about
trees if that is at all humanly possible, when I push my hand forcefully into
the center of the steering wheel. Cora lifts about ten feet in the air, and
when she grounds herself, punches an angry fist into the truck’s metal frame.

“Are you
serious
, Maggie?” she seethes. Tree
Guy is doubled over in laughter and I can see the venom in her eyes when she
takes notice of his obvious entertainment in her overly dramatic reaction.

“Here.”
He hands her a paper that I assume has his number scribbled on, and actually
bends over to brush a kiss on her cheek. Any annoyance Cora had slips from her
as she presses on toe and plants one full on his mouth. I just about gag on my
own bile, but force my gaze forward, so as not to intrude in their impromptu
make-out session. This is all so very Cora.

Despite
my frustration and eagerness to get home, I let about three more minutes go by
before I hover my hand over the horn a second time. Luckily, they’ve wrapped up
their parking lot kiss and she’s climbing back into the cab before I have to
sound the horn again.

“Wow!”
she exclaims, sliding low into her seat like she’s Jell-O. “That was hot!”

 
“That was not hot,” I disagree. “You
don’t even know the guy, Cora.”

Her eyes
bug out. “Uh,
right
. That’s what
makes it so hot. Don’t be jealous because you’ve known Ran what—like two
months—and he still hasn’t kissed you.”

“Well,
you’ve only known that guy like two minutes,” I defend, pulling the truck out
of the lot and onto the country road toward campus. “And I haven’t really
known
Ran that long. I mean, yeah, the
accident happened back then, but it’s not even like we’re dating.”

“And you
think that guy and I are?” She crumples up the paper he’d given her between her
perfectly manicured fingers and chucks it to the floorboards. “He’s not really
my type. I think talking about trees turned him on more than talking to me did.
Weird-o.”

“Then why
on earth were you two just making out on the side of my truck?” I shout.
Inflatable Santa bobbles at my periphery like he’s waving goodbye.

“You
don’t have to be in love with someone to make out with them, Maggie. You should
try it, it’s freeing.”

“I’ll
pass, thanks.”

We drive
the remaining distance—which isn’t much—in comfortable silence.
Cora keeps tracing her fingers over her lips like she’s reliving the memory of
the kiss, and I keep playing her words over and over in my head. What’s my
problem? Why do I think it’s weird that she just kissed a completely random guy
in a parking lot? His brother wasn’t so bad. And he seemed to talk less about
trees than Cora’s make out partner did. Maybe I could have flirted a little and
done the same thing she did, too. No strings attached…

What am
I saying? I obviously think it’s weird because it
is
weird. That’s not how I work; I don’t just hook up with complete
strangers. And what would Ran think? Wait—what does Ran have to do with
any of this? It’s not like we’re dating. Honestly, up until a week ago I
thought I actually hated the guy. I still don’t even quite know what these
feelings I have for him are. He’s confusing, to the point that it makes my
brain hurt to think about him. To think about any of it.

“Maggie?”
Cora’s voice funnels into my ears like she’s talking through a toilet paper
roll. “Earth to Maggie?”

“What?”
I snap out of my reverie and the truck swings to the left with my
over-emphasized movement. The bumps from the dividing yellow line vibrate under
the tires. “What?”

“You
missed our turn,” she giggles, pointing a finger toward the dorm parking lot we
just whizzed past.

“Crap.”
I flip the vehicle completely around in the middle of the street, practically
taking it on two wheels.

“Geez!” Cora
hangs on for dear life, pressing her feet against the floor and gripping the
handle on the ceiling as the truck makes a 180. “You in a hurry or something?”
she screams. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,”
I answer. “I do.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

“Maggie.”
Ran’s not wearing a shirt. I hadn’t planned for that, because if I had, I would
have practiced keeping my eyes held open at an appropriate size so they don’t
fall out of my head. There is no other way to describe what I’m doing right now
other than gawking. Slack-jawed, stunned gawking. “What are you doing here?” he
asks, the side of the front door in his grip.

Cora
alluded to the notion that Ran had an incredible stomach, but I don’t think her
washboard example was a fair description for his abs. As my eyes rake over each
individual muscle, it’s like I can feel the ridge of them under my fingertips,
just by staring. The tattoos that peeked out from his shirt earlier snake fully
across his upper arm and onto his chest—a colorful mosaic of designs and
patterns twisting into a beautiful work of art on his perfect body. Just below
his collarbone, woven into the ornate design on his upper half, is the word
‘Ransomed’ etched in flawless, black cursive.

“Maggie?
You alright?” A German shepherd joins Ran at the door, his large body swinging
back and forth with the playful momentum of his tail.

“Yeah.”
I shake my head so hard I get an instant headache. “Here.” I shove a large
carton of goldfish crackers his way. “These are for you.”

He steps
out onto the porch and pulls them from my hands hesitantly when he views my
truck over the top of my head. “Maggie, did you get a new car?”

“Yeah. I
finally got the insurance money from the accident.”

Ran
switches glances from the truck back down to me and then says, “I like it. And
my bike will fit in the back. Nice choice.”

He still
doesn’t have a shirt on. Well,
obviously
.
But it’s all I can think about. Like all of my years of schooling, all of my
time on the debate team learning how to speak confidently in front of an
audience, even my kindergarten teaching where I was taught how to sound out my
first words—that’s all robbed from me when I look at Ran, standing there,
his bare muscles inadvertently flexing under the porch light. It’s all gone.
All of my faculties for speech have been stolen away.

“You
want to come in?” Ran side steps and holds out an ushering hand toward the
inside of his townhouse.

I close
my eyes and try to form a sentence. “I brought you a tree.”

He cocks
his head. “You brought me a Christmas tree?” He looks past me again toward the
truck. “Shoot. That completely shows up my earlier attempts at gifting room
décor.” Ran disappears into the house and when he comes back, he’s got a
long-sleeved Henley on and suddenly I’m able to think, breathe, and speak
again. He skips down the steps toward the vehicle and slides the tree out of
the bed, hoisting it over his shoulder, and presses past me on the sidewalk to
enter the house. “Thank you, Maggie.” With the enormous tree still balanced on
his broad shoulder, he slouches down toward me and gives me the faintest peck
on my check before crossing the threshold. Everything in me goes instantly hot.

He’s
already slipping the netting off the tree and looking around the room for a
place to set it up, when I realize I’m standing outside in the freezing cold,
but I’m still noticeably warmed by the shock of his kiss. When his dog bounds
out the front door toward me, like he’s retrieving me to bring me inside, I
bend down to pet him and follow him back into the house.

“Goldfish
crackers and a Christmas tree,” Ran says, pulling out a tree stand from a hall
closet. “Two very random, but very welcome, gifts. And you showing up on my
doorstep unannounced. That’s random gift number three, my favorite.”

“The
goldfish are for the tree,” I explain, sliding out of my jacket. I hook it over
the back of one of the dining chairs. “I thought maybe we could make garland
out of them or something if you have a needle and fishing line.”

“How
very crafty of you, Maggie.” Ran rights the tree and settles it into the stand
just to the left of the fireplace, which pops and crackles with an orange glow.
“I think I have both of those.”

“You
know what, Ran?” I help him balance the tree with a magazine under one of the
stand’s legs. It still leans to the left just a little, but not as badly as
before. “I was thinking of what we could use to decorate it and how we could
make it personal, and I realized I hardly know anything about you. All I know
is that you have a weird thing with lonely goldfish.”

Ran’s
eyes squint. “Would you be surprised if I told you that you know more about me
than almost anyone else?”

“Yes,” I
admit, crouching down next to him at the base of the tree. “I would.”

“Well.” He
pushes off his knees to stand and extends a hand down to me. “You do.”

Ran’s
face is illuminated by the firelight and I want so badly to reach out and drag
my finger across his features, but I keep my hands at my side, determined not
to embarrass myself more than I have a history of doing. The way the glow
highlights and shadows his face is so intriguing, just like his personality.

“So.
What do you say we get some decorations on this tree?”

The
goldfish garland doesn’t go as planned. After crumbling nearly half of the
carton between our fingers—which Ran’s dog, Nikon, was happy to clean up
for us—we decide that popcorn is the better route to go. More spongy,
less crackly.

I head
to the kitchen to pull a bag of popcorn from the cupboard and settle it into
the microwave as I try to determine which keys I need to press to get the
device to work. Why do all microwaves have to work differently? Can’t they make
some universal one where you can just press START? Life as a whole might not be
easy, but there are some things that should be inherently simple. Microwaves
definitely fall into that category.

I’m
still figuring out the electronic device when Ran comes up behind me and
punches the keypad over my shoulder. “You know how earlier you said you didn’t
know much about me?”

I nod,
my back still turned to him. I can feel his body heat against my sweater even
though he’s still a foot or so away.

“You
forgot that lengthy list of all the things I’m really good at.”

“You
mean the one about guitar playing and backrubs and cooking?” I feel my heart
beating at the base of my neck and stare at the numbers counting down on the
microwave to calm its rate.

“You’re
forgetting the part about me being a good kisser.”

Yeah,
right. Like I could forget that part. “Oh,” is all I say.

There
are just ten seconds left for the popcorn, and I feel my thrumming pulse match
each beat.

“Aren’t
you wondering why I haven’t kissed you yet, Maggie?”

The
microwave beeps and I jump out of my skin, but more from the hand planted on my
hip rather than the shrill echo of the buzzer. Even as Ran retrieves the bag of
popcorn from the microwave, he keeps his palm in place on the curve of my body.
He sets down the bag on the tile counter and spins me around with another hand
positioned firmly on my other hip.

“Don’t
tell me you haven’t wondered.”

I scoot
back across the floor to press my backside up against the cupboard, gaining
some space so I can clear my head, but he follows my movements—his hands
still on me—like we’re doing the conga or tango.

“I don’t
know,” I stammer uneasily.

Ran
releases me from his grip. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want
you to judge me, okay?”