Sweet Abduction

Sweet Abduction

Sasha Gold

Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 and over.

No sexual activity occurs between blood relations, and all persons depicted in this story are 18 years old or older.

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Leah

Dominic Pierre Savoy’s
is considered the finest bridal shop in San Antonio. Step inside and you think you’ve entered the Sistine Chapel. I keep thinking that any second a choir of angels will start singing some beautiful, moving bridal hymn. I’m here with my future sister-in-law, Charlotte. The lady helping us, Edwina, the owner, has an expression that’s solemn, reverent. It’s clear she takes her job seriously.

The store is three stories high with chandeliers hanging down and mirrors everywhere. A grand staircase takes up one side of the shop, a place for brides to practice making their grand entrance. Blood-red carpet covers the forty or so steps. At the top is a marble archway. The wall-side of the staircase is solid mirrors, the other side has a hand rail, but even the lower part of the banister is covered in mirrors, so the bride can see her shoes I presume.

Charlotte stands at the top of the staircase and I’m waiting at the bottom with Edwina. I’m supposed to film Charlotte as she comes down because Edwina gets pissy when a bride has the gall to glance at the mirrors.
“You are the show, darling. You are not the audience.”

“Okay.” Edwina claps her hands. “Eyes
forward
this time. Remember, each step has a one-two-three count. Music please.”

“Are you ready, Leah?” Charlotte asks.

I zoom in a bit on Charlotte so she fills the frame. “Ready.”

Edwina’s helper starts playing Beethoven’s Ninth, and Charlotte starts her descent. She takes each step slowly and I have to say she looks radiant. She’s the whole package, long blonde hair, tiny waist, big boobs. She’ll tell you after a drink or two her boobs are not store bought. They are
abso-fucking-lutely
home grown. She’s proud of the girls.

I’m watching the small screen, giving her a thumbs up with my free hand when she’s about half way down. Even that reduced image captures her happiness. Charlotte’s the reason I signed on to do all this wedding planning stuff. Otherwise, it would be my stepmother taking care of all the pesky details. I want to shield Charlotte from Miranda’s drama. This is the seventeenth dress she’s tried on, and my fingers are crossed this is the one. She says the dress has to both feel right and look right.

When Charlotte gets to the bottom, I hand her the phone and she replays the video. She wrinkles her nose as she watches. Not good. Edwina is going to have to hunt down dress number eighteen. I can tell.

Charlotte can be sweet, but she’s totally high-maintenance. My stepbrother, Dane, is pretty intense too and it should be interesting to see how their marriage works out. Dane wants to get into politics like my dad and he says he needs a wife. Charlotte? She wants babies. That’s what she tells me. She told me this the first time we met, five minutes in… she wants a half-dozen kids, or so she says. The idea scares me a little.

There’s no doubt, Charlotte loves children. She met Dane at the YMCA where she volunteers as a basketball coach. Dane was with buddies shooting baskets and she asked him to help show the kids how to block a shot. The way she tells it, Dane smirked, turned around to shoot, and Charlotte skied up from behind him and stuffed him. She’s equal parts annoying and fabulous.

“What do you think Leah?” she asks.

“I still like the second dress best of all.”

Edwina nods and Charlotte turns to her. “I trust Leah implicitly. You wouldn’t know it from looking at her, but she’s got a great sense of style. My mom’s constantly traveling and my maid of honor lives three states away. I’m lucky Leah can do this for me.”

Charlotte is outspoken and often jumps from one topic to the next with no warning whatsoever. Edwina runs her gaze over me and I’m aware of how bedraggled I look. I used to get recognized a lot. But not so much lately… one of the upshots of wearing yoga pants and a hoodie.

Charlotte turns back to me. “Should we do something about the florist? This is going to take a while.”

I pull out my phone, dial up the florist and leave a message asking if we can push our appointment back a day. My phone buzzes with a message and I marvel at how quickly they’re calling back. But it’s not the florist.

What are you doing, Leah?

My heart surges. I can’t believe he’s texting me when he knows I’m busy doing wedding stuff this week. If anyone knew he was texting me I’d get an earful. I glance over my shoulder. Charlotte is busy with Edwina. They’re debating the material on the bodice. Charlotte says it’s scratchy and Edwina looks offended. I leave them so I can savor the fluttery feeling his texts always give me.

The text is from Riley Tarrant, Dane’s friend, well, ex-friend I should say. I first met him on a cross-country trip from Texas to the northeast when he and Dane drove me to college. The trip took four days. We didn’t drive straight through. We stopped every so often to visit parks or go to a restaurant that specialized in some sort of off-the-wall cuisine.

Dane drove ahead of us in my car. Riley and I followed in the moving van. We talked and laughed and by the time we reached Vermont, I felt like I’d known him all my life.

It all fell apart soon after. Riley and Dane had a fight, a big one, and that was basically the end of that. In a small way, though, with little secret text messages, Riley and I managed to stay connected. Last year, when my dad was slipping away, Riley was the only person who asked how I was coping. He liked to joke that he was going to kidnap me. Rescue me from all my worries.

I feel like I’m being disloyal to my family when I text him. The shit would fly if they found out. If Miranda knew, she would lose her remaining sanity. Dane would totally lose his shit. Most of my friends would lose their respect for me. I shouldn’t be texting this man, and yet I do. Not every day, but probably a couple of times a week. Nothing flirty. It’s not like that. The texts are nothing more than
what-are-you-up-to
texts.

Still, I almost have a heart attack every time I see his name come up on the screen. My hands tremble as I type back.

Watching Charlotte try on wedding dresses.

I wander to a corner of the store and pretend to look at dresses. I try to picture him. What is he doing? Working out probably. Riley signed to play pro football, but after a fight with my stepbrother, and the resulting one week in the county jail, he lost his contract.

I don’t understand how that happened because a lot of football players behave badly. Maybe because he was a rookie. Or maybe because my father threw his weight around to get Riley fired. Dad served one term as Texas Governor and never hesitated to call in favors from cronies.

When my Mom lost her battle with cancer my Dad was devastated. Years later when he married Miranda he was determined to form a clan with bonds of steel.
We’re one family now
, he used to say. Not a blended family. Just a family. We stick together no matter what and if one of us gets hurt we circle the wagons. Always.

After the football thing fell apart Riley wasted no time in taking his fighting skills to the ring to become an MMA fighter.

I hate what he does.

Hate. It.

But anytime I bring it up he brushes my concern away. It’s hard to argue via text message even though it’s not hard to read between the lines. I’m sure he believes that if it weren’t for Dane and my family, he’d be playing football. He’s massive and strong and invincible at any sport he tries.

In addition to his brawn, he’s scarred. One scar slants across his cheek and down his neck. Another runs across his brow, skips over his eye and lines his cheekbone. When I tell him I don’t want him to fight, he says he’s too ugly for anything else.

It’s not true. While he’s not GQ handsome, he’s got a look that simmers. There’s something about him. A presence I suppose.

The wedding’s still on?

I can practically hear the contempt.

It is. I’m the wedding coordinator.

Wedding coordinator. It’s the latest role I play in my family. I was the lead caregiver to my father. He had Alzheimer’s and argued and fought everyone but me. He threw things at attendants and either didn’t remember or pretended not to know my stepmother. I quit school halfway through my last semester to come home and be with him.

He passed away three months ago. I barely had a day to mourn. My stepmother grieved when they first diagnosed him. And by grieved, I mean she practically shut down. He was her purpose in life. She lived to help him with his career and when he started to grow frail, she was lost.

It was as if she wanted to distance herself from him so she wouldn’t need to witness the bitter end. Within days of the funeral, she made it clear she’d moved on. The first thing she did was have a maid empty his closet and get rid of his clothes. Then she filled her calendar so she’d be too busy to even think about, much less miss, him.

Every so often I find her standing in his darkened library. Not crying. She’s not doing anything but staring at his empty chair. The expression on her face hurts my heart and I wonder if she wouldn’t be better off having a big, fat, ugly cry but I don’t think she knows how.

Miranda doesn’t get along with Charlotte probably because she doesn’t think the girl is good enough for Dane. That’s why she assigned me to take care of the wedding details. Even though Miranda didn’t approve of the princeling’s choice, everything had to be perfect. If my father was all about family, Miranda was all about the perfect family.

What happened to school?

A young woman and her mother come into the shop. Their voices are raised and they stalk to the back. These little bridal venues aren’t short on drama. I’ve seen two bridal temper tantrums so far this morning. There’s something about wedding preparations that turns perfectly reasonable women into a mass of near-hysteria. I guess I shouldn’t complain about Charlotte trying on practically every dress in Savoy’s.

Riley wants to know about school. The truth is all I need to finish up is a final, senior paper on the Winged Victory. I could write the paper. I have all my notes, and a draft of an outline… but I haven’t written the paper. I can’t for some reason. Part of me wants to sneak away to Paris, escape my family and see the beautiful statue in person. Paint pictures by the Seine. The idea makes me swoon a little.

Another messages buzzes.
Are you going back to finish your degree?

Bossy man. Two people can play this game.
Are you quitting fighting?
I fire back.

Have dinner with me.

I huff. I’m sure he hopes it will get back to my family, especially Dane. It’s been three years since the brawl, but the bad feelings haven’t gone away. Dane needed surgery on his jaw and Riley was cuffed and hauled away, a smirk curving his lips.

You know I can’t do that.

Try on a dress. Send me a pic.

I stare at the words. Everything Charlotte has tried on has been over the top. The gowns that caught my attention have been more subdued. The dress I really love hangs on a rack by the dressing rooms. I wanted to try it on from the moment I first saw it. I’ve never sent pictures to Riley. That’s not the relationship we have. I’m certain I can’t go there.

But when am I going to be in a bridal salon again? I’m twenty. I haven’t finished my degree. I’m under my stepmother’s thumb. I’ve never even had a steady boyfriend.

The dress…it steals my breath. The cut is called
Mermaid
. The dress nips in at the waist, molds to the hips and flairs just below the knees. Some lucky girl is going to wear this confection, say her vows with her beloved and step into his embrace to receive his kiss.

I let out a sigh.

Usually, there are a half-dozen shopkeepers buzzing around but right now the salon is quiet. I’m sure I can pull this off without getting found out by some pushy sales girl. I grab the dress, step into a dressing room and unload everything I’m carrying onto the loveseat. My purse. Charlotte’s purse. A messenger bag with catalogs, pads of paper, pens and everything I need to take care of this wedding. Toting all this stuff around makes me feel like Charlotte’s Sherpa. I snort.
Charlotte’s Sherpa
… I amuse myself.

I shed my yoga pants, hoodie and shoes. The bra needs to go too because the dress is strapless. I slide into the gorgeous dress and manage to zip the back zipper. The satin feels cool against my skin. The material rustles. I turn to the mirror, stunned by the dress. I feel like a princess. Tugging the hair from my clip, I let it fall past my shoulders. My hair is russet, the color of a new penny. I hate it. In the pictures I’ve seen of my mother I remember her hair was the same color. Instead of big bouncy curls like mine, her hair hung straight, curling obediently at her shoulders.

Should I send a picture of me in a wedding dress to a man whose name I try not to mention around family or friends? It would be a little weird for me to send this picture to a guy under any circumstance, but everyone considers Riley a common criminal. A thug.

I don’t believe that. To me, he’s something far different. Even though he keeps his distance, I feel his presence, little messages that let me know he’s thinking of me.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him and he’s changed. He’s bigger and stronger and a thousand times sexier. His scars make him look fierce like some battle-hardened warrior but I know he’s not. It’s all for show. I imagine modeling this dress to him in person and instantly I’m in that space I know I have to avoid. The space in my thoughts where I imagine his hands skimming over my shoulders and to my waist where he pulls me into a kiss.