Come And Get Me, page 27
And I made peace with that. Vanessa was gone. The excitement, the highs, the sex. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Or not.
Watching Hot Guy strum his lower lip with his finger, my groin tightened into a pleasurable fist. Oh, to be that finger!
It’s safer this way, I reminded myself, busying my eager hands with washing a glass. Vanessa was still on the authorities’ minds. The FBI vowed to “bring Daisy’s kidnapper to justice.” Turned out, when I crossed state lines, it became a federal crime. Who knew? Not me.
Honestly, their persistence pissed me off. Let. It. Go. I gave her back, didn’t I? No one got hurt. Everyone moved on. Cassidy ended her podcast, disabled her website, deleted her social media. They sold the house. Got divorced. Refused to give interviews.
And yet, the media was relentless. They dug their claws in, giving us the soap opera treatment—the affair, abortion, Kiah’s “near death” experience. They dubbed me mentally unstable, hell-bent on having a baby. August a sex addict. Anointed Cassidy a saint; a beautiful and loving mother devoted to raising her children.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Everyone ignored Cassidy’s constant bitching about motherhood on her podcast. How she was asleep, on the job, when I took Kiah. How August promised me a future together, a family, in exchange for aborting my baby. How I was trying to give Kiah a better life. Save her from August’s manipulative ways. Kiah getting sick wasn’t my fault. Who could’ve predicted she couldn’t digest formula? Ultimately, I got her help. I saved her.
No one wanted to print a story about that, though.
The only time I regretted disappearing was listening to my father’s interview. He argued August was to blame; that I never would’ve gotten an abortion and kidnapped his baby if he hadn’t manipulated me. I cried. Dad never defended me. Did he say this to honor Mom’s legacy? Or did he truly believe in my goodness? I was tempted to reach out, but caught myself. His words of support were so unlike him, it must have been a ploy by the FBI to trap me.
I didn’t need his love. The public’s understanding. To become a media darling. Just one man to love me. See me. Accept all of me.
Speaking of, Hot Guy got up from the couch and made his way toward the bar. His body formed a V, the wide shoulders coming down to narrow, defined hips. Closer, closer, he came, his long legs walking with purpose. Me? A girl could hope.
He pushed a stool to the side, leaning against the bar and grabbing the leather drink folder. He gave me a closed-mouth smile as I walked over. Part cocky, part mischievous. He knew how to have a good time—and make sure the woman did too.
I tucked a stray hair behind my ear and smiled. “What can I get you?”
“Jameson. On the rocks.”
I glanced at the menu. Mocking. “Needed the menu to decide that?”
He laughed, his entire face lighting up, transforming from hot to I-need-to-fuck-this-guy-against-the-bar-tonight irresistible. “I might order food.”
“Then you’ll need this one.” I handed him a bigger leather folder from behind the bar. “Kitchen closes in a half-hour though.”
Much to my delight, he took a seat. “What’s good here?”
“Sushi. Crab cakes. Lobster tail.” I gestured toward the ocean behind him. “Anything fresh.”
“What would you choose?”
“Me?” I pointed to my chest. Nothing here on my budget. “I’m easy to please. A burger and fries girl.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Few women are easy to please.”
This was my opening. Don’t blow it. I softened my voice and said, “You’ve never met anyone like me.”
The way his eyes danced with mine suggested he was no longer thinking of food. “What’s your name?”
I held up a finger as I helped another customer. Much needed time. I got nervous introducing myself as Crystal. As I made a couple Mai Tai’s, Hot Guy watched me, which both turned me on and terrified me. Was he an undercover cop?
Always the fear of being caught.
No. He asked my name. The world’s most commonly asked question.
Stop. Being. Paranoid.
Oh, how lovely it would be to let go. Fall into his arms. Be held. Feel the warmth and safety of his embrace. The rise and fall of his chest. The tease of his lips brushing—
Focus. You can’t lose your job over this guy.
I cashed out the customer, mouthing “sorry” to Hot Guy. He winked, as if we already had a shorthand. My heart rate spiked.
“Decide on anything?” I tapped his menu, thinking, did you decide on me?
“How can I decide when I don’t know your name?” Pushy? Or flirty? Impossible to tell when he looked this good. Maybe I should cut my losses.
But I felt something palpable running through my veins, hitching my breath, energizing my soul. Maybe he was my soul mate.
Stop being dumb. He’s not your soulmate. He’s a man. He’ll lie to you, use you, and spit you out, damaged and depressed. Just like the rest. Move on. Serve someone else.
But what if…
“Crystal.” I pulled off my glasses, letting the tip of the temple rest on my lower lip. Turned out, I still wanted to be sexy. “And your name, sir?”
“Sir.” He laughed. “Harrison Wright. But you can call me Henry.”
“Not Hank?”
“Definitely not Hank.” He held out his hand. I dared to meet it with mine. Warm. Inviting. Undiscovered terrain, yet familiar. Can a handshake be intimate? This one was. I saw our future in that split-second. He did too. I swear. “So, Crystal, what’s your story? How’d you end up in Hawaii?”
I let go of his hand and put my glasses back on, wanting the safety of my disguise. His persistent questions made me nervous. “How do you know I’m not from here?”
He paused. “The accent. Sounds Midwest.”
I brought my hand to my mouth, wishing I could gnaw on my fingernail. I was breaking all my rules, but his gravitational pull made it impossible to think. “Lifestyle, the ocean, sunshine…shirtless men.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “What about you? Where are you vacationing from?”
“L.A.”
Obviously. “What’s in L.A.?”
“Work.” He paused, his gaze penetrating. “I’m an agent.”
My gut seized. Federal? Or the movies? Was he messing with me? I filled a glass with ice-cold water and took a sip, ensuring my voice didn’t shake when I spoke. “Sounds exciting.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’d be surprised how dull it is.”
I doubted that. “More exciting than working in a bar.”
A small smile. “I’m hoping tonight is a bit more exciting for you than usual.”
He wasn’t wearing a ring. Nor was there a tan line. But some men don’t wear rings. August didn’t. I brushed my finger against his, grazing the area where a ring might lie, knowing it was too forward, but the past requiring me to ask, “Wife?”
He closed the gap between us. “Haven’t found the one.”
His breath smelled like whiskey. I wanted to run my tongue over his lips. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away. “It’s Hawaii. Never know, maybe your luck will change.”
“I have a feeling it might.” He drew out each word.
We both laughed, the sexual tension a tightrope between our eyes, both of us struggling to stay upright.
“Fancy a drink after work?” he asked.
Loved the way he said “fancy.” “Yeah.”
“When does your shift end?”
I glanced at the clock. “An hour.”
“I can wait.” His smile grew. “Something tells me you’re worth waiting for.”
This, right here, was fate. A moment. The moment. The real start of my life. Every false start, mistake, heartbreak, disaster, running from the law—all brought me to Hawaii to meet the man of my dreams.
Henry.
Henry and Vanessa—
No. Henry and Crystal. Must not make that mistake in front of him.
I bit my tongue to keep from giggling while I went back to work.
An hour later, Henry held my hand as we walked down to the beach. I thought of how August held my hand on the Riverwalk on our first date. The sweetness I intuited from the gesture.
Don’t think of August. He was evil. Henry is nothing like August.
I turned around and winked at the director, knowing exactly how she would shoot the scene. First, she’d get close, filming us walking and talking, occasionally stumbling into each other with laughter, the lingering looks of two people yet to fuck. Then the director would fall behind, panning out for a wide shot, the moon a spotlight. We’d get smaller and smaller until all that was left was our footprints in the sand, the ocean creeping forward, lapping them up. Everyone would leave the theater, asking their boyfriend or husband or gay BFF, Was it a trap? Or was it love? Was the erasing of the footprints a metaphor? That she would pay for her crimes, cease to meaningfully exist? Or that she would escape? Again?
Ah, cinema.
Henry worried me. But he intrigued me more. A girl had to live, right?
I let go of his hand and ran toward the water, splashing with my feet. I turned around and yelled, “Come and get me!”
THE END
About the Author
Marisa Rae Dondlinger is the author of Gray Lines, Open, and Scenes From a Bar. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and two young daughters. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin Law School, Marisa practiced law for several years before devoting herself to writing fiction. When not writing, she enjoys reading, being in nature, and watching her daughters play sports.
Note from Marisa Rae Dondlinger
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Marisa Rae Dondlinger
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