Anna Jarzab - Tandem

“That’s going to require a little bit of explanation,” Grant said, rising from the bed and picking up the backpack. He shoved it at me. “Go get changed. Then we’ll talk.”

I stared at him in total disbelief. “What makes you think I’m going to do anything you say? You lied to me—you kidnapped me—and you think—” The words lodged in my throat. The expression on his face was inscrutable.

Grant gathered himself up to his full height; at six-two he was half a foot taller, and he towered over me. He was trying to intimidate me, and, what was worse, it was sort of working. When push came to shove, I was confident I could take the old man, but if Grant wanted to stop me he could. “You’re a smart girl, Sasha. You can probably tell you don’t have a lot of options right now, so you might as well just listen to me.”

Oh yeah? I thought. I might not have had Grant’s size, or the old man’s Taser, but I still had my voice. I took a deep breath and screamed as high and as loud as I possibly could.

Grant clapped his hand over my mouth. I clawed at his fingers, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He leaned in, and I caught that evergreen scent of his again; it made me gag.

“Be quiet,” he warned, his voice darkly serious. “You’re safe, Sasha, I promise. We’re not going to hurt you. Don’t be difficult.” I heard a note of pleading, but I didn’t care. He meant nothing to me. I didn’t even know him.

Slowly, he drew his hand away, though his body was still wrapped around mine and I could feel the tension that remained in his muscles. He was prepared to shut me up once more, if I chose to keep screaming, which meant it was useless to try. I wasn’t even sure I could; my previous attempt had made me light-headed. My arms hung loose at my sides, like snapped rubber bands, and I was starting to wonder if I would even be able to stand for much longer.

“Mayhew,” the old frog-faced man said in alarm.

“I know,” Grant replied. He released me, an uncertain expression on his face. “I need you to go get ready to leave, now .”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll explain everything,” Grant said. “But for now you have to follow directions.”

“And then you’ll take me home?” I asked, although I suspected the answer was no . He wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of bringing me here just to turn around and let me go.

His face betrayed nothing. “Get changed. Then we’ll talk.”

“First tell me why I’m here,” I insisted.

He turned sharply. “Let me explain how this works,” he said, in a voice so cold the temperature in the room seemed to dip ten degrees. “I give the orders, you follow them. I tell you what I want you to know, when I want you to know it. You want to go home? Then follow my instructions. Now: Go. Get. Changed.”

I stared into his eyes with as much bravado as I could muster, but he didn’t back down or look away. I hated to admit it, but it didn’t look like I had a choice. Anger—pure and unalloyed—had rushed in to replace the fear I’d felt before, burning it away. His word would not be the last. I was going to get away. It was only a matter of time before Grant slipped up and gave me an opportunity to escape, and when he did, I’d be ready. But for now I had to play the game his way. Realizing this made me calmer, my mind sharp and alert where it had previously been foggy and muddled.

I’m going home, I thought with sudden clarity and conviction. Nothing he can do or say is going to stop me.

Staying as far away from Grant and his crony as possible, I took the backpack into the bathroom. The door slid open without a touch, as if it was on some sort of sensor. The place looked as though it had once belonged in one of those sleek, modern hotel rooms I’d seen in the movies, but everything was old and run-down.

The door closed by itself and I slumped against it. I wanted to cry, but I struggled not to, knowing that if I started I might not stop. A few tears escaped anyway. I covered my face with my hands and breathed deeply. At least I was alone, a small relief.

How could I have thought, even for a second, that I was falling for Grant? How could I have forgotten how little I knew him? Even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t help but hold myself partially responsible for my current situation. I’d let myself be seduced by his good looks and charm, soft words and romantic overtures. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

When I’d gathered myself as best I could, I picked up the bag and began rummaging through it. My hands closed first around a stick of deodorant, half-used, from my own medicine cabinet. I applied some, feeling sticky, then tossed it back and took out a brush, which I pulled through my tangled hair. The curls Gina had so painstakingly created had fallen into limp waves. I bit my lip and kept fixing myself up; the ritual of getting ready was a soothing and welcome distraction.

When I was finished, I ripped off the corsage Grant had given me, reveling in the feeling of flower petals crumpling between my fingers as I crushed it in my fist before dropping it unceremoniously in the wastebin. It felt good to take my anger out on something, however small.

I turned the bag upside down and shook it. A bundle of folded clothes fell to the floor—jeans, a T-shirt, my navy blue zip-up hoodie, and my favorite brown leather boots with a pair of thick socks. Everything in the bag belonged to me. The idea of Grant in my bedroom, going through my drawers and touching my belongings, made me shudder. I splashed some water on my face, put my hair up in a ponytail, and got dressed.

I took another long, ragged breath and let it out again. It’s going to be okay, I assured myself, staring at my reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink. It’s going to be okay.

There was a knock at the door. Grant called out from the other side. “Are you almost done? Hurry up, we need to leave.”

I emerged from the bathroom with my bag, now almost empty, over my shoulder and my prom dress slumped in my arms like a fallen comrade. When I’d taken it off, a stream of sand had cascaded out of the bodice. I’d been on that beach. Those memories, what I had left of them, were real.

I glanced down at my wrist to check if the bracelet he’d given me was still there and found that it was. A flare went off in my brain; I had to get free of it. I would never have imagined that it was possible to hate a thing as much as I hated that bracelet. Somehow I knew—beyond all reason—that it had something to do with why I was there in that basement instead of home in bed. I tugged and pulled and pressed every inch of the bracelet’s slim surface, desperate to remove it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Good luck getting rid of that,” the old man muttered.

“Screw you,” I snapped.

“It won’t come off,” Grant said.

“What is it?” I demanded. It might’ve looked like a regular bracelet, but it obviously wasn’t. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Grant wasn’t wearing his anymore. Sometime while I was unconscious he’d changed into a pair of sturdy cargo pants, T-shirt, and hoodie, all black. The sleeves of his jacket and hoodie were shoved up to his elbows and his bare wrists were on full display. He was wearing a ring, though, one I’d never seen before, on the middle finger of his right hand, but I didn’t have time to wonder about it.

“You can leave that here,” he said, indicating the dress and ignoring my question. “You won’t need it anymore.”

I hesitated. As stupid as it was, under the circumstances, I didn’t want to give up my dress. It was mine, goddamn it. “What are you going to do with it?”