Hailey

I woke up to the world in watercolor—a concrete city canvas melting under a ninety-degree sun.

Everything within thirty feet of me was too black or too blurry to recognize. I blinked again—my eyes still hazy from the side effects of whatever I’d been slipped in the station.

My arms and legs tingled to life like discombobulated clusters of pins and needles, and my skin radiated sticky warmth, not from the heat, but from someone else’s body against mine. When the curve of Caleb’s neck came into focus, I did what any intelligent kidnapping victim would do—bit him.

        “Jesus, Hailey!”

He tasted like salt and sandalwood. Vampires probably got more gratification out of biting boys than I did.

Caleb tripped over his sneakers but kept walking towards a run down bus station about a block from where we were. Anderson women didn't go to run down stations, and if I had anything to do with it, he’d be a seventeen-year-old Van Gogh before he could whisk me out of Washington.

I bit him again, hard enough for his skin to spit blood all over his white collar. He reached over his shoulder and sent his palm crashing into my face. I’d never been attacked like that.

Most sane people know you’re not supposed to hit a girl—especially yours truly. But this idiot wasn’t like most people and obviously not too strong in the common sense department. He shook me off of his shoulders and sat me down against a rusted metal fence paralleling the sidewalk.

        “Screw you," I said, thrilled to be able to form words again. 

His stonewall stare wavered a little while I indulged in my restored talents. Plenty of curse words came rolling off of my tongue and hung in the air like four-letter flies.

I’d bet my trust fund on the fact that this guy was a softy. If I wore him down enough, I could probably talk him out of a kidnapping as easy as picking a lock. Getting into people’s heads couldn't be all that different.

       “Screaming at me isn’t going to fix anything, Hailey.”

He was asking for a five-star, so I gave him one—slapped him right across the face. His jaw dropped at having been a two-time victim of my newfound violence. Watching Fight Club on repeat all those years hadn’t gone to waste after all. I tried my luck a third time, and he stopped me.

        “You finished?”

His clamped his teeth together so tight even his spit couldn’t get through.

        “For the time being," I said.

 I would’ve been more resistant if I’d had more energy to resist with. But despite my attempts to look tough, my body sunk backwards against the gate.

        “Chill out for a minute. I'll knock you out myself if you do anything like that again,” he said.

        "So you're the wife-beating type? You don't look it."

 I thought that was funny. He didn’t seem to share my sense of humor.

        “I don’t have time for this. We’ve got somewhere to be in an hour, and if you keep talking I’m—“

        “Aren’t you supposed to keep your master plan a secret from the kidnapee?”

        “Hailey.”

        “Where’s your getaway car? Your goons? Weapons? Ransom note?”

He cracked his knuckles one at a time like he wanted to strangle or punch me but couldn't decide. 

        "I asked you to stop.” 

 I had no plans to. Stall, stall, stall.

        “Isn't Manassas an easy car ride from here? What’s wrong? Gas prices too steep?”

His eyes dulled which sent my half-faked confidence running for cover. Even criminals had things they cared about, and if it was possible for a victim of a semi-violent crime to regret insulting their kidnapper, I did, however briefly.

        “Get up," he said.

I didn’t budge in hopes that some passerby would pick up on the situation. This was supposed to be the part where I was saved, or where my dad called me to tell me this morning was one big joke. But it wasn't. My heart and my head just hadn't figured that out yet.

Caleb grabbed my arm and tightened his grip until it hurt. I squirmed like it would make a difference, but the harder I fought the more his fingers paled from the pressure. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twelve-inch zip tie, forced our wrists together, and pulled it tight.

        “Nice, bootleg handcuffs, very Texas Chainsaw,” I said.

He wrenched me off the ground and dragged me towards the bus again. I dug my heels into the ground, but the rough-cut concrete scraped away my will power. Caleb jerked me forward to keep me in step, suddenly night-and-day different from the boy who'd bandaged my foot at the station.

We struggled down another three blocks to the bus station through a part of town street-smart people didn't walk through. The vagabonds, street vendors, and stragglers we passed didn't pay much attention.

Caleb subtly muscled me over to the ticket booth and snatched my hand right before we approached the clerk at the window. His palms felt like oysters. I hated oysters.

        “We’re a couple as far as the people 'round here are concerned, so sell it,” he said.

        “I don’t have to do anything.”

He pulled me into an overly showy half-hug and the cold pinch of a pocketknife pushed lightly against my shirt. My heart shuddered as the steel cut my doubts in his ability to hurt me to pieces. A flick of the wrist was as much as he'd ever need to end things. I'd already given him more than one excuse.

        “Pay for two tickets and keep your mouth shut. Do it in cash, not with your black card.”

The lightening-quick sting of tears threatened to drown my eyes, but I blinked them back as he inched us closer to the booth. The salt and pepper haired bookie didn't so much as glance at me when I slipped him two crisp ten-dollar bills for the tickets.

He didn’t notice my hand shaking. I wished he had.  He stuffed the money in his cash box and printed out two stubs like nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong.

The station was Friday-morning empty aside from a group of senior citizens crowded around their group coordinator. The one stranger who could save my life wasn't paying attention, and I'd just bought myself a one-way ticket to a breaking news story.

                                                                          ***

We boarded the bus with the Valley View Home for the Hard of Hearing, and I came to the crushing realization that even if I tried to secretly ask for help, not a single person on the bus could do much of anything.

Caleb greeted every one of the elderly women as we walked down the center isle like a perfect gentleman, flashing his billboard smile like it wasn't false advertising. They giggled and cooed while we faked holding hands.

Sad to think that at one point I couldn't see through his pearly white lies, either. They were too old, too deaf, too senile to see straight, but I had twenty-twenty vision and still got him wrong.

Caleb charmed his way to the notably empty back of the bus, and I untangled myself from his sweat-glazed fingers.

        “Want the window seat?” He asked, borderline jovial.

        “Can I at least sit alone? I'm claustrophobic. You can tie me to the bus if you want.”

        “Sit down, Hailey.”

He backed me into the window and slumped down next to me, suddenly looking more morose than he should’ve let on.

Given the mess he'd made, Caleb came off pretty green as far as being a big time criminal. The holes in his process gave him away, and as bad as my circumstances were, his had to be worse if he'd put himself in a situation this stupid.

I didn’t know where he’d come from, but the kid sported hand-me-downs with gritty dignity. There wasn’t a pocket in his jeans that didn’t have holes, and he’d worn his Converses down to the rubber; loving them like a working class hero. But even in all that rawness, desperation hung over his head like a faded halo.

       “What's in Manassas?“ I asked.

Someone needed to say something, anything to keep my mind off of how far we were getting from Washington.

        "Don't worry about it.  You’ll be in Charlottesville in a couple days.”

        "Bull."

“Not really. We're only keeping you as long as it takes for your dad to agree to what we ask. If he's a smart guy, he'll be quick about it,” he said.

        "Who’s we?”

        “Doesn’t matter.”

        “My dad isn’t going to work with terrorists."

He stifled a laugh.

        "Isn’t that what he does at his day job? This isn't any different."

        “I’m not the way to get to my dad.”

He took his eyes off the road and locked them on mine. The air in my lungs went stagnant.

        "Sure you are, you're our game changer, Hailey."

His “rebel with a psychotic cause” nonsense flipped my stomach inside out.

      "My dad does what he wants whether I’m around or not. Don’t think I can make you any promises—especially for him. "

        "You're an Anderson, I didn't expect that to be a strong point."

I would’ve hit him for saying that to me, but he had my hands tied. He smiled through my frustration like he could see past my paper-thin anger. Sometimes if you’re mad enough, you can fool people into thinking that you’re brave, that you’re not afraid of them.

I was afraid of him, enough to make me sick from the fear. Pretending was the last thing standing between succumbing or surviving, and I hoped to God he wouldn't call my bluff.

        “I'm not responsible for what my Dad does or doesn't do, Caleb."

         "You're gonna be."