Love's Paradox

Chapter 31: Apparently that's Called Kidnapping

My motto in life has always been to be kind to people, and if that doesn't cut it, just be weird to them. It's worked pretty well thus far, but days like today make me want to take that motto and blast it into tiny bits of Kiss My Ass. After a comical weekend full of manly macho wrestling moves and great feats of water volleyball—which I kicked ass at, by the way—the last thing I want is to spend my Monday morning talking to Mr. Perky, my lawyer.

Seriously, his name is Perky. I haven't even met the man, and I already want to punch him in the groin for daring to have such a chipper name when I'm a bit on the surly side. Hint: It has something to do with Ian. Surprise, surprise.

Sunday evening, Parker dropped me off at my apartment with a kiss that curled my toes and made parts much lower go all quivery. Things were going so perfectly that I'd forgotten Ian even existed. That was until I pushed the curtain aside to wave as Parker pulled out of the parking space in front of my apartment. The headlights of his car lit the inside of mine . . . and the rose lying across my windshield.

My heart stopped for the briefest of seconds, and as soon as Parker was out of sight, I ran back outside and straight to my car. I stared at the rose in utter disbelief, hovering, afraid to touch it. It could mean only one thing: Ian was out of jail.

Hunter came outside then, shirtless and sporting low-hung jeans. He rubbed at his eyes as if he'd just woken up. "What are you doing?" His voice was scratchy.

I didn't respond; I didn't know how to.

Hunter approached me, making little pained noises as his bare feet stepped over loose gravel. There was a crease across his cheek, and his hair was lopsided.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I started.

"Who's that from?" he asked. It came out accusatory.

My eyes narrowed. "I don't know."

Hunter plucked the rose from under my windshield wiper and unceremoniously ripped it to pieces until the ground was strewn with crimson petals and his hands were bloody from the thorns. He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the house, leaving me standing there, stunned.

Questions bounced around in my head all night, like why didn't Hunter demand I call the police? Though I knew why. There wasn't anything I could say. I had no proof Ian was the culprit.

Then this morning, I found a folded piece of paper in my front seat. My fingers trembled as I fumbled to open it. I spread it out across my steering wheel and read:

"Don't tell the police or your boyfriend, or his dog will pay the price."

I gulped, my entire being trembling, my heart beating in my ears like a distant gong. Ian knew where Parker lived. I crumpled the paper and tossed it in the backseat, all the while fear drilled into me, digging deeper and deeper.

And that's why being in a swanky lawyer's office, waiting for a man named Perky, has morphed today's forecast into partially clouded with a ninety percent chance of mayhem and a sixty percent chance of complete annihilation of all things sane. Plus, no amount of remodeling will ever mask the stale cigarette stench our forefathers ground into the bones of this building. Gross.

There's no way Parker doesn't notice the tension rolling off of me like virulent fumes, which is why he remains stoic beside me. He starts to speak several times while we wait across from the secretary's desk, but he can never seem to form a sentence. I want to tell him about the rose and the letter from Ian, but I can't risk it.

The secretary finally escorts us into a conference room where my lawyer sits, studiously poring over papers from an open folder. He's dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than I make in six months, and his black hair is perfectly combed with only a few stray grey hairs.