The Summer I Really Didn't Kidnap Lance Hardwood

Take 17 - Car Rental to the Rescue

There was an envelope in front of the door. It was from Trina. Derek walked haltingly to Scarlet's door and knocked. She was already dressed, holding a copy of Variety. I hobbled over, having been as thoroughly Derekked as he'd been completely Petered. She waved us in, commenting, "These walls are built strong and thick. And I still heard you two prize bulls going at it. I have ordered ear plugs."

"What does she say?" Derek asked.

"She says she accepts your terms. She wants to meet us in the restaurant and look you in the eye to judge your sincerity. Says she'll know if you're lying. She needs that assurance."

We dressed and took the elevator downstairs. Inside with us was a young girl, maybe 10 years-old, and her mother. "Debbie said that Tesla is downstairs. I'm gonna meet Tesla!" The girl was so excited, I was certain the elevator would break a cable from her jumping up and down.

The doors opened. You could hear the buzz of excitement as people were gathering around Lance. He didn't look upset. He didn't seem hurt. His clothes were pressed and immaculate. He was busy signing autographs. Trina, Zoe and Jamie were surrounding him like bodyguards.

I'd no sooner taken 5 steps out of the elevator when arms grabbed me from both sides. "Peter Fisk, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Lance Harwood, property destruction, and disturbing the peace in Las Vegas, State of Nevada, to where you shall be expedited after facing charges of attempted murder, attempted manslaughter, disturbing the peace and damage to public property in Yosemite National Park, State of California; you have the right..."

The rest of what they were saying was drowned out, as I realized that Lance had not once looked over in my direction. Not once. Not that he couldn't hear the sounds of hotel guests gasping, as the SFPD quickly escorted me out the front door.

The last thing I heard before being shoved into the back of a police car was Derek, as loudly as humanly possible, "I've got your back!"

The last thing I saw was Trina, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Fairmont, smirking, and waving goodbye. Thirty minutes later, I was brought into a station and booked; my fingerprints and mugshot were taken. I was told that I would, as an adult, be assigned a public defender unless I were to find my own representation. The one phone call I was allowed to make, I called my mother. And got the damned warning that her message box was full.

Great. Just great. I was to be taken to a cell, where I'd be held with another person accused of murder who, I was gleefully told, would really enjoy my company. As I was being led away, another officer – a Sargeant Henning – said I was to be given my own cell – the order came from high up the chain of command. My jailer shook his head, and I was escorted to a 6th floor cell, suffering a symphony of wolf whistles and catcalls, and descriptions of what would be done to me should I find myself in so-and-so's company. Turns out all that TV stuff is based in reality.

Sleep was hard to come by. Snores, the sounds of men whacking off or crying punctuated the silence. I remembered how I'd fallen to sleep last night – spooned against the broad-shouldered back of Black Thunder. "I've got your back!" he'd said. And somehow, that did the trick.

I will not speak of what passes for breakfast in prison. It wasn't bad. It was fresh, and well-cooked, and altogether tasteless.

"Hey, new guy!" said the guy in the cell across from me. "You must have pissed off some asshole really bad for him to cut your face like that. Bet it bled like a mutha!"

I was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, and then I remembered: I was still mostly bald, and the scar that Scarlet had put on me still looked fresh. Which meant that I looked like some punk who'd done time in juvie. If I were going to be an actor, this is the time to put any skills I had to use. Think of Wentworth Miller, Peter.

"Yeah. I got even, though."

"How's that?"

"I circumcised him with an empty can of beans."

"Fuck me, man. That's cold." The guy sat back down on his bed. There were other comments echoing along the hallway.

"Shit. Bet the poor bastard left ya alone," said a middle-aged guy.

"Nah," said a tall, dark-skinned kid, "Bet he's plottin' ta kill ya, bro. I'd watch yer back."

"Bitch, I'll protect ya, long as your pretty kitty's mine, all mine."

The door to the end of the hall opened. A very tall guard walked all the way down my side, and stopped in front of my cell. "Peter Fisk?"

"Yeah, Officer?" I said, trying to sound like the ex-juvie kid that I absolutely wasn't.

"You are released on 500,000 dollars bail. Your family's lawyer will explain everything to you. After you."

I walked past tongues imitating rimming, fellatio and other activities. Once outside the door, and then an elevator to the first floor, the officer led me to where a silver-haired, elderly man with a cane was signing some papers. The cane was ornately carved, with Greek Comedy and Tragedy masks all down the length of it.

I was led to a small room and given my clothes and items from the day before. After dressing, then signing for the return of my wallet and cell phone, the old man led me out to the parking garage.

"Did my parents hire you?" I asked.

He shook his head. His gait was slow and halting, as if he'd suffered an injury. We took the garage elevator to the 4th floor. He'd still offered nothing. He stopped in front of a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. And in seconds I was enveloped by Derek and Scarlet.

"How?" I was able to get out.

"Somebody owed me a favor!" laughed Scarlet. "I knew this called for an actor's actor. And I just happened to get them out of a jam once."

"I don't understand. I just assumed my parents had gotten me out of this."

"Your parents aren't in a position to help you right now. What have I told you about making assumptions, Mr. Fisk?" And Nina C. Moen poked me in the butt with her cane.