I’ve been watching Etienne get slowly drunk, and I can almost time it to the minute when he goes from controlled to sloppy. Cherie has been upstairs putting the finishing touches to her packing.
I know I’m on borrowed time.
I’ve listened carefully to their conversations, some in English, but most in French, and I know they’re going to wait for Raymond to return with the car and then send him on his way before he can come back into the house and see what’s going on. I figure that moment could be the one to make my move; it’s obvious from the way they’ve been talking that Raymond has no idea what’s going on. So, if I can scream or make some sort of commotion to get his attention, I could make an escape.
In the meantime, I have to sit here while Etienne pounds glass after glass of cognac and slobbers all over me. It’s disgusting and I do my best not to shudder every time he strokes my arm or tries to kiss my cheek. Instead, I keep my panic under control and make sure I’m ready to move when my time comes, subtly stretching my legs to keep the blood flowing, so my feet don’t go numb.
“We’ll be so happy, my love,” Etienne slurs into my ear, and I can’t help the snorting dismissive noise I make.
Suddenly, he grabs my face and turns it toward him. “Oh, you don’t think so?”
Shit, the last thing I want to do is poke the beast, so I think quickly, taking his face in my hands. The feel of his clammy skin under my fingers is repellent, but I hold in my disgust and look into his watery brown eyes.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I coo. “I’m just nervous. That’s all. We’ve waited so long for this. I don’t want to mess it up again.”
Ugh, it feels so wrong, saying these words to him and by the unfocused look he gives me, I don’t think I’m being very convincing.
“You always were a lying little bitch!” he spits, shoving my face away. “You think I’m stupid? I can see you’re just playing along. This is why I came here to collect you.”
“Collect me?” I cry, finally losing the cool composure I’ve worked so hard to maintain through this whole experience. “I’m not your fucking property, Etienne.”
“You are!” He grabs the tops of my arms again, pressing the already bruised skin, making me wince. “I tried to make you worthy of being with me, but you just prove again and again what an uncultured American slut you are.” He shakes me so hard, my head snaps back and my teeth rattle in my jaw.
“Etienne! Stop! You’re hurting me!” I beg, but the distant look has already cloaked his features and I watch in paralyzed horror as his hand draws back and the slap cracks against my cheekbone, whipping my head back again.
“You think I like correcting you?” he yells in my face, shaking me again. “Why won’t you learn?”
That’s it. I’m fucking done with this shit.
“Because what you’re trying to teach me is bullshit!” I scream back, lunging at him, shoving him in the chest with all my might.
My sudden movement catches him unawares, and he topples off the couch onto the floor in a drunken heap. I’m almost too shocked to move, both of us staring at each other, unsure of what to do next. But that only lasts a second because as quickly as I can manage, I fly off the couch and make a run for the kitchen. However, Etienne is still too quick for me, and he grabs my ankle from his position on the floor, and I fall on my front onto the rug.
I frantically start kicking to release his grip, and when I feel my shoe connect with something that makes Etienne grunt in pain, I lurch to my feet and start running again. I weave around the furniture and make it back into the kitchen, my food congealing on the plates where it’s been left untouched.
I dare not look back to see if he’s following me, but when I reach the back door and grab the handle, I realize to my horror that it’s been locked, probably by Cherie after my first attempt to escape.
“Too bad, my love. I have the keys,” Etienne crows from behind me, jingling what I assume are the keys. “And the front door is also locked.”
I whirl around, keeping my back to the door and see Etienne stuffing the keys in his pants pocket. He approaches me slowly, like I’m a wild animal that needs taming. And in that moment, I realize that’s what I am to him. He needs to dominate and control me to make himself feel like a man and that’s just pathetic.
As this thought lights up my brain, I can’t help but release a hysterical giggle. Etienne isn’t even a man, so why the hell should I be scared of him? I’ve seen the way a real man behaves: my dad, Matt, Zac, Alex. I have all these wonderful, strong, kind, thoughtful men in my life, and I allowed myself to be taken in by this pitiful asshole.
My laughter becomes louder and more maniacal the more I think about it, and the confused look on Etienne’s face just spurs me on, blood from his injured nose dripping down his chin onto his expensive shirt. He looks ridiculous.
“What the fuck is so funny?” he growls, stopping his advance a few paces from me.
“I’ve just realized what a pathetic loser you really are,” I gasp through my laughter. I know it’s a risky move to provoke him by laughing in his face, but I really don’t care anymore. He will not control me for one more minute. I’m prepared to fight him tooth and nail because there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere with him or his crazy mother.
It takes him a moment to register what I’ve said, and with a roar, he lunges at me, grabbing my arms and shoving me away from the door. My hip hits the edge of the kitchen island and I land heavily on the floor, quickly scrabbling to my feet as he stalks toward me. Before I can completely rise, Etienne grabs my hair and lands another head-rocking slap to my face, splitting my lip so blood floods my mouth. I grunt and fall back against the counter, using it to hold myself up.
And that’s when I spot the heavy based saucepan I’d got ready to heat the cherry sauce. It’s within arm’s reach, so before Etienne can advance again, I shoot my arm out and grab the handle. With a swinging arch, I bring the heavy pan around and scream as it connects with the side of his head with a satisfying clunking noise, cherry sauce spraying everywhere. His head snaps to the side, and I see his eyes roll back in head as he falls to the floor like a tree, lying still.
Without hesitation, I fall to my knees and shove my hand in his pocket to retrieve the keys, pulling them free just as Cherie comes into the room.
“Mon bébé!” she cries, rushing over to an unconscious Etienne as he lays prone on the kitchen floor, blood seeping from the wound on the side of his head, mixing with the cherry sauce.
“I suggest you get your baby to a therapist, Madame,” I spit out, quickly trying the keys in the lock until one fits and turns. “Once he wakes up, obviously.”
With that, I rip the door open and rush into the mudroom where my purse is thankfully where I left it. The outer door is still open, and as I leave, I’m drenched with rain, soaking through my chef’s jacket and chilling my skin. I frantically look around and see that my car is parked across the driveway, in front of the double garage.
Just twenty strides to freedom.
Holding my purse over my head to try and keep the rain out of my eyes, one of which is beginning to swell shut, I dash across the slick gravel, trying to keep my balance. I slam into the side of the Range Rover and grab the handle to open the door just as the driveway is flooded with headlights.
Oh shit!
Thor
I follow the GPS toward the house where Lana is cooking for the dinner party, and I can’t help but peer at the expensive mansions through the rain. It’s a nice neighborhood, one I haven’t been to before in all my years living in Seattle. But as I pass large houses with lush gardens and elegant gates, I can’t help but fantasize about living somewhere like this one day, perhaps with Lana. Making a home with her, having our children here, building a life we can be proud of.
Jesus, I never thought the fantasy of a house, wife, and children could give me a hard-on, but when it comes to Lana, everything about life with her makes me stiff as a board.
Chuckling to myself at how much I’ve changed since that little firecracker came into my life, I indicate and turn my car into the driveway of the house. The gates open automatically as I pull up to them and my tires crunch along the gravel driveway, my headlights flooding the area.
What the fuck?
I peer through the windshield as the wipers sweep the rain away and squint my eyes to check if what I think I’m seeing is actually there.
The tiny, rain-soaked figure runs wildly from the side of the house toward Matt’s Range Rover, slamming into the side and frantically grabbing at the slippery door handle. Instinctively, I put my foot down on the gas and shoot across the drive, pulling up just short of crashing into the Rover. Panic clutching at my throat, I fling my door open and charge over to Lana who’s still trying to get her door open. I reach out to turn her around, and she begins to scream, spinning around so her palm connects with my face with a wet crack.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she screams, her eyes blindly blinking the rain away.
The slap was hard, but it barely rocks my head. “Baby, it’s me. Alex,” I reply, my voice loud over the rain. “What the fuck is going on?”
It’s then I see her bloody lip and swollen cheek, the look of absolute panic in her eyes.
My blood reaches boiling point in a matter of seconds at the thought of anyone putting their hands on my woman.
“Lana, what happened?” I gently hold her shoulders. Seeing her wince at my touch makes me even madder, but she finally lets her eyes focus on mine, and she visibly relaxes under my hands. “Baby, tell me.”
She takes in a huge shuddery breath and says the word that chills me to the core.
“Etienne.” Her shaky hand rises and points toward the house, her split lips trembling uncontrollably as she bursts into sobbing tears, falling into my arms.
“Motherfucker!” I growl, holding onto Lana as tightly as I dare, desperately trying to stop myself from rushing into that house and tearing him into small, unidentifiable pieces.
“Please, let’s just go,” she begs into my chest.
“But he’s in there. Why the fuck is he in there?” I ask, completely confused as to what’s going on.
“He arranged for the donation, to get me here,” she sobs. “He and his crazy mom were gonna take me back to France.”
What I’m hearing is completely unbelievable. Who the fuck tries to kidnap their ex-girlfriend against her will? This fucking asshole needs the whooping of a lifetime. I start to pull away from Lana, but she grabs the back of my soaked shirt and holds on for dear life.
“I hit him with a pan,” she sniffles.
I can’t help the choked laugh that bursts out of my mouth. I gently hold Lana away from me and look at her swollen, bruised face but also the determined set of her chin. There’s my firecracker.
“You hit him?” I ask, a little taken back but not particularly surprised.
“Yes,” Lana replies. “He’s on the kitchen floor.”
“Go get in my car and lock yourself in,” I state through gritted teeth. I need to see this asshole for myself and then I fully intend to call the cops and get him arrested.
“But…” she protests.
“No buts. Go lock yourself in the car and call your brother.” I press my keys into her hand and gently usher her away. “I need to have a word with this dickwad.”
“No, please Alex.” She clings to my arms. “Don’t hurt him. You’ll get into trouble.”
I laugh loudly. “Baby, I think you’ve taken care of kicking his ass. I just wanna make sure he doesn’t get away before the cops arrive. Now go to the car, please.” I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, and she finally runs over to my car. When I’m satisfied she’s locked inside, I stalk toward the rear of the house and find the back door wide open, the sobs of a woman coming from inside.
I’ve got no idea what I’m going to find when I enter the house, and at first, I’m shocked to see the pristine kitchen covered in splatters of blood. I feel the panic begin to rise in my chest—perhaps Lana actually killed the guy. But on closer inspection, I see lumps of cherries in the red stains and realize it’s some kind of sauce.
Thank fuck for that.
I see a middle-aged woman sitting on the marble floor, holding a man’s head in her lap. Blood is seeping from a wound on the side of his head and his nose, but his eyes are opening and closing drunkenly so I know he’s not dead. Shame.
“Oh thank god!” the woman screams in a heavy French accent. “We were attacked by the chef who came here to cook for us. She went insane when my son said he didn’t like the food and hit him with a pan!”
I stare at her for a moment and then shake my head, pulling my cell phone from my pants pocket. I can’t believe she’s even trying to say this is all Lana’s fault.
“Yes, call the police,” the woman gasps. “She might still be on the property.”
I nod to make her think I’m calling the cops on her behalf and dial 911, grabbing a towel from the counter, throwing it at the woman so she can hold it to the wound on Etienne’s head. I don’t know why I’m doing anything to help these two, but I want him to serve out every second of the jail time I’m going to push for, so I don’t want him to bleed out on this kitchen floor.
When the call connects, I say “Hello, this is Alex Bergman. I’m at 901 Cedar Drive, and I need police and an ambulance. There’s a man here with a head injury which he sustained while trying to kidnap my girlfriend.”
As my words sink in, I see the woman’s face change from pathetic helplessness to seething fury, her red lips peeling back to bare her teeth to me.
Keeping a close eye on the pair of them, I continue to give as much information as I can to the 911 dispatch handler, and she reassures me the police are on their way.
When I hang up, I take up a position leaning against the counter, my arms folded across my chest, making it clear to the pair of them that they shouldn’t move and that I’m not in the mood to talk.
Thankfully neither of them tries to engage me in conversation, so I quickly call Lana on her cell phone to check she’s okay and to tell her to show the cops where to go when they arrive.
“Did you call Matt?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies in a shaky voice. “He’s really mad, but he’s on his way.”
“Okay baby. Put the heater on and get warm. There’s a duffel in the back seat and there should be a clean hoodie in there,” I instruct, not wanting her to get cold and go into shock. “Make sure the paramedics check you out first when they arrive. This shit stain can wait his turn.” I glare over at Etienne, who is now sitting up, drinking brown liquor from a crystal brandy glass, held to his lips by his mother.
What a fucking pair of whack jobs!