Demanding Ransom

Chapter ELEVEN



“Maggie, he has abs for days!” Cora squeals, cross-legged on her bed, bouncing up and down like a child on Christmas morning. “Forget six-packs—hell, even eight-packs. Ran is the literal definition for washboard abs. How many grooves do you think a washboard has? Like twenty? That might not even be enough.”

Her voice trails off and I transfer my focus back to my paper. It’s two in the morning and I think I may have just completed my rough draft. One more read through and I’ll be ready to turn this in to Professor Long tomorrow morning.

“I’m not sure why you wouldn’t get on the back of that bike again. I would ride it all night long if I could.”

I don’t look up from my computer screen when I say, “Are we still just talking about the bike?”

“Maggie, Ran is hot, thoughtful, and he takes you to nice restaurants.” She stretches out her legs and swivels under the covers, yanking the comforter up under her chin until she looks like she’s wrapped like a burrito. “I still don’t understand the SOS signal. I thought we only texted that when we were in dangerous situations.”

“It felt dangerous.” I scan through the first page of the essay, frustrated when I notice it’s riddled with typos, like whoever wrote it was severely lacking in the focus department. “Ran feels dangerous.”

“Ran feels amazing.” Cora rubs the tips of her fingers together as if the memory of his muscular abs is still tangible on them. After she came to rescue me from the restaurant with her vehicle that ran on four wheels, she’d opted to let me drive her car home while she took to the back of Ran’s bike.

“Ran asks too many questions, makes me feel uncomfortable, and he wants to know things about me that aren’t any of his business.”

Cora props herself up on her elbows. “You see, all of those things you just mentioned have you as the common denominator. I don’t think Ran is the problem here, Maggie.” She lets out a deep sigh before she says, “Have you ever thought about talking to someone? You know, like other than me?”

“You’re starting to sound a lot like my mom.”

Cora’s elbows unhinge and she drops onto the mattress with a thud and holds her hands up in the air in surrender. “Then I take that back. Don’t ever compare me to that lying wench again, mm-kay?”

“Then don’t say things that will lead me to draw any comparisons.”

“Deal.” Cora reaches out for the lamp on her desk and clicks the knob twice until the light flickers off. She rolls over to face the wall and calls out over her shoulder, “Give Ran a second chance. He’s worth it.”

His words echo in her tone and make me feel sick to my stomach. Ran hadn’t really done anything wrong. It’s not his fault I didn’t like the questions he asked. He let me have a do-over. Maybe I should return the favor.

I rush through the rest of my editing, my eyes blurred from a groggy stupor that can only be remedied by a good night’s sleep. By the time it’s 3:30 a.m., the weight of my eyelids rivals that of a 50-pound dumbbell, and I’m only seeing through thin slivers.

With my clothes still on, I make the transition from my desk chair to my bed in one clumsy swoop. The sheets still hold the repellent odor of Cora’s latest overnighter, but traces of Ran rise just above the surface. The smell of both sweat and soap. Dirty and clean.

I don’t notice how tightly I’m clutching onto the pillow—smothering my nose in its feathery fabric that smells like Ran—until the vibration of my phone shakes me out of my tense slumber.



Ran: I’m sorry.



I don’t respond.



Ran: Maggie, I know I’ve asked too many questions already, but can I please see you again?



I re-read his text three times before I come up with a reply, and even then I don’t write it.



Ran: No more questions. Promise.



I punch my fingers on the keys.



Me: And no more games. Period.



Ran: I’m not playing games with you. That’s not what I’m trying to do here. I just really need to see you again.



Even though I want to shut off the power to my phone and ignore him completely, I fire off another text.



Me: I’m turning in my essay tomorrow during Prof. Long’s office hours. I’ll need a ride back home.



Ran: Are you headed home for good?



Me: No. Just a few days. Pick me up at noon at the south parking lot.



Ran: Okay.



Me: If you show up on your bike, I’m not getting on it. Find some other mode of transportation.



Ran: Got it. No bike.



Me: And let’s agree to not go out to eat tomorrow. Us + eating out = bad situations.



Ran: Then we’ll eat in. My place. I’ll cook.



Me: You’ll cook? That might even be worse.



Ran: Why do you assume I can’t cook? You’d be amazed by the amount of things I’m very good at, Maggie.



Me: You’re not very good at succeeding in getting me to like you.



Ran: Working on it. Gimme time.



Me: Tomorrow. 12:00.



Ran: See you then.

***

“I must say, Margaret, I am very impressed with your diligence and ability to perform under pressure. I don’t like to admit it, but I had my doubts that you’d be able to complete this essay in time.” Professor Long takes my paper from my hands and sets it down on the mahogany desk behind him. There are picture frames holding perfect looking families, similar to the ones that come in them when you purchase the frames from the store. But I recognize Professor Long’s face in the photographs, so the images must be of his actual family.

He strokes his charcoal-colored mustache with his fingers. “I wish the rest of the faculty had given you the same opportunity to prove yourself academically.” He offers an apologetic smile.

“It’s alright. Most people don’t give second chances.” And I don’t think college professors are known for their flexible, accommodating ways.

I shrug my shoulders and have my hand on the handle to his office door when he replies, “I think you would be surprised, Margaret. Most people are very willing to give second chances. It’s those that are willing to give themselves another chance that are harder to come by.”

***

The walk back to the dorm is enjoyable. The December air holds just enough chill without being unbearably cold. And my steps feel lighter. Probably because I just turned in the one assignment that offers any proof that I was even here; something that gives this quarter a little purpose. That’s a huge weight off my shoulders and I physically feel it. My stride adopts that same, weightless buoyancy.

That is, until I see the red and white ambulance parked in the south lot.

When the passenger door pops open and Ran—outfitted in full paramedic attire—slips out, all of that light feeling disappears. My feet are like two-ton bricks mortared firmly on the pavement below me. Even if I wanted to take a step toward it, they wouldn’t let me.

“Maggie!” Ran calls out and waves, as if I can’t see him. As if I don’t notice the massive, colorful ambulance taking up space in our dorm parking lot. “You ready to go?”

I clamp my jaw shut because it had popped open the second Ran and the vehicle came into view. “Are you serious?” I hiss as soon as he’s within hearing distance.

“You said no bike.” He swivels around and holds both arms out on either side. “This is not a bike.”

“No,” I breathe. “This is a freaking ambulance, Ran!”

“I have fond memories of my ambulance rides with you. Plus, we fixed the light, so you don’t have to worry about sunglasses.” He grins coyly.

“Yeah, because that’s what I was worried about,” I mock. “Try being worried about getting arrested for riding in an ambulance when you’re not the patient!” I yank my messenger bag off my shoulder and lob it at Ran but it falls to the ground and my compact and lip gloss spill out of it.

“You’re not going to get arrested,” he laughs as he condescendingly bends down to retrieve my bag and its contents, and then settles the strap onto my shoulder. “It’s called a ride-along. We do them all the time. And our morning has been pretty slow, so I’m hoping things pick up and you get a real show.”

“You’re sick, Ran. Wishing tragedy on people just so you get a little more action.”

Ran’s face goes white, the usual rosy-pink pigment drained from it. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, his eyes suddenly crammed with emotion.

I instantly wish I could retract my words after seeing that look on his face. Why do I always feel like the bad guy when I’m around him? “I’m sorry.”

“I just meant that since it’s been slow, things will probably pick up. I’d never wish for someone to sustain an injury for the sake of entertainment.” Ran looks me up and down, and the hurt in his eyes is still present, though he’s regained a hint of his color on his skin.

“I know.” I change the subject. “Let’s go get my bag.”

“Already did. Cora let me in.”

I roll my eyes. “So now I’m adding intruder to the list. Stalker, kidnapper, hostage holder, ransom demander, and now intruder.”

“I think you’re forgetting amazing kisser, chef, backrub giver, and guitar player.” Ran slips his fingers in mine and tugs me toward the ambulance. It’s the second time we’ve held hands and though my immediate reaction is to shake him loose, I find my fingers returning the playful squeeze that his give.

“I have yet to experience that list.” I grip on tighter to avoid slipping from his clasp, because the sweat from my palms is becoming increasingly apparent.

“If you’re lucky, you can experience all of those things tonight.” His ruby red lips curl upward again. “And since I know you’re envisioning it right now, let me add sweet-nothing-whisperer to the list.” We’ve edged our way across the parking lot and are at the ambulance now, and he opens the back door and motions for me to go through. “Just try not to think about them all at once, because that would take some serious skill. Cooking dinner while simultaneously serenading you with the guitar, all while I rub your shoulders and kiss your mouth, as well as whisper sweet nothings in your ear?” He stares into the void behind me and releases a burst of laughter. “On second thought, yes, please think about that, because that sounds pretty damn amazing.”

“Nice to see you again, Maggie,” Trav calls out from the front. I lift my head in a nod.

Ran hands me a clipboard with several sheets of official looking papers. “Sign this.”

“What is it?”

“A waiver. Basically saying you won’t hold us responsible if you, you know, die.”

I thumb through the sheets and scribble my signature where appropriate. “So now I’m signing my life over to you.”

“Essentially.” He slips a navy blue jacket onto my shoulders that has OBSERVER embroidered in white thread on the chest. It’s at least two sizes too big and swallows me whole. “And it hurts that you’ve forgotten so soon that I did a pretty decent job saving your life once already.” Ran clutches his heart as though I’ve dealt him an injurious offense.

Some transmitted voice echoes through a two-way in the cab and Trav calls out a list of numbers and words I don’t know the meaning to. As he speaks, the driver turns the key in the ignition and the engine rumbles. My breath quickens.

“Ran.” I grip my seat. When I look down at my hands, my knuckles are white, like the sheer skin covering them is stretched nearly to its breaking point. “I don’t know if I want to do this.”

“Don’t be scared, Maggie. It’s a Code 2. Not life threatening.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well that makes it better. Never mind then. Bring on the emergency.”

Ran leans toward me and squeezes just above my knee. If he’s trying to get me to relax, he’s going to have to stop doing things like that. “Just sit back and watch me work. Our shift is almost over. This will probably be our last transport and then you and I will have the night to ourselves.”



And luckily it was the last call of the day. After assessing and driving a twelve-year-old boy with a broken—and by broken meaning bone-pushing-so-far-through-the-skin-that-it-threatened-to-split—forearm, Ran’s shift was over and we were ready to go back to his house for that promised home-cooked meal.

The only thing was, I wasn’t ready. I’d spent the entire time in the ambulance telling myself that the things I would see inside the vehicle were ten times scarier than anything that could happen in Ran’s apartment. Severed bones, massive amounts of blood, and contagious air-borne illness are much more frightening than being alone with Ran. Those things should induce the nausea that’s been spinning my stomach for the past two hours, not the thought of spending a quiet evening with just him. Alone. Alone with Ran, in his house. The thought of it makes me queasy beyond belief.