Demanding Ransom

Chapter SIX



The annoying trill of video game sound effects rattles into the sterile hospital room air. I’ve been clamping my jaw so tight for the past hour that I don’t think I’ll be able to open it to eat tomorrow. The tension started in my teeth and radiated into my skull, and is now completely gathered right around my eyes, burning behind them.

“Kinsey, come give Michael a hug.”

A towheaded girl with iron-straight blonde hair hanging to her waist edges hesitantly toward the hospital bed. She pauses for a moment, and then swiftly dives in for a second-long embrace.

“And now your turn, Jefferson.” A boy that appears identical, just a year or so younger, doesn’t look up from his handheld gaming device as he brushes a shoulder into Mikey in an unenthusiastic attempt to appease his mother. Our mother.

“Brittany and Valerie, you’re next.” Two five-year-olds with strawberry blonde curls snuggle into Mikey’s side and give the most impressive performance out of the four. “Very good,” my mother says, apparently pleased with everyone’s compliant, if hesitant, cooperation.

“Michael, Sterling said to send his condolences. He’s traveling in Spain again and won’t be stateside for another week. He says he’s sorry you’re feeling so bad.”

“Feeling so bad?” I hiss over the top of my celebrity gossip magazine, unable to put up with this ridiculous show any longer. “Mikey has freaking cancer and was vomiting up ungodly amounts of blood last night. I think the term ‘feeling bad’ expired when the doctors discovered the massive tumor taking up residence in his brain.”

Our mother purses her perfectly outlined lips and her golden eyes become slivers. “Now, Margaret. I understand that this is all very upsetting—”

“Upsetting?” I chuck the magazine onto the tray table in front of me and the pages flutter angrily. “Upsetting is sitting here watching your children pretend to have any ounce of emotion for this stranger in the hospital bed. Upsetting is listening to you call us Michael and Margaret. It’s Mikey and Maggie.”

“Mar—Maggie,” she corrects herself, smoothing her skirt down with her palms. “There are many stages of grief. Anger is one of them. I think you could benefit from talking to someone. They have fantastic programs here at this very hospital that will help you process all of these confusing emotions you’re feeling.”

“Anger is not a stage, Mother.” I thrust my weight upward and rock unskillfully onto my feet. When will the strength in my leg come back? I could use a little more power right about now. “Anger has become a lifestyle for me. Compliments of you walking out on your family ten years ago.”

My mother pulls in a ragged breath through her nose and I wait for it to come back out, but it doesn’t. “There are people you can talk to about that, too, Margaret.” Her voice is tight and controlled. “If money is an issue, Sterling and I are happy to assist in any way we can.”

“I don’t want your money,” I spit, locking my right knee in place so my leg doesn’t give out from the prolonged standing. If I fall on my face now, she’ll see just how weak I really am. “I don’t want anything from you other than for you to leave—again.” I turn toward Mikey, who has his eyes closed. He’s probably just faking it to avoid being yanked into our heated discussion, but I use it to my advantage. “Mikey needs his rest.”

My mother collects her black Prada purse from the bedside stand and scoops the hands of the twins into hers. Kinsey and Jefferson rise to their feet behind her. “Please call me if anything changes.”

“You mean if he dies?” I see Mikey’s eyelids flutter and think a ghost of a smile might have even crossed over his lips.

“Good God, Margaret! I would hope you would contact me before it got to that.”

I shrug my shoulders to my ears. “I’ll be in touch.”

She nods and her perfectly highlighted hair doesn’t move. I’m sure the can’s worth of hairspray coating it is the reason for that. On the outside, everything about her is perfect. “Get well soon, Michael.”

When the door latches shut behind her and her trail of little ducklings, both Mikey and I explode in an unreasonably loud roar of laughter. Surely she can hear it down the hall, but I honestly don’t care. In fact, the thought just makes me laugh louder.

“Get well soon?” Water fills Mikey’s eyes, and he’s laughing so hard that the sound no longer comes out with the act. “Seriously? Does she think I have a head cold?”

“I know!” I snort, sliding on the bed next to him. “Call me if he dies.”

We both laugh until our sides ache, to the point where we’re crying, not remembering what even triggered the tumultuous laugh-fest. I pull myself closer to him and lower my head onto his chest. Mikey pats my back affectionately, and even though he still smells like vomit, he feels like home.

“I love you, Sis. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Though the laughter-induced tears still brim in my eyes, with his statement they immediately transform from joyful to pained, even though it’s the same collection of tears.

“I love you, too, Mikey. I don’t know what I’d do without you, either.” I grip him tightly around his waist. “Don’t ever give me the chance to find out.”

***

“I think someone’s here to see you, Mikey!” I shout over the hum of the dryer as the rumble of a motorcycle cuts off in the driveway. Two more loads of laundry and I’ll be all caught up on both Mikey’s and Dad’s. I finished my small load this morning and folded it back into my suitcase so I can head back to Davis this afternoon. Though the semester is nearly done, I’m itching to fall back into my college routine. Professor Long said if I’m able to complete the research paper for his Anthro 101 course, he’d give me a passing grade, despite my extended absence. My other professors weren’t so generous, and I had to drop the rest of the courses two months ago when the accident happened. But I’m grateful to at least have one college course on my records. It makes this past quarter—and my life in general lately—seem like less of a monumental waste.

Mikey mutes the football game blasting throughout the house, and I hear the front door click open. After a murmured exchange, Mikey bellows, “It’s for you, Mags!” down the length of the hall.

Cora texted ten minutes ago saying she’ll head over in three hours, so I can’t imagine she switched plans without updating me. She texts me when she changes her nail polish color. If she decided to show up earlier, I’m sure I’d get a text detailing her change in agenda.

I slam the lid to the washer and pull at my ponytail to tighten the rubber band. I probably should have streaked some makeup across my face this morning, but I never have company. Brian was the only one to ever show up unannounced, and he’s seen me in a lot less flattering instances than today’s.

Like when we decided to test out the college scene last spring and snuck into a party at the frat house Brian hoped to rush in the fall. I’d never had anything to drink before that night and haven’t had the stomach for anything since. I didn’t know that the apparent goal was to get the underclass girls completely wasted. And since I wasn’t even an underclassman, more like an under-underclassmen, I think that rule was doubled for me. At least the two-day headache and eight-hour toilet bowl worship seemed to indicate that to be the case.

Brian was a great boyfriend at the time. He did the whole holding my hair back thing while I purged my body of the ten shots of liquid that had tasted like motor oil and gasoline going down, and just about the same coming back up. He was sympathetic: stroking my back to work out the kinks earned from hunching over the toilet for so long, placing the damp cloth on my forehead when I started to sweat profusely, and helping me stretch out on the cool tile floor to lower my feverish body temperature. Brian was always such a caretaker. Unfortunately, while he did a decent job taking care of my stomach that night, my heart was one thing he was much less cautious with.

When he slept with his organic chemistry lab partner the first week into college, he’d shattered it completely. Like the past three years together were an obvious exchange for a one-night stand with the beautifully blonde sorority pledge. She hooked up with his frat brother the next day, so it didn’t last between them, but I don’t think that’s what he wanted, anyway. I just think he didn’t want me anymore.

“Maggie!” Mikey shouts again, this time above the blast of helmets and pads crashing against one another, the television’s volume cranked to full power.

“Coming!”

I jog down the hall toward the entryway and pull on the front door, half expecting to see Cora, half deluding myself into believing it might actually be Brian, but completely unprepared for the tattoo-clad, motorcycle-helmet wearing body standing before me.

Ran.

He lifts his helmet off and shakes out his hair, tucking the helmet under the crook of his arm at the same time he thrusts a bouquet of yellow gerbera daisies my direction.

“Ran?” I mutter, completely baffled by his presence—albeit incredibly attractive presence—on my doorstep. “What are you doing here?”

“I owed you a gift.” Ran waves the flowers toward me. “You gave me another compliment the other night in the ambulance,” he smirks, making my already unsteady knees soften. “And like before, this one can double as makeshift room décor, too.”

I pull the flowers from his hand, still speechless, because searching for some sort of appropriate reply is a more daunting task than the research paper I need to complete this weekend.

“Can I come in?” He looks past me toward the living room where Mikey is perched at the very edge of the couch, his hands held to his mouth as his knees bounce nervously up and down, counting down the last seconds of the game on the big screen.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I slide to the right, but Ran is already in the entryway. “I don’t remember giving you a compliment that night. I just remember saying that I couldn’t wait to get out of the ambulance.”

Ran shakes his head and purses his lips. “Nope. You did,” he replies confidently. “You said ‘You guys did a good job with my leg.’ Since it was only half a compliment and I had to share it with Trav, you just got daisies.” He settles his helmet onto the rustic wooden bench next to the front door that is usually littered with Mikey’s football gear. “If you had phrased it like this, ‘Ran, you are my hero for saving my life,’ you would have gotten roses.”

I want to hold it in because I don’t like the idea of giving him the satisfaction, but a snort of a laugh flies out of me.

“Gesundheit.”

“I didn’t sneeze, I laughed.”

Ran cocks his head. “You laugh through your nose?”

“Only when I’m trying not to.” My cheeks radiate about 104 degrees and I tuck my chin into the scarf twisted around my neck, wishing I could disappear into its fabric. Why does he make me so nervous?

“It’s not nice to laugh at someone who brings you a gift,” Ran reprimands, looking past me again, this time down the hall. “Let’s go put these in your room.” He scoops the bouquet out of my hands and pushes past me, but I grab his elbow, making him spin on his heels so we’re face to face. The act surges a frigid chill throughout my entire nervous system, and I’m pretty certain my heart ceases beating the second his eyes lock with mine. I drop my hand quickly and shove it into my pocket.

“I don’t know if you should be in my room.”

“Maggie,” he says, a mocking note held in his tone. “I’ve been in your room before.” Ran rolls his eyes at me dramatically. “And that was in the middle of the night. It’s eleven in the morning now, a much more acceptable time for visitors.”

I follow him down the hall to my bedroom like a scolded puppy with her tail between her legs. Seriously, who is this guy?

“You need a vase.” He surveys my room, but there’s nothing remotely close to a vase in it. His eyes falter when they catch my packed suitcase situated at the foot of my bed instead. “What’s that?” Ran drops the flowers down to this side and a canary yellow petal slips onto the floor.

“I’m heading back to school this afternoon.”

“What?” he blurts. He reclaims his composure and continues, “You’re leaving town today?” His voice cracks slightly.

I nod, not sure why any of this matters to him. “Yes, my roommate is picking me up after lunch.”

“So you don’t have lunch plans then.” Ran pulls a random beer stein that once belonged to my grandpa from a shelf on the wall and shoves the daisies into it, stuffing them into place. They look absolutely ridiculous, but so did the balloons, and so does his face right now as he steps back, admiring his absurd floral arrangement proudly.

“No, I guess not.”

“Well.” He grabs me by the hand and takes two longs strides toward the door. His fingers are warm and interlock perfectly with mine. “You do now.”

Ran drags me at arm’s length behind him back to the entryway but stops short when he sees his helmet on the bench. “Crap,” he breathes, stroking his jaw with his one free hand. Man, he’s got a nice jawline—perfectly square and angular. The tight ball of muscle pulses at the back of it as he clenches his teeth. “Your car’s totaled from the accident, yeah?”

I nod.

“And you don’t happen to have a helmet lying around, do you?”

I shake my head.

“Mikey,” Ran calls over his shoulder. “You have a ride we can borrow?”

“TOUCHDOWN!” Mikey screams and launches into the air, catapulting over to us. He picks Ran up by his waist and twirls him around a few times before depositing him back on the floor. Mikey’s incredibly strong, because Ran is just an inch or so shorter, and probably close to the same weight, yet he lifts him like he’s a ragdoll. “Sorry man, but did you see that?”

“No.” Ran smoothes his ruffled shirt with his palms. “But because you just spun me around like we were competing in Dancing with the Stars, you owe me your vehicle for the afternoon.”

“Fair enough.” Mikey quirks his head and pulls his keys out of his pocket to chuck them toward Ran. “But I’m meeting Eric at the pool hall in an hour and now have no way of getting there.”

“Now you do.” Ran sweeps the helmet off the bench and situates it onto Mikey’s head, paying careful attention to the scar that snakes down the back of it. “Have fun.”

“No,” I pull the helmet off, probably a little too roughly. “Mikey doesn’t have a death wish.”

Snatching the helmet from my grip, Mikey retorts, “You’re right, I don’t. But I did stare death in the face last month and won. And I’m totally willing to kick its ass again…on the back of that sweet bike parked in our driveway.”

“You’re an idiot, Mikey,” I sneer, binding my arms tightly over my chest. What is it with guys and their need to push the limits of their mortality? “And so are you, Ran.” I throw him a cutting glare.

“Shoot, Maggie,” Ran says. “That insult just deducted one of your compliments. You were so close to licking my lips.”

Mikey raises his hands up and backs away from us, the keys to Ran’s motorcycle dangling in his palm. “I don’t even want to know what that is about,” he asserts. “I’ll be back by 1:00.”

“The throttle sticks a bit,” Ran instructs, and it sounds like he’s speaking in some guy code Mikey appears to understand. “I lubed the cable this morning, so she shouldn’t give you a hard time.”

“I’ll try to return her in one piece.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw’s unhinged and my mouth’s hanging open, because when I swallow it’s so dry that it mimics the feeling of sandpaper running up and down my throat. Scrape, scrape, scrape—an unbelievably uncomfortable feeling. Just one of the many I seem to experience each time I’m in Ran’s presence.

“Ready?” He pivots my direction.

My head bobbles unsteadily on my shoulders and Ran must mistake that for a nod because he slinks his fingers through mine and then we’re out the door to the garage.