“Oh? What do you –”
The car stops, and Armando shoots me a sinister look that shuts me right up and sets my heart racing as if I had just finished a marathon. His eyes seem to drill into me, and I don't like it one bit. I shift in my seat, trying to put as much physical distance between us as possible. The driver comes around and opens my door, and when I climb out, Armando is right there taking my arm again. His grip is firm, making it clear that I have no chance of getting away from him. Not like the thought to do so had crossed my mind. Except, it has.
He walks fast, ushering me into the restaurant before I have a chance to look for a sign. We walk into a brick building, and at first, I fear that we're not really going to dinner. I feel a ripple of dread tear through my brain that he's going to hold me hostage and keep me somewhere, or God knows what. But then we step into the restaurant and I'm instantly relieved to read the name on a sign on the hostess' stand. Alistair's. A popular, higher-end seafood restaurant in downtown Denver.
Okay. We really are going out to dinner. Not to some random basement or dungeon or something. Although I fear the man who has my arm in an iron, vice-like grip, at least I'll be in public. The hostess leads us to a table and we take our seats, and I can't help but feel all eyes are on us. Or rather, all the eyes on me, in my drab, casual, should-be-at-home-on-the-couch attire. My homebody chic outfit that sticks out in a classy place full of well-heeled people like this. I try to not let it get to me. After all, I never consented to this date in the first place.
When the server comes over, Armando orders for me. From the drinks to my meal and sides. I didn’t get any say in the matter. Which is fine. I don't plan on eating anyway, but the sheer presumption and arrogance of the man is stunning. Disgusting.
“So, you've heard about this deal with our fathers, yes?” he says.
“Uh, yeah. I have,” I say. “Crazy, right? I mean, who sells their kids into marriage. I hope my dad's at least getting a couple of cows and goats for this, right?”
I laugh it off, trying to lighten the mood, but Armando doesn’t laugh. He's not even smiling. Instead, he’s staring at me with the deadest eyes I've ever seen on a living person. It’s then that I notice his driver is standing a little over a yard away from us, scanning the restaurant, his body tense and alert. I'm not a weapons expert or anything, but I swear I see a holster underneath his jacket.
“So, what do you think about this whole thing?” I ask. “About you and me.”
“What I think doesn't matter, Holly. It's going to happen whether we want it to or not,” he says. He takes a long pull from his drink. “Though to be honest, you are attractive. My father could have done a lot worse for me, I suppose. At least you'll be fun to fuck.”
He could have done worse. And at least, I’ll be a fun fuck. Nice. Really classy. I bite back the string of scathing words that are bubbling up my throat, threatening to spill out all over this conversation. It is not going to do me the least bit of good to get on his bad side. But, this man absolutely disgusts me. Everything about him is repulsive. Honestly, I’d love nothing more than to shove the fork sitting on the table in front of me directly into his eye socket.
I don't though. Of course. When our food arrives, I'm grateful that Armando ordered me something I actually like. Grilled salmon with a lemon butter sauce. He could have made a worse decision. At least I can enjoy this part of the meal.
I eat in silence, and try to catch the attention of other diners, trying to use my eyes to beg for help. No one seems to be paying attention and those that do make contact, don't seem to understand. While I'm not technically his prisoner, it feels like I am. There's a small part of me that fears if I get up and walk out of the restaurant, Armando will have his man shoot me down.
To test things out, I stand up and say, “I'll be right back. I need to use the restroom.”
I half expect the goon to follow me into the stall, or even Armando himself. But, surprisingly enough, I'm free to use the toilet alone. As I close the door to the bathroom, I lean against it and try not to cry. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, typing in Gabby's number.
I key in a text and send it to her, If you don't hear from me in an hour, call the cops.
She sends back a laughing face emoji, probably thinking this is a joke about visiting with my dad, but this is no joke. I start to type out a response when a knock on the door startles me, nearly making me drop my phone into the toilet. The knock repeats itself a moment later.
“One sec,” I call out.
My fingers are trembling, and I try to think of something I can say that won't sound crazy. Instead, I type the only thing I can think of, I mean it, Gabby. Please, listen to me this one time. It's not a joke. I'm scared.
The knocking continues. This time, a little harder and a voice calls out. A man's voice.
“Everything okay in there, Ms. Gallagher?” the man asks. “Mr. Trujillo would like you back at the table.”
My heart stops. Armando sent his man to fetch me. Son of a bitch.
“Yes, just finishing up,” I say. “Be out in a minute.”
“He wants you at the table now, Ms. Gallagher.”
I key in another quick message and shoot it off to Gabby. My father ambushed me. Out with Armando. Total asshole. Afraid he might do something bad to me. If I don't text you in an hour, call the police.
I flush the toilet, tuck my phone in my bag and try to put on a smile. I'll be okay, I tell myself. I wash my hands and hurry out of the bathroom, where Armando's driver is waiting to escort me back to the table. He walks behind me, looming over my shoulder all the way through the restaurant until I'm seated at the table again.
Armando is staring at me, a look of pure annoyance on his face. “About fucking time,” he snaps. “Now, eat your fucking fish. It's probably cold.”
Guess I really am a prisoner after all.
Chapter Twenty
Brayden
The Rio entrance, the casino, the throng of people – everything is a blur. Freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, and with some food in my belly – at Trey's insistence – I am starting to sober up. Finally. Which is a good thing, given that I need to have my mind clear and my wits about me, since I'm here to discuss our marriage and what the hell we're going to do about it.
Once in the elevator, I press the button for Holly's floor. Leaning back, I close my eyes and try to focus. To get my head on straight. Which isn't easy since it continues to pound like somebody inside my skull is whacking it repeatedly with a sledgehammer. Jesus Christ, I never want to get that drunk again. Ever.
Aside from the hangover and drunken marriage, everything else about my time with Holly - everything that I'm able to remember – is nice. Very nice. More than nice, if I’m being honest with myself. I'd probably even put our time together in the amazing category. I honestly wouldn't mind seeing her again. Seeing her more often. But, the idea of being married to someone after knowing them for only a few days fills me with an ominous sense of dread.
Being so hammered that you think having an obese Elvis officiate your wedding is a great idea - is not the best way to start a long-term relationship.