Page 19 of The Art of Almost Losing It
He starts up a staircase with exotic inlaid hardwood treads.
My dog pads along behind us.
I brace my hands against his black wool coat as he carries me through obscene luxury and past two-story windows with an impressive view of Manhattan.
“You’d have to be a millionaire to live here,” I gasp.
“Billionaire,” he corrects.
I smack his back. His gloved hand tightens warningly on my inner thigh.
“What kind of billionaire kidnaps a girl?” I demand. “Can’t you just—I don’t know—buy one?”
“I told you,” he says flatly. “I need a girlfriend.” He keeps climbing. “In the next five hours.”
My stomach drops.
“And you were my only option.”
The wood floor changes to lush carpet. He dumps me onto something soft.
I hit a plush white rug in a tangled heap.
The smell hits next. Not bad. Intriguing. It smells like him. Clean. Expensive. Masculine.
I’m in his home. In his closet. Neat rows of black and charcoal suits loom over me. Ominous. Identical hangers. Serial-killer energy, but make it luxury.
I look up at him. In the low glow of the under-cabinet lights, shadows carve his face into something sharp and inhuman.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares.
Then he removes his hat. Slides off his scarf. Twists out of his overcoat slowly, deliberately, revealing a perfectly tailored black suit underneath. He grabs a wooden hanger—one of a hundred identical ones—and hangs the coat.
Clack.
The sound echoes.
I’m freezing. Soaked. Dirty.
His chin jerks up.
“Take off your clothes.”
My stomach flip-flops.
“I-I can’t,” I babble. “Please, my parents have money—” I glance around the closet, which is bigger than most Manhattan apartments. “Okay, clearly you don’t need money, but we can work something out—”
“Clothes. Now.”
Tears burn my eyes. I’m shaking, nauseous from the car ride and the pepper spray.
I’ve joked with my best friend about needing to get kidnapped before I’d ever have the guts to lose my V-card—but this is not what I meant.
He takes a step toward me.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to fold completely.
