Page 5 of Rent a Masked Duo

“Ecstatic.” The two of them exchange a look I pretend doesn’t bother me as much as it does. I’m honestly not loving the way they’re having these conversations silently, with just their eyes. What are they thinking? At least if I could see their faces or hear them speaking, I’d have a clue.

I might not be able to hear them, but I can read their body language, and neither of them looks very comfortable. They also look completely out of place. Then again, I guess I do, too. “So,” I say, looking back and forth. “What now?”

The one standing closer to the door was the driver. The shorter one, though not by much. He clears his throat and looks at his partner. “Now, that foot needs to be cleaned.”

“Oh? You care about my foot all of a sudden? Is this how you treat all the girls you kidnap?”

The tackler snorts. For some reason, I can’t make myself look at him for long before my cheeks get hot. It probably has to do with the memory of his arms being wrapped tight around me. I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve had their arms around me like that, and I can count on exactly one finger how many of them made me feel the way I felt out there. Even with the stakes as high as they are now, there was a definite fluttery feeling low in my belly that had nothing to do with being afraid I might hurt Wiggles. “It’s better than having you bleed all over the place.”

All right. I can’t argue with that. “And then?” I ask.

“And then we figure out the next part.” The tackler—I have nothing better to call him since I don’t know his name—goes to the kitchen. I stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t care while listening intently to cabinets opening and closing. Meanwhile, his partner watches my every move. It is so unnerving, not being able to see what’s going on behind those masks. The tackler comes back with a small, red box and sets it on the coffee table in front of me without saying anything. He then kneels in front of the couch and looks up at me. “I’m going to clean the cut on your heel,” he announces. “Not until you tell me it’s okay, though.”

“Not until I…” I’m imagining this, right? A laugh bubbles out of my mouth before I can hold it back. The two of them exchange another look that makes me laugh again. “Are you seriously asking for permission to wash my injured heel? You kidnapped me at gunpoint, threw me over your shoulder, and now you’re asking for permission to touch me?”

“For fuck’s sake.” With a growl, he closes a hand around my ankle, which he somehow manages to find under all the fabric, then props my calf on his thigh before I even know what’s happening. “Remind me not to be considerate.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to understand how ridiculous it sounds, right?”

He doesn’t say anything. He only gets to work, using wet paper towels to clean away any dirt before opening an alcohol wipe from the first-aid kit. I suck in a breath through clenched teeth when it burns. “Just a shallow cut,” he announces before applying a Band-Aid. “You’ll live.”

“Thanks.” And I’ll pretend his touch doesn’t make my body erupt in goosebumps. This whole thing is so profoundly ridiculous. Kidnapping me, then gently and thoroughly treating a minor wound after asking for permission to do so.

The two of them exchange one of their silent looks. The one still on his feet, the driver, inclines his head toward the kitchen. They slink off together and have a quiet conversation I can’t make any sense of, no matter how hard I try. I do hear Wiggles scurrying around underneath me, though, which is a good thing. I hope he’s enjoying his little adventure.

Okay. Now that I am no longer in a moving vehicle and have even had my wound tended, I need to think. Exactly how do I get out of this? And what does that look like when I do? If they wanted to kill me, they would’ve done it by now. They wouldn’t have bothered driving me more than an hour away from the chapel, and I wouldn’t be sitting here with a fresh Band-Aid on my heel. They even went to the trouble of stopping off to pick up Wiggles. I feel like all of that should mean something, but I’m still having a hard time putting the pieces together.

They said they wanted to take something from Patrick, right? Because he took something from them. But unless they plan on keeping me forever, I’m not sure how this benefits me in any way. Just because they got me out of the wedding earlier doesn’t mean Patrick’s going to give up for good. I know Dad sure won’t.

So what do I do? Because through all of this, one thought keeps replaying in my head. I was given an opportunity here. I need to make the most of it. But how?

When the two of them finish their conversation and wander in from the kitchen, still wearing their masks, my heart takes off the way it did when I tried to run away. If I could only see their faces, I might have a clue what they’re thinking. “We’ll have to find you something to wear,” the tackler mutters, scoffing as he waves a hand toward the layers of polyester and tulle bunched up around me. “I’m not sure how much longer I can look at that thing.”

The other one snickers. “It probably weighs a ton, too.”

Once again, they’re being thoughtful. It shouldn’t spark hope in my chest, but then I haven’t had a lot of experience lately with thoughtfulness. In fact, I can’t remember the last time anyone took my feelings into account at all.

That must be what makes me take a deep breath, open my mouth, and say, “I have a business proposition.”

What am I doing? It’s not like I thought this through. I’m kind of winging this, and now I wish I hadn’t said a word because they’re both chuckling at me. “A business proposition?” the tackler asks before chuckling again.

“Yes,” I fire back.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” the other one reminds me.

I’ve given exactly one presentation in my entire life. Tenth-grade history, the economic causes of the French Revolution. I got an A-minus. The minus was for insufficient eye contact. Of all things to remember at a time like this, while I force myself to make eye contact with both of them, one at a time. “Or maybe it is, and you just haven’t thought that far yet,” I retort.

That shuts them both up. Obviously, they didn’t think this through very well, or they wouldn’t seem so uncertain of themselves now. “Anyway,” I continue, folding my arms the way they do, “like I said. Business proposition. Patrick is marrying me because I’m a virgin.”

It’s almost funny, the way their heads both snap back like they weren’t expecting to hear it.

“That’s the whole deal,” I continue, talking faster now. Is my voice shaking? It’s probably shaking. “There’s no love or partnership or anything else involved. He’s been telling people for weeks. Half the town knows he’s marrying a virgin. It’s his brand. He likes to collect things that are pristine and unused. I’m the current acquisition. A virgin bride, twenty years old, packaged up with a ribbon on top.”

I gesture down toward the ruined bows on my dress. My hand is shaking. “Literally.”

Dammit. They’re too quiet. Please, don’t let me regret this. “If I am no longer the virgin he’s looking for, then I become less appealing to him. Right? Maybe he calls off the wedding. And I would have both of you to thank for that, which means I wouldn’t try to, you know… press charges or get you in trouble or anything like that. You already did me one favor by getting me out of that ceremony, but I need something a little more permanent,” I add.

I take another deep breath and wait for a response. Wiggles emerges from under the couch and starts rustling around near my feet. Normally, I would bend down and pick him up, but I’m kind of locked into a staring contest right now.