The lack of interaction was starting to grate on my nerves. In a way, I really did miss my captor. At least he talked to me.
Behind me, my escort cleared his throat. It was the signal he gave when it was time to go back inside. However, this time, I ignored him. He cleared his throat again. I pretended not to hear, as if I was lost in deep thought, too busy counting the stupid tiles.
"
Yalla.
"
I spun around, surprised all to hell. “Did you just speak?"
He smiled, and cocked his head toward the door.
I went to his side. “What does that mean?” I asked as we started walking back.
He regarded me, but said nothing.
"Is it like saying, ‘Hey you?’”
He shook his head.
"Look at me?"
He shook his head again.
"Time to leave?"
He waved his palm and squinted, as if to say close, but not quite. He then pointed at his watch and shook his head.
"No time? Out of time?"
He shook his head, very adamantly, then rolled his hand as if signaling something backwards.
I shrugged. “Time to go?"
When he shook his head and tapped his watch yet again, I realized that he was trying to tell me
not
to say ‘time'.
Remembering the guess that he had signaled as so-so, I revisited it. “It's not time to leave, but close to that, without the word time."
He nodded.
...to leave ... to go...
"Let us leave?"
He rolled his hand forward, nodding.
What was another way of saying ‘let us leave?'
"Follow me, we go now?"
I was on the right track. He was nodding and rolling more.
All of a sudden, a memory flashed inside my head, one of a battle torn neighborhood and a young Iraqi boy tugging on his little brother's arm, urging him to move faster while he chanted that word.
...follow me, let's leave ... hurry, move it ... come on, come on ... let's go...
"Come on, let's go?"
My escort smiled big and gave me a thumbs-up.
I couldn't help but laugh. Despite my escort's gruff appearance, he was actually kind of nice, reminding me once again about the lesson on how looks can be deceiving.
When we got back to my apartment, he opened my door and let me walk in. Then, dipping his head as if to say goodbye, he started to close it.
"Wait."
He stilled.
I let out a heavy sigh. “Will I ever find out why you can't—or won't—talk to me?"
Grinning broadly, as if my question amused him, he winked at me, closing the door behind him and locking it.
"Thanks. I guess I'll get ready for another quiet evening."
I was very bored, and lonely. Even though I was not much of a social person, I guess I always took for granted the power of conversation, even if it was just with a patient or a coworker.
Moving into the living room, I dropped onto the couch and turned on the news. I watched for a while, my hopes for rescue slowly fading. I had been monitoring the English speaking news channels for days, looking for some small tidbit about my disappearance. I sometimes flipped over to the foreign language news channels.
But there was nothing. I thought that was really shitty. There was so much news about the war, from casualties, to insurgent activity, even news about kidnapped civilians, but there was not one mention of a female soldier missing in action.
It was as if no one even realized I was gone.
I have no friends, no family, so who would miss me?
Self pity overwhelmed me to the point that my stomach cramped. I struggled hard to keep the emotions under control.
He had said ... showing emotion does not make you weak.
Grabbing a throw pillow, I hugged it close and poured my sadness into it, wondering how I had ended up with such an empty life. He'd also said I had locked myself up tight and hidden the key. Maybe I did have a tendency to shut people out.
The thought made me cry harder.
As the minutes passed, and the torrent of tears went on, I tried to find comfort in the possibility that the military was trying to find me, but was just keeping it all hush-hush. I mean, after all, someone had to report that I wasn't at work. Someone had to miss me there, like Jackson, or Mollina.
Yet, even that sliver of hope did little to make me feel better
Suddenly, the front door opened. Something was placed on the floor, and the door closed again. Swiping the moisture from my cheeks, I rose and went to see what was going on.
When I reached the door, I leaned down to pick up the items on the floor. It was another ice cream sundae and ... a sheet of paper? I looked over the typed-out note, but didn't have the slightest idea what it said. Unfortunately, I didn't read Arabic.
Oh well, it was the thought that counted.
As I headed back, I stopped by the wall phone and picked up the receiver.
Beep.
“Thanks. I really appreciate the ice cream,” I sniffled and giggled at the same time. “Hey, if you happen to have any champagne and caramel-filled chocolates, feel free to drop those off as well."
With that, I hung up and took my gift to the living room.
Turning off the depressing news, I searched through the music collection. Finding
Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits
, I stuck it in the CD player. I turned up the volume then went and lay on the couch.
I ate ice cream as I stared numbly at the ceiling.
Only about ten minutes had passed before I heard three loud knocks. I jumped up, waiting for whomever to barge in.
Moments passed. Nothing happened.
Intrigued, I put aside my desert and approached cautiously.
More gifts from the enemy?
Sitting on the floor in front of the door were three packages of Rolos and a half filled bottle of Jack Daniels.
Oh, my request. Close enough for me.
After grabbing a small glass and a couple of cans of cola from the kitchen, I picked up my new gifts and went back to the couch. Though I wasn't a drinker, and definitely not a hard-liquor kind of gal, I poured myself a good amount of the golden liquid and opened one of the cans, topping the drink off. Settling back into the cushions, I lifted my glass high, toasted the hidden cameras, then downed the drink in two gulps, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down my throat.
It occurred to me that I might have had a tad too much alcohol when I finally succumbed to the overwhelming urge to dance to
Copacabana
.
My drink sloshed around as I swayed my hips and sambaed around the living room. I was not drunk enough to fall on my ass, but I had a good buzz going, which allowed me not to care about the hidden cameras anymore. If anything, I hoped
they
were all enjoying the show. It made all those years of dancing lessons my mother made me endure when I was a little girl worth while. Anyway, the samba was a sexy dance, and I was feeling incredibly sexy, even if I was dancing in my pajamas.
As I danced, I sang. Yes, I was fucking up the lyrics, but I kept trying anyway, determined to get it right. When the song finally ended, I collapsed on the couch, out of breath, and waited for the next track.
Mandy.
I finished off my drink and opened my last package of Rolos, popping one into my mouth. Sitting back down, I closed my eyes as the lonely tears, brought on by Barry's melodic voice and the beautiful lyrics, flowed.
Sandalwood.
My thoughts drifted to my captor. Even though he'd been gone for days, it was like I could smell him now. I wanted to see him, wanted to touch him, simply wanted to be with him.
When the song ended, I wiped at my cheeks and giggled. “Damn. There's nothing worse then a crying drunk, Brenna."
"I agree."
Fuck!
Startled witless, I shot up to my feet. The room swayed and I grabbed a hold of the armrest to steady myself. “Oh, shit! You're back!"
He flipped off the CD player. “Yes, I am. I hear you've been having fun without me,” he remarked, his tone carrying his displeasure.
My heart dropped to the pit of my drunken stomach. “Are you upset at me?"
He eyed the bottle of Jack, then gazed back up at me. “No, it's my fault. I should have told the others not to give you alcohol."
Oh good. He wasn't mad at me.
“Why?"
"Because I need you alert in case there's an emergency."
"Like a medical emergency? Or like a ‘crap, we're being attacked and I need you to run’ kind of emergency?” I lifted my hands and shook them in front of me in mock fear, then covered my mouth to stop from laughing.
"Actually, both."
The room suddenly lurched and I began tipping over. He was there then, his strong arms wrapping around me. Once I was steady again, I leaned my head on his chest and breathed in deeply. My body tingled in reaction to his yummy scent. I smoothed my hands across his rock hard muscles, pressing closer to his warmth. For being the enemy, he was incredible sexy. When he tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes, I took his hand and brought it to my lips...
"Be a good girl, Brenna,” he whispered, removing his finger from my mouth.
I moaned my disappointment with a pout. He tasted good. I wanted to taste more.
He shook his head. “No."
"Fine,” I conceded reluctantly. “I'm not supposed to do that stuff with you anyway."
Holding my arm, he guided me back to the couch.
"Thanks,” I offered, dropping into the pillows. “I guess I shouldn't have drunk that last one. I wasn't feeling this...”
hot, wet, aroused,
“...tipsy a few minutes ago."
Sitting inches from me, he reached forward and lifted the empty glass off the table. “May I use this?"
When I nodded, he poured himself a drink. “Was there a reason why you were crying?"
"The song. It's a beautiful song."
At last, he laughed. “Moved to tears by
Mandy
? And here, I thought you might have been missing me."
"That too. I missed you,” I responded automatically.
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you always this open when you've been drinking?"
"Yep. Do you always smell so good?"
Another look of amusement crossed his handsome face.
I was feeling very proud of myself. It was nice to be the one with the upper hand. I was turning the tables on him, catching him off guard with my words. True, tomorrow I would probably regret everything I was saying now, but hey, that was tomorrow.
"Well?” I pressed.
"I guess. Thank you for the compliment."
"How was your trip?” I asked, burrowing into the cushions.
The stoic silence returned. Leaning forward, he pulled out the note from under my empty ice cream bowl. He read over it, then looked at me curiously.
I shrugged. “I don't know. I don't read Arabic."
"What was your question?"
"What do you mean?"
"The last person you talked to. What was the last question you asked?"
"I asked for champagne and chocolate."
He shook his head and smiled. “Not a request. A question."
It took all my concentration to remember. “Um ... I think I asked my escort why he wouldn't talk to me, or something along those lines."
"He must like you a lot."
"Why?"
"Because he answered."
I sat up. “Really?”
Yeah, he liked me.
“What did he write?"
"A voice, like a name, can be used to identify you,” he translated.
"What the hell does that mean?"
He gave me that arrogant grin and clucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
I waved him off. It was obviously another one of their secret things that I wouldn't understand. “Well, it was sweet of him to take the time to write me anyway. Give him my thanks when you see him."
"Should I be jealous?” he asked, his tone playful, perhaps even flirtatious.
"Why?” I giggled.
"I'm starting to think you like him better than me."
Caught up in the banter, I batted my eyes. “Well, my other keepers bring me ice cream when I'm sad. You haven't done that."
The cocky smile faded from his face. “I wish you wouldn't call us that."
I wasn't going to let him ruin my good mood.
Pasting on my most innocent expression, I placed my hand on his forearm and gently squeezed. “What else should I call you all? I don't know any of your names."
I knew it was a risky move, one that could come back to haunt me later, but I wanted him to be happy again. I wanted just one night where we could be normal people before we had to go back to being enemies.
My plan worked. A smile touched his lips. “Okay, you got me there."
"So?"
"What?"
"What's your name?"
"Can't tell you that yet."
I sat back, letting out a long, noisy breath. “Oh, okay."
Honestly, I hadn't really expected him to tell me anyway.
"Sorry,” he offered.
"Why can't you tell me anything?"
"I'll tell you what. First answer my question. If you answer mine completely—with totally honesty—then I will answer yours. Agreed?"
"Okay, ask."
"Why were you sad earlier?"
It was another personal question. But, why not tell him? Maybe if I just said it aloud, I could get this lump out of my gut. Gulping in all the air I could handle, I folded my hands together and rested them in my lap.
Keep it simple and easy.
"I was sad earlier because I've been watching the news for five days, but no one seems to notice I'm missing. I'm hurt because I feel like no one cares enough about me to know that I'm gone. This made me look back at my life and, you know, I am truly alone in the world. And I realized, to my utter horror, that you were absolutely right when you told me that I don't let people in."
There. I said it. And did so without breaking into tears again.
Go me!
On top of all that, I did feel better for sharing. It was hard after a while to keep everything bottled up inside. But the serious confession was killing my buzz. I didn't want to leave the alcohol-induced euphoria just yet.