commence an explanation of where to locate the emergency exits and what to do in case of an unexpected landing over water.
I lean over the console and retrieve the computer tablet. Underneath is the May issue of New York Financial with Mr. Merrick on the cover. I can’t help but smile even as I silently curse him. And then I get a stupid idea that’s much too enticing to ignore.
Suppressing a giggle, I search through my purse for the black pen I always carry with me and set the magazine in my lap. I shield what I’m about to do from Randall as best as I can without looking suspicious, and then get to work, drawing a Charlie Chaplin moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses on Mr. Merrick’s face.
When I’m finished, I survey my mock-Picasso masterpiece proudly, and then return the magazine to the console. It’s pretty unlikely that Mr. Merrick will ever see it, but my desecration feels oddly satisfying anyway.
We cruise through the streets, over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, and merge onto the West Side Highway. Golden rays of the setting sun stream across the dusky sky and blanket the Hudson River. It’s during this peaceful moment of contentment that I analyze how bizarre I’ve acted in the last few hours.
Making out with a stranger and later accepting an invitation to dinner with him at an unknown location is as far out of character as I’ve ever ventured. It’s been a habit of mine for as long as I can remember to always stop and think things through from every conceivable angle before making a decision. I did that this morning and declined Mr. Merrick’s offer, and yet somehow, I find myself on the way to see him. Hopefully this new risk-taking me hasn’t made a huge mistake.
The car feels uncomfortably quiet. I’m not good at small talk so I propose an alternative.
“Please feel free to put on some music.”
Randall grins into the rearview mirror. “That’s kind of you, Miss Peters, but I’m afraid my tastes probably won’t be to your liking. You can access a catalog of music from the touch screen on the back of the seat in front of you. I’ll be more than happy to listen to whatever you select.”
“No, really, please choose whatever music you want.”
“As you wish, Miss Peters.” Randall pushes a button next to the steering wheel and the monitor on the dashboard lights up. It’s also a touch screen. He selects some options and within a few seconds, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the car.
I pick up the computer tablet again and mess around with it, finally settling on reading East of Eden , which has always been a favorite of mine. After a while, my eyes sting and I’m forced to squint at the screen to read anything clearly. A quick glance out the side window reveals why. The sun has set and the inside of the car is much darker than before. Why on earth is this drive taking so long?
I scan my surroundings properly.
Oh, shit.
It’s not just dark outside. It’s pitch black. All I see are the shadows of the tall trees lining the roadside. No streetlights. No houses. No signs of civilization.
Where the fuck am I?
I glance out the windshield and then out the back window. There are no other cars in front of us or behind. The darkness stretches on forever, aside from the Rolls’ piercing white headlights, which illuminate the road ahead.
My adrenaline kicks into high gear, trumping the tranquil effects of Ol’ Blue Eyes. I’m generally not a paranoid person and I tend not to overreact—it’s one of the traits that makes me well-suited for emergency nursing—but in this case, I don’t think my fear is unfounded.
My temples throb and my breathing quickens as I try to come up with various plans of escape should this situation turn dangerous; plans which will all probably fail because the only thing I have on me that could possibly be used as a weapon is the pen in my purse. I could smack myself for not sticking to my original answer this morning and letting Mr. Merrick
I lean over the console and retrieve the computer tablet. Underneath is the May issue of New York Financial with Mr. Merrick on the cover. I can’t help but smile even as I silently curse him. And then I get a stupid idea that’s much too enticing to ignore.
Suppressing a giggle, I search through my purse for the black pen I always carry with me and set the magazine in my lap. I shield what I’m about to do from Randall as best as I can without looking suspicious, and then get to work, drawing a Charlie Chaplin moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses on Mr. Merrick’s face.
When I’m finished, I survey my mock-Picasso masterpiece proudly, and then return the magazine to the console. It’s pretty unlikely that Mr. Merrick will ever see it, but my desecration feels oddly satisfying anyway.
We cruise through the streets, over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, and merge onto the West Side Highway. Golden rays of the setting sun stream across the dusky sky and blanket the Hudson River. It’s during this peaceful moment of contentment that I analyze how bizarre I’ve acted in the last few hours.
Making out with a stranger and later accepting an invitation to dinner with him at an unknown location is as far out of character as I’ve ever ventured. It’s been a habit of mine for as long as I can remember to always stop and think things through from every conceivable angle before making a decision. I did that this morning and declined Mr. Merrick’s offer, and yet somehow, I find myself on the way to see him. Hopefully this new risk-taking me hasn’t made a huge mistake.
The car feels uncomfortably quiet. I’m not good at small talk so I propose an alternative.
“Please feel free to put on some music.”
Randall grins into the rearview mirror. “That’s kind of you, Miss Peters, but I’m afraid my tastes probably won’t be to your liking. You can access a catalog of music from the touch screen on the back of the seat in front of you. I’ll be more than happy to listen to whatever you select.”
“No, really, please choose whatever music you want.”
“As you wish, Miss Peters.” Randall pushes a button next to the steering wheel and the monitor on the dashboard lights up. It’s also a touch screen. He selects some options and within a few seconds, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the car.
I pick up the computer tablet again and mess around with it, finally settling on reading East of Eden , which has always been a favorite of mine. After a while, my eyes sting and I’m forced to squint at the screen to read anything clearly. A quick glance out the side window reveals why. The sun has set and the inside of the car is much darker than before. Why on earth is this drive taking so long?
I scan my surroundings properly.
Oh, shit.
It’s not just dark outside. It’s pitch black. All I see are the shadows of the tall trees lining the roadside. No streetlights. No houses. No signs of civilization.
Where the fuck am I?
I glance out the windshield and then out the back window. There are no other cars in front of us or behind. The darkness stretches on forever, aside from the Rolls’ piercing white headlights, which illuminate the road ahead.
My adrenaline kicks into high gear, trumping the tranquil effects of Ol’ Blue Eyes. I’m generally not a paranoid person and I tend not to overreact—it’s one of the traits that makes me well-suited for emergency nursing—but in this case, I don’t think my fear is unfounded.
My temples throb and my breathing quickens as I try to come up with various plans of escape should this situation turn dangerous; plans which will all probably fail because the only thing I have on me that could possibly be used as a weapon is the pen in my purse. I could smack myself for not sticking to my original answer this morning and letting Mr. Merrick
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