I do not yell for help because I want to be taken. I also don’t want any innocent bystanders to intervene. Although I put up a struggle, I don’t fight too hard. I want in that car and I want to be taken to Borovsky.
Dragging me toward their large sedan, the men speak in Russian. The trunk opens and before they shove me in, they pat me down. My phone gets thrown to the pavement and crushed under a stomping foot. My wrist watch is torn off.
I hold my breath, hoping those are the only things they want to take. If my shirt goes, then my only hope is that the Jameson crew is able to follow these guys wherever they’re taking me.
If they lose me, I’m as good as dead.
There’s another elbow to my temple, and I pitch forward over the open trunk. My arms are wrenched backward and a zip tie goes over my wrists, pulled tight and biting hard. Multiple hands are on me, shoving me in even as I try to fight against them. I don’t want them to think this is a setup, but also the thought of being in that trunk scares the shit out of me. I’m slightly claustrophobic, and I’m a big guy.
There’s another punch, this time a hammer fist to my cheek, and the fight goes out of me. I fold like a lawn chair and am shoved in hard before the trunk slams closed, rendering the world around me pitch-black.
CHAPTER 19
Jessica
After talking to Dozer, I take a quick shower to get rid of the sweat from my run. I then change into shorts, a T-shirt, and summer sandals and head down to the kitchen, from which a delicious aroma wafts toward me. It’s amusing to find the hulking former professional football player not only in the kitchen cooking but wearing an apron. Granted, it’s a manly apron that says This Shit Is Going to Be Delicious, but it’s an apron all the same.
Pulling a casserole dish from the oven, James sets it on a trivet and takes off the oven mitts. “Let that cool about ten minutes, and it will be ready to serve up.”
I lean across the counter and give it a deeper sniff. “Smells delicious. What is it?”
James shrugs. “Just a little something I whipped together with chicken breasts, Boursin cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and artichokes. No clue how it will taste.”
Laughing, I sit down on the stool, crossing my forearms on the counter. “Everything you’ve cooked the last few days has been gourmet. I may not ever leave here.”
James chuckles. “Well, this place is so big, I have enough room for you, Dozer, Claire, and little Thea if you all wanted to move in with me.”
I smile at the man I’ve gotten to know well over the last couple of days. There’s a wistful tone in his offer, and I know he’s not saying it to be cute and funny. He would love for us to move in because I’ve learned that he is lonely. He’s surrounded by muscled friends every day, and yet, he’s very much alone.
James’s marriage with Dozer’s mom didn’t work out, and he never had another committed relationship after that. Without giving explicit details, he told me the other night after dinner that his wild partying days and chasing women were long over, and I believe him. More than anything, I think he regrets not fostering a closer relationship with Dozer over the years, which has led to much of his loneliness.
“I really want to thank you, James, for letting me stay here.”
“Please, girl,” he says with a wave of his hand. He rests his forearms on the kitchen counter opposite me, leaning forward. “It’s been a pleasure having you in the house. Bebe, too, although we haven’t seen much of her.”
“She doesn’t come out of work mode often. When I was at the Jameson headquarters, she rarely came out of the lab.”
“Well, here’s hoping the smell of my food gets her downstairs.”
“I’ll take her a plate if not,” I say, laughing. I’ve done it for more than one meal since we’ve been here.
“Have you talked to Dozer lately?” James asks.
He’s been careful not to reach out to his son directly because he knows he’s under immense pressure and doesn’t want to add to it. I found out not long after we arrived that James had no clue what the game plan was—to dangle Dozer as bait. He was mad and worried, but he also respects Dozer’s decision.
So rather, James has me relay messages to his son—“Be careful,” “I’m proud of you.” It’s super sweet and when I do share his messages, I can tell Dozer appreciates them. He’ll often ask me to offer something back, like, “When this is all over, we’re going to have to pound some beers together” or “I’ll need a ride on that fancy boat of yours.”