Conheartists Page 3

  Just as I press play, a loud sound explodes from the front porch. I drop the remote, startled, and look at Chandler, who’s growling at the front door.

  “What in the heavens was that?” I ask the dog as if he’s gonna tell me. “One bark for hot outlaw dropping from the sky. Bark twice if it’s just those darn squirrels taunting you again.” I laugh. It seems quiet again, so I take it as squirrels, and I pick up the remote to rewind what we missed. Can’t have us missing the intro of Richard’s motivational speeches.

  The next sound is of splintering wood. That being my door. Chandler goes berserk, baring his teeth as he jumps off the couch and prepares for battle. I’m not sure what to do since I have no idea what’s happening. My door is clearly being beaten down, but how? Why?

  Snap out of it, Francis!

  “Umm, hello?” I say out loud, like a nitwit. I don’t get a response and the door continues to get attacked. “Um, hi. Are you sure you have the right house? I wasn’t expecting anyone.” This seems a little much since I could have just opened it. Another loud slice and I jump back, hitting the side of my dinner tray, knocking it over. I throw my hands over my heart and exhale, thankful my meal wasn’t already on it. I’m down to my last two mac and cheese—

  “Oww!” I yelp, when the frame splinters and the door comes flying in, nearly breaking it from the hinges and just about killing my dog in the process. My head whips to the giant man now standing in my doorway, holding a crowbar and a murderous expression.

  “Are you Francis Connor?” the scary man growls. He’s not only scary, but huge. The guy seems super angry, but it suits him. Makes his cheekbones stand out. His black shirt is fitted. Tight around his pecks and his shoulders—

  “I asked you a question.”

  Shoot! I pull my naughty eyes from where they shouldn’t be to meet his intense green eyes. My skin crawls with goose bumps at the way he’s staring at me. “Yes, yes. I’m Francis. You can call me Frannie. Would you like to come in?”

  What? I want to smack myself in the head. Clearly he wants to come in, he just broke down your door to do so! And hello! He just. Broke. Down. Your. Door!

  Right. I should run. Call for help. Why aren’t my legs moving?

  “No,” he growls. “But you’re coming with me. Fight me, and I hurt you. Do this my way and no one gets hurt.”

  Now I’m confused. Why would anyone get hurt… Wait, is he kidnapping me? I smile, then start to giggle. “Did Beatrice put you up to this?”

  “The fuck?”

  “I get it. The whole outlaw coming to take me on an adventure. She put you up to this!”

  His expression darkens and I jump again when he tosses the crowbar onto the floor. “I don’t know who the hell Beatrice is, but you’ve got the wrong idea.” He runs his fingers through his jet-black hair and uncertainty flickers in his gaze. I knew it. She did!

  “Let’s go, lady,” he grinds out. “If you don’t do as I say, I’m going to tie your ass up and gag you. Now let’s fucking go. I don’t have time for this shit. I’m on a deadline.”

  His foul language is a bit much for me, but I like it. It reminds me of the outlaw in my book. And just like him, the man in front of me is large, angry, and looks like he can give a good hoo-haw beatin’. I throw my hands over my giggling mouth at the extremely inappropriate thought.

  Jesus, Francis. Get ahold of yourself!

  Beatrice’s words start to repeat in my head.

  Take an adventure. Enjoy life. Be spontaneous. Get laid.

  Maybe this is where I finally give in. Do something out of my norm. Live. I look back at the man who’s really doing a good acting job because he sure does look seconds away from tying me up and gagging me. I decide yes. I’m gonna go for it.

  “Okay! I’ll do it. I’ll go with you!” I smile. He still looks scary angry, but confused. “But we need to pack a few things… Oh! And Chandler comes with or no deal.” He looks around, wondering what I’m referring to, until his eyes land on my dog.

  “Oh, fuck no.”

  Luca

  I’m the Villain

  I need to call this motherfucker—Mr. Death—in less than twenty minutes. My time is running out. A wreck on the highway held me up and I went apeshit, driving over the median and giving my stolen car a flat in the process. I barely made it to this crappy little town and to this chick’s house.

  But I did.

  That’s all that matters.

  I’m going to snag her and get the hell out of here.

  That creep won’t hurt my family.

  Problem is, I’ve never done this before. Stealing someone. I didn’t expect the girl to be so…compliant.

  And weird.

  Whatever, I’ll gag her and tie her up just like I said if I have to. I’ll do anything to save Lindsay and Cala.

  “Is it sunny where we’re going, outlaw?” she asks, scrunching her pert nose up and cocking her head to the side.

  I don’t know what dimension in hell I’ve stepped into, but I’m so fucking over it already.

  “California. We’re going to LA.”

  She gasps and picks up her dog. “We’re getting out of Kansas, Toto. Our Hollywood dreams are just around the corner.” She winks at me as though we’re sharing an inside joke.

  The bird clock on the wall squawks, alerting me we have fifteen minutes until I make that call.

  “Pack, now,” I snap. “Make it quick. Do you have a car?”

  She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Oh, no. Gig’s up, mister. We are not taking my momma’s Cadillac. A cab will do.”

  I rake my gaze down her front and really take in her outfit. Her brown hair is in messy waves and her face is pale, accentuating her big brown eyes. But it’s her hideous baby blue spandex nightmare she’s wearing that has me faltering.

  “You can’t wear a swimsuit. Eh, change that shit.”

  Her mouth pops open. “It’s my leotard and it’s—”

  “Enough!” I bark out, grabbing her by her tiny arm. “Come on.”

  I’m the bad guy here. She doesn’t seem to understand.

  She drags her feet as I haul her to the back of the house and into a bedroom. I release her and give her a little shove. “Make it happen. Two minutes.”

  Her brows furrow and she rubs her arm where I grabbed her. Instantly, I feel like a dick. This isn’t what I do. I steal, I don’t hurt. If Lindsay were here, she’d kick my ass for this. But she’s not here. She’s the whole reason I’m breaking my own rules. Frustrated with my entire situation, I run my fingers through my messy hair and point at her. “Please hurry.”

  “Well,” she huffs. “Since you asked nicely…”

  The girl prances around the room, yanking mismatched suitcases from the closet and under the bed. I don’t know what Mr. Death wants from this girl, but I can’t imagine why he’d want her. She’s a little fucking crazy.

  I watch her cram all kinds of clothes and random weird shit into the suitcases. When the two minutes are up, I start grabbing suitcases up and hauling them through her small house and into her garage.

  The car is old.

  Really old.

  Like 1985 Cadillac Biarritz Eldorado old.

  Hopefully I can get it started and we can use it until I can ditch it to find something better. It’s unlocked, so I reach inside and pop the trunk. I toss in some bags and then head back inside to get this bargaining chip of mine. When I see some rope hanging from the garage wall, I snag it and throw that in the truck. Just in case.

  Nine minutes left.

  “Mr. Bing!” she cries out from her bedroom.

  I jolt as fear races down my spine. She’s nuttier than a squirrel on an acorn farm. I’d even thought maybe a bit slow. If she’s calling for help, I’m fucked. When I round the corner, I find her with her back to me holding up two different nightgowns. The dumb dog is yapping at the red, silky number and squirrel girl is arguing her case over how practical the floral print flannel one is.

  Yo
u have got to be fucking kidding me.

  “Pack them both,” I bark out. She did not name her dog after Chandler Bing. Jesus. “Let’s go. The caddy is packed. Where are the keys?”

  Her mouth drops. “No! I told you we can’t take my momma’s car! It’s a classic!”

  “It’s a piece of junk,” I argue, flinging my arms in the air. “It’ll probably barely make it out of the driveway.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she screeches. “Miss Russet does not take kindly to being called junk—”

  Six minutes.

  To hell with playing nice.

  I pounce on her and pull her tiny, wiggling spandex covered body against my chest. With my hand slapped across her flappy lips so she’ll shut up, I bring my mouth to her ear so she doesn’t misunderstand a word. Her body stills, but she’s breathing heavily. Little Ross or Joey or whatever the fuck his name was is yapping endlessly at our feet.

  “I need you in that car when I make that call. Do you understand?”

  She nods, so I peel my hand from her mouth. “I’m totally not into this anymore. I had a quiet night planned with Richard and then you came in here wanting to play your freaky sex games because my seventy-year-old BFF’s twin put you up to this, but game’s over, buddy. I’m tired and I’m hungry. And Richard awaits.”

  Who the fuck is Richard?

  If it’s a boyfriend and he’s on his way, I’m screwed.

  “This isn’t some game,” I growl. I hate having to do this, but she won’t shut up. Dragging her now flailing body over to her dresser, I fumble around in her drawers until I find some scarves. First things first, I shove one into her big mouth. Then, I set to tying her wrists behind her back with another. “Let’s go.”

  She hollers and argues behind her scarf, refusing to move. I hoist her little ass up over my shoulder and carry her out like I would my damn niece. When she moves so much she nearly squirms out of my arms, I swat her nearly bare ass in her leotard to make her behave. As we pass through the kitchen, I see a burgundy rabbit’s foot keychain with a Cadillac key hanging from a peg by the garage door.

  Bingo.

  I snag it and toss my captive into the back seat. Her little doggie friend yaps at my feet and I shove him away with my foot so I don’t squash his scrawny ass in the door. She screams through her scarf the moment the door closes. I fold myself into the front seat, closing the door before the dog can get in, and push the key into the ignition.

  When I catch her eyes in the mirror, I flinch. She’s fucking crying. I don’t do crying.

  I have two minutes to call this fucker.

  “What?” I roar as I start the ignition.

  “Mydogff,” she says around the scarf, followed by the saddest damn sob.

  Reaching back, I tug the scarf from her mouth. “What?”

  “Please. I need Chandler. Don’t forget his dog food. It’s by the refrigerator. And my tape! I need my tape! It’s in the VCR. Please, mister, I’ll behave. Just grab those things.”

  My head is throbbing, but a compliant captive is the kind of captive I need to get all the way across the damn country and not get hauled in by the cops.

  “Fine,” I bark out as I fling the door open.

  Chandler bounces into the car, yapping the whole time, and I stride into the house, grabbing all this shit. I’m just popping out the video tape when the bird clock chirps. It’s time. I tuck the bag of dog food under my arm and shove the tape into the back of my jeans. On the way back to the car, I dial the number.

  “You have what I want?” Mr. Death asks in way of greeting.

  I toss the items into the back seat and growl as I slam the door shut. “Is my family okay?”

  “We’re not answering questions with questions, Luca. Put her on the phone.”

  Oh, this asshole’s going to regret that.

  I climb into the front seat and twist around, putting the phone on speaker. “Mr. Death requests to speak to you.”

  She cocks her head in confusion. “So we’re still going with this whole outlaw gig?”

  Mr. Death chuckles, deep and sinister. “Francis Connor?”

  “That’s me. In the flesh. Are you the boss of this roleplay company? Because if you are, I’d like to file a complaint. I’m pretty sure when Beatrice or Mabel set this up, they didn’t realize I’d be manhandled so roughly.” She turns her scathing glare my way. “I bruise easily. Don’t I, Mr. Bing?” The dumb dog yaps in agreement. “Mr. Death? Mr. Death? Did we get disconnected? What’s the safe word? No one told me what the safe word was!”

  “Two hours,” Mr. Death growls.

  “Two hours? What kind of safe word is two hours? Technically, that’s two words. I think a better safe word would be onomatopoeia.”

  Onomoatawhat?

  “Call me in two hours. Philly. If not, they die.”

  Click.

  “Ugh,” Francis groans. “What a rude dude! He’s even ruder than you.”

  Ignoring her, I push the button to lift the garage door up and start backing this big, burgundy boat of a car out of the garage. She yammers behind me, making my head throb, but I stay focused.

  Two hours.

  I set a timer on my phone as I pull onto the road. She grows quiet and I meet her stare in the mirror.

  Damn if I don’t feel like a big dick.

  “I can’t believe I packed for my own kidnapping.” She lets out a crazed laugh. “I mean, I’m for an adventure and all, but this is something like what that heroine from my book would do.” She leans forward between the seats. “She makes terrible decisions.” Then she whispers something about beating a hoo-haw. “Why? Because the guy is hot. Women,” she grumbles.

  I ignore her and plug in Philadelphia in my GPS app on my burner phone. She’s quiet for all of three minutes.

  “What’s your name, Mr. Kidnapper?”

  Rolling my eyes, I sigh. “Thorman Iron.”

  She snorts and I can’t help but smirk. “Thorman Iron. That’s the oddest name I’ve ever heard.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I narrow my eyes. “My friends call me Thor.”

  Her cackle fills the car and her little black, mouthy monster starts barking along with her like they’re sharing a joke. “Thor? Seriously?”

  She yammers on some more, but I tune her out as I try to figure out who this Mr. Death is and why he wants her. It’s all too weird. I mean, why would anyone want this thing that’s in the backseat and— “Oh, God, what are you doing?” I snarl.

  Her legs are squirming their way into the front and I get an eyeful of her leotarded ass. She slides into the seat beside me and then wiggles her free hands at me, wickedness gleaming in her brown eyes. “Look, magic.”

  “Noted. Tie you up better next time.”

  Chandler bounces into the front seat and takes to running around like a fucking lunatic.

  “Keep your beast on your side of the car or he’ll be walking home alone,” I warn, glowering at them both.

  Chandler cowers and Francis gapes at me.

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  “I’m a villain,” I deadpan.

  She purses her lips. “I used to think the villains were hot in my books. But not now, Thor. Not now. Villains are so last year. I’m a hero girl now. In fact, you should change your dumb name to Mr. Grumpy Kidnapper. Right, Mr. Bing? He’s super mean.”

  The dog yaps. I rub at my temple as I look down at the dash. We have enough gas to get us to the state border, but then I’ll need to fill up. We’ll make it in time to call him back. I just hope I don’t kill this chatterbox and her sidekick first.

  “I need money,” I tell her as I put the car into park under an awning beside the sole gas tank just outside a run-down convenience store. We crossed the Delaware River into Pennsylvania a short bit ago, but we still have to travel I-95 for another half hour or so until we reach our destination.

  She rubs away the sleep from her eyes and blinks at me in confusion. “What money?”

  “Your money.�
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  A giggle escapes her and she scratches her dog behind the ear. His blue collar with a silver heart jangles as though it has a bell inside. “He’s a wise guy,” she tells the dog.

  “Francis,” I snap. “Stop with the crazy shit. I need to fill up the tank. We have to be in Philly and we don’t have time for this. You heard Mr. Death.”

  Her brow lifts and she shrugs. “Someone rushed me and I didn’t get to grab my purse.”

  Fuck.

  I scrub my palm down my face. The cop took my wallet and the Rossi mob took everything I stole at the casino. The rest of my stash is hidden away in a locker that I didn’t have time to grab. I’m penniless.

  Glancing into the store, I let out a sigh. “Stay here.”

  She starts to argue, but I slam the door shut, ending her chattering. I stroll into the dinky store and nod my head in greeting to the old lady chain smoking at the register.

  And so the con begins.

  Glancing at her nametag, I quickly grab her name and flash her my All-American boy smile. “Velma?”

  She stubs out her half-smoked cigarette and blows out a plume of smoke. “Who’s asking?”

  “Thorman. Thorman Iron. You remember me, right?”

  Her nostrils flare. “I’ve never seen you before. What can I help you with?”

  “You know my grandma,” I insist as I approach, my smile widening. “Edna.” Before she can argue, I start smooth talking. “I was coming back to visit. She’s real sick. Did you know that? Of course you do.” I let my smile fall and adopt a sad look. “They say she’s only got days left. You should pay her a visit.”

  “Son, I don’t know—”

  “She misses you, Velma. I heard so many stories about the two of you.” I feign a shy look. “Which is why I need a favor. My girlfriend and I are driving through the night. I dropped my wallet at the last restaurant we were at and—”