They had this awesome buffet thing going on – English muffins, with pancakes and syrup, and some eggy stuff. I grabbed a plate and loaded it with yumminess – this why I heart buffets so much. You can never finish.
I shoved some French toast in my mouth, chewing and swallowing as quickly as I could. Josh was watching me distastefully, nibbling at his strawberry. God, he was such a girl.
“What’s your Dad’s number?” he finally asked, his eyes following the spoon that was going rapidly from my mouth to my bowl of yummy cereal. “I should make the call soon.”
I almost choked on the chocolatey cereal (everything is better chocolated. You know, bread stick things, donuts, bread). Damn. Should I give it to him? I’d slept on it, but the whole prospect of returning home was just…bleurgh. I really didn’t want to leave so soon. I was actually having fun.
Trying to figure out what to say, I stared into the distance. Then my eyes focused.
“Josh, we have to leave right now. Do you have all our stuff?”
He frowned, and tapped his pockets.
“My clothes are upstairs, but my wallet and…weapon is with me.” Weapon? Oh right, gun.
“Leave them,” I whispered. “We have to leave now.”
“Behind you, there is a man. Don’t look!” I hissed, when he semi-turned around.
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s reading the newspaper.”
“Does he secretly have a bomb or something?”
I looked at him, disbelievingly.
“You’re not being serious now, are you?”
He looked at me, his face completely straight.
“Can’t you tell?”
I shook my head, semi-smiling.
“No, he hasn't got a bomb. It’s the newspaper.”
“Is that a secret bomb?”
“No. It’s the picture on the newspaper.
“Is it a picture of a bomb?”
“No – What is up with you and bombs?”
He smirked that smirk that was somehow cute, sweet, boyish yet cocky at the same time. Damn, my heart was beating twice as fast now.
“It’s a guy thing.”
“Sure. No, it’s not a picture of a bomb. It’s a picture of me.”
“What?!” he hissed, his smile gone. He spun around, to glance at the paper, and I knew he saw the front cover – a Photoshopped picture of me at my birthday party, eating cake. There was the message, printed in dark black boldly:
Young Heiress, London is Missing
Oh my God. Dad worked fast. He’s bought them into printing that on every front page – it gave him the image of a caring father. He must have thought it would help his ego or something. No way did he actually care in real life.
“What do we do?” Josh hissed. We?
He nodded in mutual agreement, and I hid my face by pressing it into his jacket. Josh ran his fingers through my already messed-up hair (we didn’t have a hairbrush, okay?), I’m guessing to make me look different from the photo or something. There was practically no need – when that photo was taken, I had short, cropped hair, and make-up on. And trust me, my make-up artists are REALLY good. Maybe that’s another thing that increased my dad’s whole ego – he had the “perfect” pretty daughter. Damn him.