Nicky's POV
So, my decision to punch Ryder was a great decision at the time, but ultimately not the best thing I could have done.
For instance, I could have come up with a witty retort. I could have glared lasers through his head until it exploded (wishful thinking, I know), I could have been quiet and instead mentally gone over stabbing his eyes out, or I could have just been the bigger person by saying and doing nothing at all.
Yeah, that last option wasn't even an option for me. I have to have the last word . . . or in this case, action.
Unfortunately, I now can't decide if I prefer being handcuffed to the bed, or to the chair he's now cuffed me to.
Let's go over pros and cons.
Pros of being handcuffed to the bed. Comfort. Privacy since I'm in my own room. I don't have to change out of my pajamas.
Cons of being handcuffed to the bed. No mobility. I'm handcuffed to a bed. Boredom will approach fast. Humiliation.
Pros of being handcuffed to the chair. I do have mobility so long as I drag the chair around with me. I have an instant place to sit when I wish to, and that's about it.
Cons of being handcuffed to the chair. No privacy. I'm stuck downstairs unless I feel like lugging the chair back upstairs with me. I have to drag the chair wherever I wish to go. I'm handcuffed to a chair. Humiliation.
Either way, I don't like either option and the only option I prefer is no handcuffs. At least, so long as they're not on me.
I'd really love to handcuff Ryder to the ceiling fan and watching it spin round and round though, impractical as it may be.
"Uh-oh. You're thinking again." I turn to look at Ryder. He points to my head. "I can see the smoke. Plus, I smelled something burning."
I shoot him a glare and move my chair over to the front window and stare outside, my back to him. I hear him let out a chuckle.
"You're supposed to be protecting me," I tell him. "In case that fact somehow slipped your warped mind."
"I am."
"Protecting someone does not include, kidnapping, handcuffing, holding someone against their will-"
"That's basically the same thing as kidnapping."
"-threatening, assaulting-"
"Ok, I'm going to stop you right there," He cuts me off. "I did not assault you. And I am protecting you. It's not my fault you're the most incompetent civilian I've ever had the misfortune of protecting."
I feel my anger flare up again when he calls me incompetent. I'm way smarter than he'll ever be. "I am not-"
"Now, if you actually choose to cooperate, then this would be much more pleasant for you, not for me though since I'll still be stuck protecting you," He continues on, ignoring my interruption.
"If this is so unpleasant for you, why don't you just uncuff me and let me on my merry way."
He gives me a tight smile. "I'd love nothing more. Unfortunately for me and you, I take my job very seriously and my job right now is to protect you and not let you out of my sight."
"Well, you've already failed at that last part." I imagine he's glaring at me from behind his sunglasses, but I really don't know. His jaw clenches up though. "Twice," I add.
"Are you looking to get shot?"
"More threats," I mutter and turn my attention back to the window. I push the curtain to the side just enough for me to see out.
I watch cars drive up and down the street. The neighborhood's nice. The houses are evenly spaced apart from each other with trees in the front yards and nice lawns. From what I can see of the neighborhood, it's rather nice, and really not what an FBI safe house would entail.
"What is this place really?" I question, not bothering to turn my attention to Ryder behind me. I just continue to stare out the window.
"What?"
"This is not an FBI safe house," I state, still staring out the window. "First of all, it's too nice-"
He laughs. "That's what you're basing your assumptions off of?"
I turn to glare at him before looking back out the window. "Second, it has more updated security measures than about eighty percent of FBI safe houses."
"And how would you know that?"
"There's a fingerprint scanner on the door lock." I wave my hand at it. "Plus, FBI safe houses usually just have the basic necessities. This house is entirely color coordinated and styled."
"Well good for you for being so damn observant," He says sarcastically.
I wouldn't still be alive if I wasn't.
I don't tell him this though and instead, I just shrug, keeping my back to him. I watch as another car drives down the street.
"Uh, Agent Stevenson?" No way I'm calling him Ryder to his face. Asshole, maybe. Ryder, no.
"What now?"
"Did anyone see you when you kidnapped me from the motel?"
"I did not kidnap you, stop twisting things around. Also, it was Agent North who retrieved you."
"Well did anyone see him when he 'retrieved' me?" I use my hands to make air quotes.
"He's careful."
"Well is there a chance someone saw him anyway?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"What would you say is the percentage of the chance that someone saw him?"
"Percentage? Who talks like that?"
I roll my eyes even though he can't see it. "Fine, then what's the probability?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know? And how is that better than asking for the percentage?"
I shake my head. "You're useless."
"Why are you asking anyway?" He questions, ignoring my previous comment.
"The same car's driven by three times now."
I turn and see him wave off my concern. "There are a couple other FBI agents watching the house. They drive by every couple of minutes. Nothing to worry about."
"Yes, I know," I tell him. "The other FBI agents are in the white pickup truck that keeps driving by every 3.4 minutes, and the blue van that drives by roughly every 2.7 minutes," I notice Ryder's looking at me like I'm crazy. "But I wasn't talking about them. I was talking about the black Hummer that's driven by three times now and about to drive by again."
Ryder, who was sitting at the dining table with his feet up on it, jumps up from his seat and quickly moves to stand next to me and stares out the window.
"How did you pick out the other agents?" He asks me as he removes his sunglasses and slips them into his pocket. His gaze never strays from the window.
I don't answer him. Mainly because I don't know how without implicating myself. One of the first things I was taught was how to pick a uniform out of a crowd of people, and then identify exactly what kind of uniform they are.
When it becomes apparent to him that I'm not going to reply, he asks another question. "How long would you say until the Hummer-"
"About seven seconds." I interrupt. He raises his eyebrows at me and then stares back out the window.
True to my word the Hummer cruises down the street at a pace that wouldn't entirely be considered slow, so likely wouldn't be noticed. But it also only drives down between the times the other FBI vehicles drive by.
Ryder lets out a string of curses and it's almost like a switch has been flipped inside him. His expression is serious, and the mischievous look that usually glows in his eyes has hardened. He's tense and alert and completely in control. And he almost makes me feel safe in his presence now.
Almost. I still want to strap him to the ceiling fan though.
He reaches over without a word and unlocks the cuff on my wrist. He pulls me to my feet and pushes me away from the window and further into the house.
"I'm going to make a call," He says as he pulls his cellphone from his pocket. "You start packing a couple of bags. One with food and one with clothes. I'll take care of whatever I need, other than the food, so don't bother with my stuff."
"Wasn't going to." He shoots me a flat look.
He dials a number on his phone and puts it to his ear. "What can you tell me about the black Hummer that keeps driving by the house? . . . What do you mean you haven't seen it? It's been driving by right behind you."
I tune out the rest of the conversation and move quickly up the stairs. I grab a duffle bag that was stashed in the closet and start to fill it with the clothes that were picked out for me. The awful pairs of khaki shorts, and countless Hawaiian shirts.
First chance I get, I'm burning this bag and buying myself better clothing choices.
I rush back downstairs and start filling grocery bags with food. I can still hear Ryder on the phone with another FBI agent, and he sounds stressed.
I hear his footsteps as he pounds up the stairs and moments later he's back with a duffle bag of his own and my backpack.
I narrow my eyes at him and he rolls his. "Yes, I knew where your damn backpack was the whole time, and no, I had no intentions of giving it back to you. Now that we've got that settled, there's a car in the garage. Start loading it up."
I continue to glare at him. He rolls his eyes again. "If it'll make you feel better, you can yell at me later, but right now we need to leave."
"I take it I was right about the Hummer then?" I question even though I already knew I was.
"Yes, you were," He says. "And you and I are going to have a long discussion about who's after you, and what exactly you saw."
I didn't see anything I wasn't supposed to. I saw everything, and I was allowed to. They trusted me with all of it. Plus, it wasn't as if there was anything they could have hidden from me anyway. Ryder does not need to know any of this though.
"I didn't see anything," I tell him.
"Bullshit. That Hummer proves otherwise."
I glare at him as I follow him out to the garage and throw my bag and the bags of food into the back of an SUV.
"Well, this doesn't scream government agent at all," I mutter sarcastically.
It's Ryder's turn to glare at me. "Just get in the damn car."
I shoot him a look before climbing into the passenger seat and Ryder gets behind the wheel. He starts to press the button to open the garage door but I stop him.
"Wait until the Hummer passes again."
He gives me an incredulous look. "How the hell am I supposed to know when it passes again?"
"Just give it a minute."
He turns in his seat to face me. "How do you know when it's going to pass?"
"It passes by between the times the other FBI vehicles pass by."
"Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Your sarcasm isn't appreciated."
"My sarcasm isn't appreciated?"
I ignore him and stare at the watch on my wrist. I turn to him after a few moments. "You can go now."
"Gee, thanks," He mutters. "Anything else, your majesty?"
I glare at him as he pulls out onto the street and begins driving in the opposite direction the Hummer usually drives down.
I watch the scenery pass and feel my eyes begin to narrow. I turn back toward him. "This is not Hawaii," I tell him.
"Been there many times, have you?"
"Where are we?"
He slides those stupid mirrored sunglasses back over his eyes, covering up his expression. I think that's mostly the reason I hate those sunglasses. I'm not very good at reading people, but Ryder doesn't hide his emotions. Or at least, he keeps his emotions from showing on his face, but they're always shining in his eyes. But I can never tell what he's thinking when he puts those sunglasses on.
And I need to be able to tell how close he is to shooting me. That's vital to my future survival.
"Miami," He says.
"Why?"
He shrugs.
"Ok fine. Where are we going now?"
He shrugs again.
"You're useless."
"So you've said, but given time, I think you'll change your mind."
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