7
Rushing out of the house, I brush the dust off of my clothes and carefully hang my bag on my shoulder. After James unwisely decided to tell me what to do, I made a little trip to the garage for a few supplies that might come in handy if he bothers me too much.
I weave through the garden of flowers and fancy fountains and all that 'posh' crap that you would stereotypically expect to find in a British millionaire's front yard. You know, shaped bushes and trees, marble statues, ponds, a money tree.... You know, that kind of thing.
Finally reaching the end of the path, I slide onto the smooth leather back seat of the brand new, expensive car waiting outside of the house. Of course, there is a complementary bottle of French champagne sitting on the little table with 2 champagne flutes.
Reaching beside me, I discreetly adjust my bag so as not to disturb the contents of it. I look beside me and I can see James finishing up a phone call and turns off his phone and rotates slightly to face me with a big grin on his face.
"So, James," I say sweetly with a smile. "Would you care to tell me what just happened inside?"
His smile falters just the tiniest bit and then returns full force.
"Whatever do you mean, London?" He asks innocently. "I was simply informing you of what time you should be outside, before the car left without you."
Opening my mouth to come back with an amazingly sarcastic comment, I am cut off by a scream coming from outside. James and I both turn, startled, to look out the window, and see Ash running down the path with one arm in his jacket, hanging loosely off his shoulder, and the other sleeve flopping around the ground near his untied shoelaces as he rushes to stop us.
"WAIT FOR ME!!!"
Turning to each other in alarm and desperation James and I both scream at the driver.
"GO GO GO GO GO!!!"
The car roars to life and we are thrown against the backs of the seat as the wheels screech and desperately try to roll away from the advancing lunatic. We both watch out the back window as Ash falls off of the curb and trips over his laces, face planting and eating concrete.
Sitting back, James and I sigh in relief as we turn the corner and leave any possibility of dragging Ash along far behind and spread eagled in the middle of the road.
Turning to face him once more, I give James the evil eye.
"I know lots of people, James. I have spent lots of time with them, and not once have they ever told me what to do. And do you know why that is?"
Gulping, he nervously shakes his head.
"Because they know that if they do, I will do something so bad they will wish someone cut their tongue out when they were a baby just to avoid them saying that very comment that would cause me to do to that bad thing."
Snorting, he crosses his arms.
"And what is a small little weakling like you going to do to a big, strong, solid piece of man like me?"
This could be fun. His ego can't get any bigger than it is now, so I might as well play along.
"Ummm..." I pretend to think, acting uncertain. James's smile seems to grow even more and he raises his eyebrow in mock encouragement.
"I will dress you as a lettuce and feed you to snails...?"
Any worry he might have had disappears and he leans back in the seat, slouching down in a vulnerable position. After all, he has nothing to fear from me.
"Too amusing to be a serious insult or threat. Good joke though," he mockingly advises.
Let's try this again.
"I will rip your large intestine out your mouth, your small intestine out your butt and use you as a skipping rope."
Sinking deeper into his seat, he smirks, clearly pleased with himself.
"Better," he says, "but you need to put some more force behind the words, really make them count." Getting really into his speech now, he begins waving his arms around. "Make your threats as elaborate, as utterly random and unbelievable as possible. The more the threatee thinks it is impossible, the more they will believe you are capable of making it happen, resulting in their fear and respect for you, and of course, it could always just make them think you are insane."
In the middle of one particularly violent arm swing, he knocks one of the champagne flutes onto the car floor and ignores it. Apparently finished, he folds his arms across his chest confidently and turns to look at me once more, challenging me with his eyes to try it.
I watch the glass roll back and forth across the floor as the vehicle swerves and turns corners.
Hmmm... He doesn't think I can do it. I think I can. Should I let him think I am weak? Or should I prove I'm awesome? What to do, what to do, what to do.... I think I should show him what's what.
Clearing my throat, I let the metaphorical barricade fall and let the words tumble out in a burst of randomness and awesomeness, heading straight for his overly confident face.
"You think I need threat lessons from a bumbling primitive sack of schnitzel like you? You do realize that that counts as telling me what to do, right? Why the freaking frick did you freaking tell me what to do, you little insignificant piece of tomato in a 10 gallon jar of salsa? I'm never told what to do. I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 3000 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare as well as beaver wrestling, and I'm the top sniper in the entire Canadian armed forces. You are nothing to me but another target. I will wipe you the frick out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my top-of-the-line-award-winning-fear-inducing-freaking words. You think you can get away with saying that complete and utter bolivian bullocks to me? Think again, sucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the globe and your personal information is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're freaking dead, mister. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred different ways, and that's just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the US Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable derrière off the face of the continent, you little shiitake mushroom. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your freaking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you clueless idiot. I will defecate fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're officially dead, Mr. I'm-a-freaking-butt-rag- James Dashwood."
That should do it.
Swiveling in my seat, I rotate to look out the window with a triumphant smirk on my face, ignoring the fact that James had just shot straight up in his seat and is now staring at me in shock with his mouth wide open.
Without turning around, I say, "Close your mouth. It doesn't do anything except make your already ugly face look even uglier."
Through the reflection in the window, I can see his mouth snap shut, his teeth clacking together as they connect, a fire in his eyes flaring as his anger registers. He'll make me pay for that comment later. At least, he'll try. He won't get past the amazingness just waiting to happen that just happens to be sitting in the bottom of my bag.
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Finally we can get on this floating piece of driftwood that will take us to France. Looking at the pebbles rolling around on the pavement in the parking lot, I keep my head down as James puts his arm inconspicuously around my shoulder and pretending to nuzzle my neck while actually giving me instructions.
The reason we are so close together is because Liam seemed to think that it would be easier to stay undercover if we pretended to be a couple. Personally I don't think it would make a difference, but hey, who am I to argue if Uncle Liam is purposely trying to get James and I to get along better. I mean, it's not like it affects me or anything.
"London, just remember that some bad people know about this mission, and that we are on our way to collect something very valuable and essential to the outcome. Just keep your eyes open and be aware of certain people keeping their eyes on you. I know it must be hard, being you, but just try to act normally. Got it, Pumpkin?" He whispers in my ear.
I nod and he continues with the stupid act that we are a couple (which I was totally against... by the way), by planting a soft kiss on my temple and sliding his arm down my back to settle around my waist.
Walking up the creaky, wooden ramp and onto the ferry, I keep my eyes on the rippling water, imagining what it would feel like to stand on the cold metal railing and jump into the blue-green liquid below, to cool the warm tendrils of fire and sparks traveling through James's fingertips to my hip where they rest, entering the skin and branching out and warming my entire body.
In a small wave, I see the distorted face of a stocky man standing a few feet behind me. My eyes follow the picture along the side of the ramp, until the foaming water crashes against the dock, smashing the reflection of the man into a million tiny bubbles floating at the top of the water.
Turning my head, I see the man leaning against a pole, watching me intently with his cold, ice-blue eyes and a hard stare that seems to take in the picture of James and I and tear it into a thousand broken pieces and analyze every piece of our tattered image.
With the fogginess filling my head from the sensation of James's body pressed against the side of mine, everything but him seems clouded and insignificant, the only thing I can do is force the image of the creepy man from my head and concentrate on the weight of James's hand resting on my hip.
Letting myself be pulled along and up the remaining stretch of the ramp, I stumble a bit, clumsily bumping into James's shoulder and enjoying the tingles that flood to that area of my arm, and my last thought before being pulled through the entrance to the boat is:
These feelings are just a side effect of extreme hatred for that overly confident, cocky, arrogant, unfairly attractive, British prick.
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A/N
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BOOK OF THE DAY: I Sold Myself to the Devil for Vinyls... Pitiful I Know
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