Caught for Christmas (Stripped 3.50)

And yarn.

I pull out the dark red yarn, already half-formed into a hat. Actually, it would make a lovely Christmas gift for West—and I wonder if I’d been subconsciously making it for him all along. The rich color would look beautiful against his dark skin.

Then I think about the soft strands wrapped around him, like tied around his wrists, and I realize I can make something else with this yarn. It only takes a few minutes to undo the work I’ve done so far, and then I start on something better, something darker—a thick braided rope.

When it’s finished it will still be soft, but it will also be strong.

I’m deep in my work, fingers working nimbly when I hear the knock. I freeze.

Carefully, as if it might break, I set the needles and yarn down on a table. My heart pounds when I spot Jeb through the peephole. I don’t open the door.

He knows I’m there anyway. “Bee? Open up, sweetheart.”

I dial West on the mobile phone he gave me, but there’s no answer. I text him, Jeb is here.

I’m protected against someone storming the castle walls. What West didn’t count on is that Jeb wouldn’t try to hide. What West didn’t count on is that my own heart would want to betray him, a little girl who’s overjoyed that her daddy didn’t leave her after all.

He’ll have a good reason for what happened, my heart says. He’ll fix everything.

My heart lies.

I turn away from the door, turn away from him, but I’m still just two feet away. Close enough to hear what he has to say. I can’t deny that I’m curious. He’s my father. Shouldn’t he love me? Shouldn’t he care? Except he doesn’t, not if he put my life at risk.

“I know what happened at the club,” he continues, speaking a little louder than normal to be heard through the door. It makes me wonder if West’s neighbors can hear him, but I doubt it. These old buildings were built to withstand anything. “I’ll get you out of there.”

The way he says it, it’s as if he’s trying to rescue me. Instead it sounds like a threat.

A laugh escapes me that sounds more like a sob. I don’t think he could hear that through the door, but it doesn’t really matter. He’d rather hear himself talk than me anyway.

“That guy’s been keeping you in here for two days. We’ve been waiting for the chance to get you out. Open the door, Bee. Whatever he’s told you, whatever he’s done to you, it doesn’t matter now.”

That’s where he’s wrong. West told me I was worth something—worth loving, worth risking everything for. And he backed it up with his actions. He’s been nothing but kind to me. That matters. It means the world to me.

“Bee.” A pause, and I can picture the crestfallen look on his face. So practiced. “We can be a family again.”

I should have stayed silent. I planned to, when I saw him at the door. It’s too much though. I whirl and face the door, imagining it’s him. The wood might as well be nothing, because I can see him—in that casual but concerned slouch he’s affected. The perfect con, even for his daughter.

“We were never a family,” I say to the door.

“Open up, Bee,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice this time. I could almost believe he’s emotional over me, except I know better. It took me eighteen years to see my father for what he is. So if he’s not having a heart-wrenching moment with his only child, what made his voice waver?

And then I have my answer. I hear scuffling from the other side. I look through the peephole in time to see Jeb being grabbed by large hands.

“You had your chance to convince her,” says a man big enough to block out the screen. He’s up close—and he’s holding a gun to Jeb’s head. They’re both distorted, the middle made large, as if I’m in a dream. A nightmare. “Come out, come out, little girl. Your daddy wants to see you.”

There’s a metallic taste in my mo

uth, and I realize I’ve bit my tongue.

I’ve never seen the man before in my life, but it’s clear from the confident way he handles the gun, and the bulk of his body, that he means business. God, he brought these people here. He brought them here to take me as payment for his debt. I’m sick with it. I’m furious.

And I can’t let Jeb die right in front of me.

Even though he brought this danger to my door. Even though he risks my life at every turn. I see my father for what he is now, but I still can’t let him die. Even if it makes me soft and weak and a mark—everything I’ve been taught to look down upon—this is who I am. Someone who will disarm the alarm and open the locks, trading my own life for his.

“Don’t hurt him,” I say softly, opening the door.

This is the opposite of trading up, giving myself in exchange for him. The opposite of what my mother would do. And that’s how I know it’s right.