Read Online Holding On To You by Anne-Marie Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne-Marie Hart
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shower, a coffee, something to eat, a clean bathroom, and somewhere to rest. With those things she might even feel a little bit more inclined to 'get along' with her captor, as he so eloquently put it.
As the car rolls along, and the motown changes into country, and then to rock and roll, Maddy thinks about her office. She knows it'll have crumbled into a state of chaotic disorganisation in the short time she's been away, but she wonders whether anyone will be wondering where she's got to. In short, she wonders whether anyone cares. The weird thing is, the crazy, stupid, fucked up thing, is that the man that's taken her hostage and stolen her company's money, is the man who probably cares more about her than anyone else in the world, even if it's only to ensure his own survival. He's probably the closest thing she's had to a friend since, well, for as long as she can remember. Perhaps its best if she does try and get along with him, it might make him less inclined to kill her. Maddy wishes it could be as easy as that though. She's been trying to get along with people for her whole life, but has never been able to do it right.
It's a good job Maddy doesn't know how her colleagues are reacting to the news of her kidnapping, because if she did, it would only make her cry again.
Chapter 7
There are faded Christmas decorations that run along the back wall, perhaps too high up for the large lady on reception to take down without calling for help, so she's never bothered. Either that, or every time she remembers she has to do it, it's already July, and they are closer again to Christmas than they are away from it. Reindeer pull Santas, and sleighs move along stacked full of presents. Peeling snowmen look sad and forgotten.
'You can't smoke in here, it's against the regulations', the woman says without taking her eyes off the badly dubbed martial arts film showing on her box television. Without River asking for it, she puts an ashtray on the counter for him to stub his cigarette out in, slurps a decent swallow of gin and tonic through a curly plastic straw buried in a polka dot designed glass, pauses her film, sighs heavily and turns around to look at him. Thick glasses and heavy eye-liner compose a face that sits on top of a wobbly neck, like a rock on top of cow dung, frozen solid over a harsh winter. It's not the best look River has ever seen.
'You know it's a long way to Christmas', River says.
The woman lowers her glasses and gives him the once over.
'You're much more attractive than anyone we usually get in here', she says. 'I'll let you put the star on the top of the tree if you fancy staying that long.'
'I reckon that'd be very nice', River says. 'Just so long as the gin doesn't run out.'
'I can't promise that', the woman says, and delivers herself another good swallow, trapped air bubbling in both the bottom of her glass and the bottom of her stomach. 'How long are you looking to stay?'
'Well that all depends on the quality of the furnishings', River says.
'It's the best in America', the receptionist says, 'didn't you see the sign outside. We've had all sorts of famous people staying here. Movie stars, rock stars, rock climbers, social climbers, even ex-American presidents.'
'Wow', River says, 'is that so?'
'It sure is', the receptionist says, and giggles at her own joke. 'Mostly we just get layabouts, downbeats and criminals, and then very rarely we get the good looking, well behaved ones, you know, the ones that you wish would stay, perhaps even if it was only during the Christmas period.'
She hands him over a key.
'It's thirty five dollars a night, tax included, paid in advance. You just pay me in the morning if you want to stay another night, although something tells me I might not ever see you again after today. That's kind of the way it works isn't it?'
'That's for the penthouse suite right?' River says. 'The one where all the celebrities stay?'
'I've had celebrities in all of the rooms, so
As the car rolls along, and the motown changes into country, and then to rock and roll, Maddy thinks about her office. She knows it'll have crumbled into a state of chaotic disorganisation in the short time she's been away, but she wonders whether anyone will be wondering where she's got to. In short, she wonders whether anyone cares. The weird thing is, the crazy, stupid, fucked up thing, is that the man that's taken her hostage and stolen her company's money, is the man who probably cares more about her than anyone else in the world, even if it's only to ensure his own survival. He's probably the closest thing she's had to a friend since, well, for as long as she can remember. Perhaps its best if she does try and get along with him, it might make him less inclined to kill her. Maddy wishes it could be as easy as that though. She's been trying to get along with people for her whole life, but has never been able to do it right.
It's a good job Maddy doesn't know how her colleagues are reacting to the news of her kidnapping, because if she did, it would only make her cry again.
Chapter 7
There are faded Christmas decorations that run along the back wall, perhaps too high up for the large lady on reception to take down without calling for help, so she's never bothered. Either that, or every time she remembers she has to do it, it's already July, and they are closer again to Christmas than they are away from it. Reindeer pull Santas, and sleighs move along stacked full of presents. Peeling snowmen look sad and forgotten.
'You can't smoke in here, it's against the regulations', the woman says without taking her eyes off the badly dubbed martial arts film showing on her box television. Without River asking for it, she puts an ashtray on the counter for him to stub his cigarette out in, slurps a decent swallow of gin and tonic through a curly plastic straw buried in a polka dot designed glass, pauses her film, sighs heavily and turns around to look at him. Thick glasses and heavy eye-liner compose a face that sits on top of a wobbly neck, like a rock on top of cow dung, frozen solid over a harsh winter. It's not the best look River has ever seen.
'You know it's a long way to Christmas', River says.
The woman lowers her glasses and gives him the once over.
'You're much more attractive than anyone we usually get in here', she says. 'I'll let you put the star on the top of the tree if you fancy staying that long.'
'I reckon that'd be very nice', River says. 'Just so long as the gin doesn't run out.'
'I can't promise that', the woman says, and delivers herself another good swallow, trapped air bubbling in both the bottom of her glass and the bottom of her stomach. 'How long are you looking to stay?'
'Well that all depends on the quality of the furnishings', River says.
'It's the best in America', the receptionist says, 'didn't you see the sign outside. We've had all sorts of famous people staying here. Movie stars, rock stars, rock climbers, social climbers, even ex-American presidents.'
'Wow', River says, 'is that so?'
'It sure is', the receptionist says, and giggles at her own joke. 'Mostly we just get layabouts, downbeats and criminals, and then very rarely we get the good looking, well behaved ones, you know, the ones that you wish would stay, perhaps even if it was only during the Christmas period.'
She hands him over a key.
'It's thirty five dollars a night, tax included, paid in advance. You just pay me in the morning if you want to stay another night, although something tells me I might not ever see you again after today. That's kind of the way it works isn't it?'
'That's for the penthouse suite right?' River says. 'The one where all the celebrities stay?'
'I've had celebrities in all of the rooms, so
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