increasingly convinced I would have to get Farmington’s signature onto that paper by force. Alone, it was an impossible task.
But Posey could be the key. If I could convince her that it was in Farmington’s best interest to sign off on my thesis she’d be the perfect partner. We’d talked enough about how torn she was between being a poet and following in her brother’s footsteps as a bounty hunter that I knew she had the skills and gravitas I lacked. I went back to her house but she wasn’t there, so I went to a McDonald’s near campus that had free Wi-Fi.
Since I’d stopped paying rent, my landlord had become aggressive about hunting me down. He was an old Italian guy whose office was right next to the only entrance to the building and he was always there watching ‘80s action movies on VHS. He particularly favored the work of Sylvester Stallone and I’d been able to negotiate a pretty sweet deal on my rent by giving him my copy of Over the Top, in which Stallone plays a truck driver turned competitive arm wrestler; that was the missing piece in his collection. A few weeks ago, in what I assume was an attempt to rebuild our connection, he mentioned he was heading to Philadelphia for a Rocky tour. I took advantage of his absence, loading everything I could into my car and never looking back.
I spent most of my time in the university literary magazine office using their showers and comfortable couches to survive. My erratic hours and routine sleepovers made me look like a dedicated editorial professional rather than a landlord-dodging hobo. But after my encounter earlier on campus with Farmington I wasn’t in any mood to risk a repeat confrontation, hence the trip to McDonald’s to email Posey. She was always checking her email on her phone and this was something that didn’t seem well-suited to a text message. I waited several minutes without a reply before the employees began giving me looks that suggested I either order something or go on my way. I was leaving when Posey snuck up behind me.
“Coffee,” she said “Black. Then let’s talk about your idea.”
I TOLD Posey what I’d been up to during the first part of the day, from my conversation with Farmington at the library to my failed meeting with Titus. I told her I felt I had no other option than to kidnap Farmington and force him to sign the thesis approval form. When I was done, Posey kept her eyes focused on me without saying anything for several beats.
“My brother saw us once, you know, during…”
“I’m surprised Titus didn’t kill him,” I said.
“I don’t know. Just…after what you were talking about, with your plan—”
“A very poorly designed and barely executed plan.”
“You and I, we don’t have anything. So maybe you can just be a regular guy. Like a friend. And my brother can see I can be with a guy and not, you know—”
“Fuck him?”
“It’s exhausting. Every guy. Every teacher, every fucking person I make contact with I’ve got to worry about what Titus will think. I’ve got to plan ahead and plot and scheme. It’s just getting to be too much.”
I nodded in agreement and wondered if I had enough change in my pocket to get a McChicken sandwich.
“But this can be the end of it,” she continued. “And it can help all of us: you, me, even Parker. I’ve been floating for so long, and now, maybe with a little kidnapping and some life-changing discussions we can both anchor him down in our futures.”
I really didn’t want to think of a future with Farmington in it. And despite a few heartfelt moments, I still didn’t trust Posey or her motives and could only see disaster for both of us. But what other choice did I have? My academic career was on the verge of collapse and I was not cut out for professional office life. I’d been locked once before into a boring job with a pregnant fiancée, thinking I’d lost my chance to chase my dream before a miscarriage and a rotten economy set me free. I wasn’t going to waste this second chance.
So I slugged the rest of my coffee back, held out my hand for Posey and said, “I can’t even attempt a kidnapping without getting disoriented and tired, but if you help me we might be able to—”
“There’s this guy I want you to meet,” she said. “His name is Rickard. He’s a security guard at the school and has helped me out a few times with Titus and shares your distaste for Parker. Kind of creepy and intense, but he has access to places we might need in the future. He’s good with weapons and stuff and…well, he’s kind of sweet.”
I nodded and mentally planned my victory celebration.
“I just texted him,” she said. “But it’s probably best if I’m not here when you talk to him. He’s…he’s easily…he’s skittish around me.”
“Whatever,” I said.
Twenty minutes after Posey left, Rickard still hadn’t shown up so I figured I’d been had and left. I stopped at the bathroom on the way out and that’s the last thing I remembered before blacking out.
I WOKE up with my hands taped together and a ball gag in my mouth. The bench I was on was moving and for a brief second I thought I was still at McDonald’s and my head was spinning. When I sat up I saw I was in the backseat of my own car with another man driving. My brain immediately went to bad places and I assumed I was on the sodomy express as punishment for my strip club antics. When the driver turned to face me after noticing I was awake, he slammed on the brakes. He reached back and pulled a snap near the side of my face and the ball gag fell loose.
“Fuck, man,” he said. “I’ve never seen anybody knocked out so easily.”
“I wasn’t drugged?”
“You were barely hit. I got a little carried away and kinda misunderstood what Posey was thinking. Fucking AutoCorrect, right?”
“Huh,” I muttered.
“Thought you might be on drugs or something. Maybe a heart condition. Never seen anybody go down like—”
“I get it. I’m a fucking bobble head. Whatever. You’re Rickard, right? Why are you driving my car?”
“Got a body in mine.”
I waited for him to laugh it off. He didn’t. Maybe sodomy was a best-case scenario.
“Nobody recognizes yours,” he continued. “Decent gas mileage too.”
“Where are we going? And can you cut this tape off my hands?”
Rickard pulled the car off to the side of the road and I looked out the window to see where we were. It was one of the more nondescript sections of highway I’d seen in the city, so I assumed we were still close to downtown and, as such, I hadn’t been out for long. Rickard opened the passenger door opposite me and threw me a small pocketknife.
“You can get in the front seat if you want,” he said. “Your car and all.”
As we passed each other I noticed he had
