It takes a moment for the object in his hands to register in my brain as anything dangerous. Perhaps it's denial... an unwillingness to believe that my fears have come true. That's when my brain returns to me. Just when I'm ready to speed to safety, however, I find that we're surrounded... completely boxed in. I turn to Jackson for help.

"Turn right onto that road up there," is all he offers.

Once again, I check if he's serious. "What? There's nothing down there! It's a dead end!"

"You will do as I say if you value your life as well as your mother's." His voice is steady and firm; there is not a trace of fear in him at all.

"Mr. West..." I'm sure he can hear the plea in the shakiness of my own voice.

The vehicles seem to be closing in on us. My Mustang seems tiny compared to these massive trucks and, for the first time in my life, I experience claustrophobia.

"Turn now, Nicole!" Jackson says. The only thing that causes me to obey is the sight of the gun in his hand. I park the car at the very end of the road. I feel even more sandwiched now by the two tall buildings that trap me further. "Good. Now get out."

"What?"

"Would you quit saying 'what' and start listening the first time for a change?" Jackson brings the gun closer to my face, and I don't hesitate any longer when he repeats, "I said get out. Now."

My mind races with ideas of how to escape. They all come and go as I dismiss them as useless. There is no way to get out of this one. Both the men and their vehicles block any escape route I've thought of. "What do you want? You know we don't have much money..."

"I want my children, Nicole," he answers. "Plain and simple." At the snap of his fingers, two of his friends rush to either side of me and take hold of my arms. Within seconds, I feel as if their intention is to cut off all circulation to my hands.

"What are you doing?!" I watch in anger as Jackson reaches back into the Mustang and grabs my bag. Turning it upside down, he dumps all of its contents onto the driver's seat.

"Preparing you for your mission, of course," he answers. "You ready to hear what it entails?" I remain silent as I glare at his back. He begins refilling my bag with items I can't see from where I stand. "What do you want, Nicole? What do you want the most?"

Although I know my response won't make a difference, I answer, and do so honestly. "I want to go home..."

"And you will... in due time. That is, if you do this little thing for me." Jackson turns around, my bag in hand. It is significantly smaller now than it was before he dumped out its contents. "You won't be needing all of that junk. I'm leaving you with a few necessities–"

"You're leaving me?! Here? With them?!"

The men surrounding me all laugh heartily. The one to my left – the only one whose voice I've heard – says, "You wish." To that, I crinkle my nose in disgust.

Jackson appears annoyed by their laughter. The moment he clears his throat in a wordless warning, all laughter ceases. He glares menacingly at the two men for a moment and appears to be in deep thought.

"Listen carefully... Nothing and no one is going to get in my way or ruin my plans," he says warningly. His gaze is locked on the men on either side of me, yet it sounds as if he's talking to me.

"We understand, boss..."

"Stop calling me that! Every time you say that it makes me sound like the head of a crime syndicate. People are bound to get the wrong impression." Jackson looks me directly in the eyes. I don't wait for the question that seems to hesitate in his.

"Gee, I wonder where they would get that impression."

His stare becomes colder, but he does not respond to my sarcastic comment. "Here, take your bag. You'll want to go through it before long." One of my arms is released, allowing me snatch my ratty green messenger bag from his hands. "There's a letter in an envelope with the details of this little arrangement. Well, I'd better get back to your mom. She's probably worried sick."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, about you. What makes you so sure I'll comply?"

"Oh, I'm not worried about a lack of compliance." He waves my question off as if it's the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked. "I know you wouldn't want your mother paying the price for it."

I squint my eyes in both anger and disbelief, simply staring at him with those emotions as he pushes the items off the seat and onto the floor. Those items – my belongings, including my phone – have now been replaced by him. I stop him in the process of closing the door by asking, "No one will get hurt, right?"

Jackson appears momentarily thoughtful. Then, in a very serious tone, he says, "Nicole, I promise you that nobody will be harmed. You have my word." With that, he shuts the door and starts the engine. His friends follow almost immediately and, within a matter of seconds, I am left to myself.

"What's a pretty young lady like yourself doing out here all alone?"

I spin on my heels, searching. I was sure I was alone. "What?"

"Yeah, you," says the deep voice. I find the source leaning against the wall beside an open side door. I assume he works in that building and just came out for a break. "I don't see another pretty young lady anywhere. Do you?"

"Um... Sorry. I didn't hear the door... I mean, I thought I was alone..."

"Sorry, Miss. Didn't mean to startle you." I'm almost grateful when he sticks the cigarette between his lips. Even his apology sounded harsh to my ears; his voice is thick with contempt, most likely due to his job, and very rough. It reminds me of David. He even looks like David, but only just a little.

His eyebrows, dark, thick, and bushy, are furrowed questioningly. Under them are a set of light blue eyes. I think his eyes scare me the most, even more than his voice. They continue to stare at me, never looking away except when someone else from the building reaches out to close the door. He glares at them momentarily, then resumes staring at me.

I'm not sure what possesses me to stay. Perhaps it's out of fear of having to turn my back to him when I leave the alley. It's a long way from here to the street, made longer by the fear his unending stare is causing.

"How much do you charge?"

My mind is so involved in studying him to guess his place of work that his voice, once again, startles me. My eyes leave his dirty apron and find his. "Excuse me?"

He removes the cigarette from his mouth. As I back up several steps to find clearer air, I can't prevent several coughs that I've been attempting to suppress from leaving me. I've always had a strong hatred in my heart for cigarettes, especially since my favorite aunt – my only aunt who loved me – was diagnosed with cancer. She died soon after.

"You heard me," he replies.

Still puzzled, I answer, "I don't charge anything..."

Immediately, the man lifts his head from the wall and stares at me with wide eyes. "So, you're free?" It's only when he drags his eyes from my head to my toes and then back again that I understand his question and assumptions. Offended can't begin to describe how I feel in this moment. I'm sure, however, that my current apparel isn't helping me much. Strangely, it's only now that I notice what I left the house in. A red spaghetti strap top with a heart made of white studs on the front, and shorts that my grandmother would certainly disapprove of. She's a firm believer in "nothing above the knees."

"Oh, no... It's not what it looks like. You see, I'm... I was only..." I pause, wondering what to say that wouldn't reveal too much but would, at the same time, reveal just enough to get him to leave me alone.

"I don't suppose those guys were friends of yours, huh?" he questions, resting his head back against the wall again. He stares up at the sky, now seeming more interested in the stars than me. For that, I am very thankful. But... still. I refuse to let my guard down, even if only for a second.

I join him in staring at the sky. A risky move on my part. I just can't believe it's already nighttime. Where can I go? Where will I sleep?

"Hey, princess!" the man barks. My head snaps down to look at him. His face seems to soften now that he has my attention, and so does his tone. "I asked you a question."

"It's a long story," I answer without a second thought, although I can barely remember what he asked.

"Yeah, sure it is." His dramatic nod tells me he's not convinced. Then, a moment after his eyes light up, he begins digging in his pocket. My instinct is to run as I imagine all sorts of pocket-sized weapons, but I don't. Finally, he pulls out a small box. "Hey, care for a smoke?"

I relax a little to see that it's nothing with bullets or blades. "No... I'd better be leaving."

"Yeah, sure." He checks his watch, then releases a heavy sigh. Just then, as if on cue, the side door reopens and the same man pokes his head out. He looks left and then right, apparently for this strange man, who nods and says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." He turns back to me. "You and me both." It takes a moment for my brain to recall the last thing I said. "But... stop by any time, eh, princess?"

"Yeah, sure." My response is halfhearted. It doesn't register until I reach the street. Curiosity causes me to glance up at the building's lit-up sign. "Pizza Palace" is spelled out in large, red letters. Well, now I know to avoid this place. I lower my gaze from the bright sign, but only for a second. The moment my eyes adjust to the dimmer interior, I spot the strange man, who stares at me through the large window from behind the counter. I tear my eyes away and continue moving.

After a while of aimless walking, my feet begin to ache and I'm confronted by all forms of exhaustion. What time is it? It feels as if I've been walking all night, yet judging by the sky it doesn't appear that way.

The smell of coffee awakens my senses and seems to be leading my tired legs. I have apparently lost control over the direction in which they move. Perhaps my body knows what it needs more than my brain does in this state of exhaustion. I follow the scent of the freshly brewed coffee around a corner and down a slightly quieter street. This may be just what I need to wake myself up. By now, I really wish I had listened and gotten more sleep last night instead of staying up watching those crime shows until six this morning.

Nearly every sound other than the somewhat steady humming of engines and the chirping of crickets make me jump. The occasional voice, horns, and the like. I find my head swiveling from left to right until I'm positive I'm not being followed. Then I relax... until I'm startled by the next sound. My heart races at speeds I never knew it was capable of as my breathing quickens, and neither seem to get a break in between the constant yet sudden scares.

Still in search of the coffee shop, the very thing that might save me tonight, I pass a business with absolutely no lights on that I can see. It looks eerily dark. But a minivan in the parking lot is what holds my attention.

"You have a good day, sir–"

I shriek the moment my body comes into contact with another, then mentally berate myself for allowing a distraction in. The grunt made by the other person shows that the surprise is mutual and helps me to feel just a little better. The realization that this collision was most likely unintentional allows my mind to rest. But only a little. I step back to get a good look at whoever this is... just in case.

I swallow hard when my eyes find his. Two ice blue pictures of sincerity stare right back at me, and I find my gaze lowering in an attempt to prevent a blush from giving away my forbidden emotions. I'm powerless, however, when my eyes lower to his smile. It appears genuine enough, but that's not what captivates me. I'm quick to avert my stare elsewhere. "Uh... I'm... I'm sorry..."

After several eternal seconds of silence, he replies, "No, I'm sorry." Even his voice, calm, even, and actually rather soothing, is dripping with honesty. But why is he sorry?

"No, really, I wasn't looking where I was going, and then I bumped into you, and... I should have been paying attention and all... How dumb of me... I'm sorry... It's my fault, really..." There's no doubt I sound like a broken record to him, yet he still chooses to stand and listen patiently as I go on, seemingly without the ability to know when to close my mouth.

He laughs. His laugh... "Hey, it's cool!" He seems almost absentminded when he places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I stiffen at the odd and unfamiliar fluttering sensation inside me. If he notices, it doesn't show on his face. His hand, however, falls back to his side. "No worries."

I nod, biting my lip lest I say anything that further embarrasses myself. But when he walks away towards the door of the relatively small building I'm standing in front of, I open my mouth and speak. So much for keeping my mouth shut!

"Hey! Uh, excuse me?"

And then it comes; his voice, smooth as velvet and pleasant as Tupelo honey, blesses my ears. His bright, genuine smile remains, though slightly smaller than before. "Yes? How can I help you?"

"Um, I was wondering..." Somehow, he seems to have unknowingly taken my thoughts and replaced them with absolute nothingness. After swallowing several times within several seconds, a nervous habit of mine, I finish, "Is there a coffee shop nearby?"

"Yes, ma'am!" is his cheerful response. He nods once, then reopens his mouth to add something but, unfortunately, my nervousness beats him to it. I have a terrible habit of talking too much when I'm nervous, as I'm positive is already clear to him. What I don't understand is how he managed to abolish all my basic rules the instant I looked into his eyes.

"Well, I'm not sure if I qualify to be a 'ma'am' yet, seeing as I've only recently turned seventeen, but thanks." Studying him, I imagine that he can't be out of his teens yet, either. He's at least seventeen, and at most nineteen. His face makes him look so young... perhaps even younger than I've guessed, but his body suggests otherwise. The combination leads me to believe that he's somewhere in-between.

It's only now that I truly notice his uniform, an apron of a rich brown color. A white mug with matching steam above it tells me that the coffee shop is, in fact, closer than I realized.

"Well, happy belated, in that case!" he says, still holding the door open. He widens it when an elderly group of four approaches from inside. Once again, it appears as if he is about to say something to me. Putting our conversation on pause, however, he thanks the customers for visiting and replies with, "My pleasure," to every, "Thank you," he receives. Best of all, he seems to truly enjoy what he does.

"What a lovely young man," says one lady. "Quite handsome, too. I need to bring my granddaughter in sometime. She's always obsessing over those boys..."

"One Direction?" answers the other woman.

"Yes, them. It's time she starts liking someone she actually has a chance with."

"Now, Margaret..."

When the group and their conversation are finally in the car they came in, I look back at the "lovely young man" they were speaking of. He does nothing to hide the evidence of embarrassment spread across his cheeks in a light shade of red.

"Allow me to treat you," he says. I can't squash the surprise that I'm sure shows on my face. I'm tempted to look around for anyone else he might be talking to, but decide against the action. I need to put up a confident front. Why do I care what he thinks of me, anyway? I don't. Not in the way I'm fearful of, at least. It's always wise to have an air of confidence because smart axe murderers don't dress the part.

"Huh?" I say instead. So much for that confident front.

"You said you just turned seventeen?" he says. "Allow me to treat you. Call it a belated birthday gift."

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course." He nods towards the open door. Once I'm sure he means it, I don't have to be told a second time.

"I thought you were gonna run away on me," says a man behind the counter. His back is turned to us as he does something with a large, intimidating machine of some sort.

"You know I wouldn't," says 'Lovely Young Man' in a pleasant tone as he leaves me to assist the man working on the machine. "Besides, I couldn't leave Skylar behind."

Skylar? Who is Skylar? Is she his girlfriend? Does he have a girlfriend?! I try to fight against this strong, overwhelming feeling of jealousy that not only forms in my heart, but also in the pit of my stomach. I was sure I felt hungry only a moment ago. But who am I to be jealous of her? Not only that, but I thought I wasn't even interested in a relationship. I've seen plenty already just crash and burn within my own household. I don't need to experience one myself. After all, aren't children supposed to learn from their parents' mistakes?

The man pauses for a moment, studying his face as if to see if those last words were meant as a joke. Then he laughs. Apparently they were. "You don't trust me to take care of her, huh? You both are like family to me. You're like the children I never had."

"Thanks, Artie. It means a lot, you know, to hear someone say that."

Artie's smile falters, then changes to a sympathetic kind. "I truly am sorry, son. Must've been hard at first."

"Still is at times, but we'll manage." The certain look on his face seems to beg for a change in subjects. It sort of twists in a way, creating a gentle grimace, and then softens when he turns to fully face me. A smile replaces the previous look of sadness as he moves to the counter, waving me over. I take a seat on one of the tall chairs and place my hands on the edge of the marble counter, gripping it tightly to steady myself once I realize the chairs spin. I'm thankful that he doesn't seem to notice.

"Well," he says, leaning forward against the counter with loosely crossed arms, "what can I get for you, Miss Birthday Girl?" His intense stare, so filled with concentration, causes me to completely forget where we are. I forget that, at any moment, another customer could walk in to practically steal his undivided attention.

I can't help blushing as I turn the chair slightly from one side to the other. My eyes leave his for a moment as I gently correct him. "Nicole."

There's a thoughtful look in his eyes, which I take the opportunity to study since he's no longer looking at me. He seems far all of a sudden. Was I wrong to correct him? "Nicole," he says softly. He repeats it, as if trying it out for the first time. A slight smile on my own face, I stare at him quizzically. He catches me staring, much to my embarrassment. "Oh, don't get me wrong. It's a beautiful name. It's my... mother's name." His brows furrow for a moment. Then, when his eyes return to mine, his face relaxes. "Do you know what you'd like, or do you need a moment to decide?"

"Um... I'm not a huge coffee drinker, to be honest. What do you suggest?"

"We don't only serve coffee."

"Oh, of course. Right." I bite my lip, embarrassed about the lack of knowledge I have when it comes to coffee shops. He probably thinks I'm new to the planet or have made a home out of a rock or cave or something. If he does, though, it doesn't show.

"Here's a menu..." He bends down momentarily and, in the few seconds that his face disappears, I find myself missing it. I miss his eyes, his smile... How is he doing this to me? But then he's back up, placing a sheet of paper on the counter in front of me. With one hand, he slides the cream-colored menu towards me and intently watches my face with a smile.

I scan over the items. It appears that they have an equal amount of drinks and food. But the list of what they do have is long, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to decide on one thing anytime soon! "So... I can choose anything on here?"

"Yeah, anything," he answers. "A drink and a dessert. Or, if you don't really care for desserts, we do have more relatively healthy items on the back." Why is he doing this for me, a girl he doesn't even know? Even with that question lurking in the back of my mind, I almost laugh at his last sentence. It would have been an accident. I think he knows, though. He might see it in my eyes. With a laugh of his own, he says, "I know. I don't care all that much for healthier foods, either. I got'cha." He nods. Then he winks. It's his wink paired with his dazzling grin of understanding that causes the fluttering feeling to return.

I busy myself with the menu, looking first at the list of drinks. I've never tried the majority of them. I decide to go with something safe like hot chocolate. There's always another day to try a Frappuccino.

"All right! Now, what would you like to eat? I recommend the s'mores cupcakes. They seem to be a fan favorite."

My eyes widen at the mention of marshmallows and chocolate. My ultimate weakness! That and, apparently, the warmth of the ice blue eyes of the boy before me. "I'm sorry... Did you say s'mores cupcakes?"

He gives me a half-smile. "Yes, actually. So, a hot chocolate and a s'mores cupcake?"

I nod, unable to wipe the ridiculous grin off my face. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure, Nicole." Then he turns away. The absence of his penetrating gaze gives me a moment to think. I realize that, even though he hasn't said much, I believe him. I believe every word he's said. And still, worse than that, I believe him. His eyes don't seem to give me much of a choice.

Have I learned nothing from the criminal shows? Have I learned nothing from David?

I decide that a little more distance may be just what I need to clear my head, to pull myself together. That and the caffeine from the hot chocolate. My mind does love to play tricks on me when I'm tired. If what I'm experiencing now isn't a 'drop-dead-any-second' kind of tired, I don't know what is. I hop off the chair, finally realizing just how much my feet missed the ground. I wouldn't consider myself short, but I'm not exactly what one would call tall, either. Besides, stable ground beats an almost unpredictable spinning chair any day. It does for me, at least.

Stable ground... It's all I've wanted since Dad left. The only stability in my life at the moment is the very absence of it.

Even with my resolution, I pick one of the closest tables to the counter. My lame, rough draft excuse is that it would most likely be obvious to him that I'm trying to get away. I can't help fearing it would offend him. But how could I possibly offend him? All he knows about me is my name. I'm nothing special to him.

"Caleb, can you, uh, read this for me?" Artie shouts. His voice reveals a slight feeling of embarrassment, perhaps one that he's unsuccessfully trying to hide. "I think I've misplaced my glasses again."

"Did you check your head?" is the boy's response. He shows no signs at all of planning to go to Artie, so I assume this happens often. At the other end of the room, I see Artie patting his head as he mumbles something unclear to me. I'm unsure as to whether or not he ever finds his glasses. My mind is too busy repeating the name he said and trying to remember where I last heard it.

And then, all at once, the memories hit. If I didn't know any better, I'd be sure that this chair also has the ability to spin.

"His name is Caleb Davis..."

"His eyes are ice blue..."

My next breath is trapped inside my throat as I turn to look at him, taking in his every detail, my mind on high alert. He walks with such confidence towards me, a confidence I fear I could never show. In one hand he holds a relatively large cup of... hot chocolate, I'm assuming. Hot chocolate, I hope... In his other hand is a small box.

"...he's about... twenty now."

I could have been off. One year off wouldn't be surprising.

"His hair is mostly brown with blonde highlights..."

I swallow, attempting to rid my throat of this unfamiliar feeling of hardly getting enough air.

He has reached me. Gently, he places the two items on the table in front of me, but his eyes... They haven't left mine. He is no longer smiling. I wonder if he knows... I wonder if he knows that I know. "It might be hot still, so be careful."

I try to force out a, "Thank you," as I bring the cup towards me, but it comes out so small and quiet. Fragile, much like my composure. What was Jackson thinking? Why would he choose to send me, of all people, to get his children back? With the disadvantage of my expressiveness, I could almost bet my life that I'll be too dead to bet anything within the next few days. That is... if he doesn't have other plans that would require me alive.

Don't assume. The last time I assumed anything, I deeply regretted it.

Forcing my way through the fear, I speak up. My voice is a little louder than I intended and I hope he either doesn't notice or can't figure out why. In the ten minutes or so that I've known him, I've already learned how attentive he can be. "What is your last name?"

Caleb halts and turns around. He does so slowly. I pray that this anxiety he's causing doesn't show up on my face. My face has a bad habit of giving my thoughts away, almost to the point that privacy is a foreign thing to me. He smiles slightly, a hint of mystery in his eyes. "Who's asking?"

"Uh... I'm sorry... It's just... You, well, uh..."

"Davis," he answers. "It's Davis."

I've found him.