Demanding Ransom - By Megan Squires Page 0,28

so?”

The hostess seats another party directly behind us and I have to scoot my chair in to accommodate them. At the same time I do so, Ran slams back onto all four legs of his chair and our faces end up no more than a foot apart. I feel his breath sweep over my skin.

“I say we make this a little fun. How about a modified game of truth or dare?”

“Modified?” I ask, scooting back slightly, but my chair bumps into the larger woman at my back and she throws me an overly-annoyed glare. The curtain must be on some track because the hostess comes by to pull it further around our table and it’s suddenly just the two of us again.

“Yes. Six questions total. Three for you, three for me. But the catch is that if you don’t want to answer the question, then you have to take the dare.” He raises his hand in the air and flicks his fingers to wave our waiter over. “And the dare involves eating large amounts of raw fish you can’t pronounce.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Ran nods. “Okay, it can be small amounts.”

“I don’t want to answer any of your questions, Ran,” I retort.

The playful air of banter slips from our conversation and Ran’s eyes soften. “What are you afraid to tell me?”

“Are you two ready to order?” I jump at the sound of our waiter’s voice, but am so grateful for it. It’s the sound of my out.

“Yes, we’ll take six servings of your finest raw delicacies. And two Diet Cokes.”

The waiter scratches something onto the notepad held in his hands and leaves our table. Ran hasn’t stopped looking at me, even when he placed our order. If feeling someone’s stare could ever be a physical pull, this is it. It’s like there’s some charged line between his eyes and my face and I can feel it hot on my skin, tugging me toward him.

“Delicacies?” I ask. “I thought you were going to order something gross.”

Ran’s phone pulses on the table, just like it did yesterday, and just like yesterday, he ignores the call. I wonder why I always seem to be more important than the person on the other end.

“Delicacies are almost always gross, Maggie. Escargot? Caviar? Pâté? They all achieve both delicacy, as well as disgusting, status. It has to be the same with Japanese food.”

After a ten minute wait that I fill with unnecessary glances toward a television hung on the wall behind Ran that plays some college football game, texts to Cora asking how study hall is going, and even checking the weather app on my phone, our food appears in front of us.

“Yep, I was right. Delicacy equals disgusting.”

Six portions of brightly colored fish, goop, and something else that I can’t even form a description for, stare up at me, mocking my stomach.

I catch the waiter’s elbow. “Can I get a bowl of steamed rice?” He nods and heads toward the kitchen.

“Rice? What’s that for?”

“A buffer,” I reply, snapping my chopsticks and grasping one in each hand.

“Fair enough.” Ran takes his chopsticks in his hands and sands them over one another, like he’s readying for a duel. “I go first.”

“What happened to ladies first?” I gulp in a drink of my soda.

“You forfeited that when you said I made you uncomfortable.” He’s still sliding his chopsticks over one another as he speaks. His eyes meet mine. “So that leads me to my first question. Why do I make you uncomfortable?”

I should have known that’s where he would go with this. I glance down at the revolting plate in front of us, then back up to Ran. His face holds an expectant look that makes me sweat all over. I grip onto my chopsticks tighter to keep them from falling onto the table.

One more look from the food to him and then I dip my wooden utensils down, retrieving a one-inch piece of purple fish meat that’s draped over a bed of sticky rice. I pop it in my mouth and shoot Ran a victorious smile.

“I see how you’re going to do this,” he says, and though it should be a playful tone, it sounds more aggravated than anything.

“My turn,” I mutter around the slimy contents in my mouth. After swallowing, I take a deep breath. “Why did you decide to become a paramedic?”

I take four or five more long, nervous sips of my Diet Coke, keeping my lips on the straw because I need to occupy them

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