The Harem on the Hill (Part XIII) (Patreon)

You drum your fingers atop the steering wheel as a svelte, well-heeled woman in her early 30s crosses the street in front of you.  If her nose were any higher it would whistle in the breeze.  An equally snooty-looking French Poodle trails a few feet behind her.   Whenever it deigns to sniff or soil, the perturbed woman gives its leash a whiplash-inducing tug.      

You ponder what she'd look like with another fifty pounds.  Would her sugar daddy husband, or whoever bought her that visible-from-space diamond ring, be as inclined to splurge and splooge for her if she were obese? 

You're about to look up the size ranges for Prada dresses when Tina opens the passenger door and climbs into the SUV.  She hands you a warm paper cup and the familiar aroma of Cornicupia's dark roast fills your nostrils.       

Just like old times.

"Thanks," you say, taking a tentative sip.  "Did you get it?"

Tina waves the windowed envelope containing her final paycheck.  "Think Paul will recognize me when I come back for my W-2?"  

The autumn chill forced Tina to dress more demurely than she wanted for your little adventure.  She actually suggested wearing her old work uniform hoping Paul would notice her gain, but you had nixed the idea.   Adorned in a more weather-appropriate jeans/sweatshirt ensemble, you can't detect her progress either, but know there are a dozen or so pounds of fresh flesh being belted into your Explorer than there were a couple of weeks ago.  

"Did you get something for yourself?"

"Latte Creme Freeze," she says proudly, holding up her cup.  "Over 1,000 calories."

"Good girl."  You set your cup in the holder and put the vehicle in gear.  "I was wondering what took so long."

That's a lie.  You had been watching the whole time.  You weren't wild that Tina had told Paul she'd be back to pick-up her W-2, but everything else went according to plan. 

$174.32," Tina says, reading from the check.  "Whatever shall we spend it on?  Maybe a monogrammed pillow for your pet?" 

"I don't own any pets."

Tina arches an eyebrow.  "Is that so?"  

Pulling into traffic, you quickly catch-up with the young socialite dragging the poodle.  

"What about her?" Tina says, her sly gaze conveying the query's deeper meaning.  

"She's married," you say, returning your eyes to the road.  "And she has a dog."

"A kidnapper with scruples?"

You shrug.  "It complicates things."

Tina takes a drag from her drink.  "Am I uncomplicated?"

You smile and shake your head.  "No."

As you pass the woman, Tina continues to follow her in the side mirror.  "I'd love for a priss like that to get fat as fuck. You can tell staying hot is her only responsibility."  The shrew gives her poor poodle a final pull as she fades from view.  "It certainly isn't walking that dog."  

After a moment's contemplation, Tina adds, "Hey, how did you know I didn't own a pet?"

You tap your index finger against a nostril.  "The nose knows."  

"Oh, right," Tina says, remembering how allergies helped lead to her capture.  "Still, I could have a fish....or a lizard."

"Then you better feed them when we drop off your rent check."  You turn the vehicle down a side street towards the dilapidated apartment complex Tina used to reside.   

Tina takes another sip of her latte.   "Do you want to grab a bite to eat?  There's a great little bakery just up the street."  Tina reaches across the seat and touches your thigh.  "We could engage in a public display of confection." 

You shoot Tina an incredulous look--partly for the horrible joke and partly for the sheer absurdity of the suggestion.  Strangely, it's more the former than the latter.  You may be on an errand to tie-up incriminating loose ends with a hostage, but it feels more like a Sunday drive with your girlfriend.     

"What do I have to do?" Tina sighs, removing her hand from your leg.  "I could have escaped.  Hell, I could have killed you.  But instead, I agreed to be your concubine."  Tina lifts her sweatshirt and pinches a surprising amount of pudge extending over the lap-band of her seatbelt.  "Your FAT concubine."

"HONK!"

A horn from oncoming traffic sends you back to your lane and Tina's sweatshirt back to her lap.  After some seconds of bemused silence, you finally manage, "You couldn't have killed me."

Tina's delicate jaw drops.  "Are you kidding me?  If we hadn't come to an understanding, I'd be on the cover of People Magazine right now.  BARISTA  BABE FOILS BILLIONAIRE'S HAREM EMPIRE."  Tina punctuates each word with her hand as if it were written in the sky.         

"It could still happen," you say.  "BILLIONAIRE FATTENS BARISTA BABE INTO OBLIVION."  

"Mmmm," Tina says, writhing in her seat.  "I like that one better."  

You approach a large red brick building that had been a factory through the 1970s, then lied in decay until the new Millenium when it was refurbished as part of a trendy downtown revitalization effort that hadn't quite made it to Tina's apartment.  Green awnings at even intervals mark the storefronts, and a neon sign reading "Fred's Breads and Sweets" hangs on the wall facing traffic.  

"That's the place," Tina says.  She looks at you expectantly.    

What do you do?