Hallelujah. And ouch.
My first attempt to blindly, backwardly fish the tiny death shears out of the drawer did not go well, and now I have a hole in my finger for my trouble. After several more failed attempts, I get my pinky to curl through the comically tiny finger hole and use those delicately honed intrinsic muscles to lift it from the drawer. Sweat is running down my temples, and I have to work to control my breathing. It’s like I’m playing with the world’s most delicate claw machine in the world’s most fucked-up arcade.
I do pretty well until the sharp tip reaches out and grabs the lip of the drawer. The slightly curved scissors fall to the carpeted floor with the dullest little thump, and I freeze, waiting to see if anyone heard. I don’t pick up any movement in my direction, so I fold into a hands-free, cross-legged sit, which is actually a helluva lot more difficult to do—silently—than you’d think. My yoga teacher would be so proud.
I also want to throw up.
Fuck that one rib.
Taking a moment, I lean back, cursing very, very quietly while I coax-drop, coax-drop, coax-hold the tiny, stupid baby scissors with my pinky again. I transfer them to my right hand, slipping my pointer and middle fingers about a third of the way through the finger holes. I squeeze the two fingers together, and the wee torture device saws at the uncooperative hemp. It’s not super effective, but a few strands snap loose, so I keep at it.
I get a steady rhythm going, and fifteen minutes plus a bucket of sweat later, I’m halfway through the rope and my fingers are cramping like a motherfucker. I flex my hand and once again drop the demon snippers to the plush carpeting.
After another good bit of internal cussing, I finally thread my fingers through the slippery metal and start again, only to hear foot falls on the stairs. Again with the silent cursing, I scooch my ass across the floor like a dog with an itchy hole and make it back to the place where he left me. The scissors fall again, so I scooch back and sit on them.
Motherfucker.
That’s gonna leave a mark.
Just as I’m burying the tiny, curved tip into the fleshy part of my left ass cheek, he opens the door. Since he’s approaching me from the front, I tuck the loose strands of rope underneath as best I can and keep my head down. I don’t give a shit who this guy is, how impaled my ass is, or what he’s capable of. I’m going to get myself out of this room, and I’m going to take him out of the equation. No fucks given.
“Youdoknow that we have cameras in this room, right? Like, that was the whole purpose of putting you here.”
A quick search of the space reveals a suspiciously placed teddy bear, and I could kick my own ass—quite literally—for not doing a better visual search.
Blake doesn’t wait for my reply. Gesturing with one hand, he says, “Come on, get up. Do that little cross-legged stand thing you just did. That was kind of cute.”
I roll my eyes and comply, if only because he’s got a gun in the other hand. Once I execute the move and have recovered somewhat from the dizzy-making agony in my ribs, I stand in the middle of the room. I give him a little snarl, just in case he thinks he’s gotten one over me.
He bares his teeth at me, and I catch sight of the haymaker coming at my ribs a second too late. I’m able to angle away from him just enough that it’s a glancing blow, but the pain takes me straight to my knees. He stands over me, and the last thing I see before blacking out is his fist coming down on me like a hammer.
* * *
It’s bright outside again when I wake up. I went down at a funny angle, my legs tucked under me, and now it hurts to even think about moving. But I have to move so I don’t get too stiff because, when the situation presents itself, I need to be ready to run.
The first thing I notice is that I have a little more movement in my arms. The second thing is that I’m handcuffed, the metal making bright, clinking sounds as I try to right myself. Not going to be able to baby scissor my way out of this one.
Upshot: I’m no longer impaled by those tiny, tortuous scissors anymore, so…score one for the losing team.
I have an idea, one that came to me just as the light was fading around the edges last night and I’d like to give it a shot. First, I rearrange myself, painfully, into cross-legged pose. I use a few more intrinsic muscle exercises, warming up my stiff, protesting muscles. After several minutes of the squeeze and release routine, I feel marginally better. Not great, not pain-free, but better. I know for the next thing to work out, I’m going to have to piss Blake off, and I need to be ready for whatever he’s got in mind.
Thankfully, he actually made my life a little easier by switching out the rope for handcuffs. Arranging my legs out in front of me, I take a few deep breaths and hope for the best. My shoulders and hips ache from the uncomfortable position, but I can’t focus on that right now. Biting my lip, I sit back and wiggle my handcuffed hands under my butt, and up my thighs. I fold in one leg and then the other, so my hands are now in front of me.
I also threw up in my mouth a little bit during the procedure, but I’m calling the maneuver a success, especially now that the pain has settled down to a dull throb. I have only a few minutes before he comes pounding back up the stairs, so I do as many stretches as I dare, ones designed to improve the mobility of my hips, ass, and thighs.
Ready as I’ll ever be, I stand up. I have a few more seconds, so I do a forward bend, palms to the floor. With a little more blood circulating in the brain pan, I have a new goal: make this guy swallow several of his own teeth.
Right on time, he thunders up the stairs and, seconds later, the door flies open.
“Wow, you sure are dumb for someone so pretty,” Blake says, grabbing me by my collar.
I wince, pretending to be afraid of him. Given the look in his eye, maybe I’m not pretending as much as I thought.
21
Ronan
Still handcuffed, I turn around and shut the front door, marveling at how much blood is on my shirt.
