Bullets cracking my window. Fleeing through backyards. Bree. Hiding in Brenda Smith’s basement.
Last night with Kolya. Kneeling in front of him. Gagging on his cock. His threat to paint my chest with his cum…
My skin warms.
I’m curled around his jacket on the loveseat. The man himself stands at the window, a formidable profile against the gray morning light.
The thick, stale basement air presses down on my shoulders like a weighted blanket. I shift, wincing at the crick in my neck from using folded clothes as a pillow. My toes are freezing.
More flashes from last night hit me in waves. His fingers digging into my hips. His hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. The cardboard boxes of family photos beneath us. Heat rushes to my face, pooling in my cheeks and between my legs simultaneously.
Men with guns are hunting us, and I’m getting aroused by memories of sex over Brenda Fucking Smith’s storage boxes.
I push myself to my feet and stumble toward the tiny half bath in the corner.
After I use the facilities, Kolya’s broad back silhouettes against that sad excuse for a window. He doesn’t acknowledge me. His focus remains fixed on whatever sliver of the outside world he can glimpse through that narrow pane, as if his gaze can keep the monsters at bay.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” My sleep-worn voice comes out scratchy. Clearing my throat, I try again. “It must be late.”
He still doesn’t move. “No reason to. We’re not going anywhere.”
His flat voice sends a cold trickle down my spine. Not going anywhere?
Then I hear the voices. Laughter. The unmistakable sizzle-pop of a grill firing up. Children shrieking in delight.
Oh no.
I inch closer, my bare feet silent on the concrete. “Is that…?”
Kolya nods once. “Labor Day weekend barbecue. The party’s begun.”
As if on cue, I hear the creak of a gate opening, followed by footsteps crunching along the path right outside our window. A woman asks about potato salad, and a man responds with a too-loud laugh that reeks of forced joviality. The thumps pause just outside, then continue toward the backyard.
I exhale softly. “Labor Day.”
Of course Brenda is hosting a barbecue. Because why wouldn’t she? Naturally, the woman who sends peanut butter cookies to a classroom with an allergic child would host the neighborhood barbecue that traps us in her basement.
I stop beside Kolya, close enough to luxuriate in the heat radiating from his body without touching him. He smells ofsweat, gun oil, and sex. Our night together clings to his skin like the glitter from the craft store.
“We can’t get past them?”
I already know the answer.
The basement window sits near the back of the house, alongside the path that leads to the backyard. Brenda’s guests would immediately spot anyone climbing out.
Upstairs, children shriek and footsteps race from room to room.
Sneaking out through the house would prove equally impossible as escaping via the basement window.
“We’ll leave once it gets dark. There will be fireworks.” He soothes me like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal.
The reality of our situation sinks in.
We’re trapped. In Brenda Smith’s basement. For hours.
My heart rate accelerates, each beat a tiny hammer against my ribs.
Kolya is unmoved by my rising panic. His stillness both infuriates and comforts me. At least one of us can stay calm.
