She didn’t answer my question about location, but looking at her, I guess she didn’t opt for the back passage. That should make things easier.
I lick my finger—ever the gentleman—and gently insert it. The gesture is so intimate, I can’t look at her while I’m doing it, and the angle is weird. I withdraw, laying on my side, head resting on her abdomen, and try again.
She snaps her legs together when my finger slips back inside her. I go still and after a long moment, she lets them fall apart. There’s something dangling from her entrance, and I circle it, biting back a smile when she stifles a tiny moan.
It’s probably another burst of anger, but it sounds like arousal. Something it’s obviously not because she is as close to bone dry as a woman can be.
I withdraw my finger and lick it again, sending it back to work and fiddling with the rough texture against her smooth skin. A string? A piece of packaging? I hope for her sake it’s not the latter.
Even a regular used wouldn’t be thrilled with the momentous hit if a bag split, and it’s a good guess she doesn’t count among that number. Neither do I, a few early tries tweaked my brain into such violence, I now shy away from the stuff. My only interactions since have been to purchase from one party to sell to another.
It’s a string. I give it a gentle tug and it moves a little, then stops as she gives a whimper. I try again, wincing in anticipation and it lodges again, causing her more distress.
Did she pack it in there with sand and superglue?
I wipe my finger against my sweatpants and pull the sock from her mouth. She gulps in air, eyes shiny and looking anywhere in the room except at me.
“How were you planning on getting them out?” Her shoulders curl in embarrassment. Something I don’t have time for. “Just answer.”
“There’s a…” She breaks off for a few seconds, convulsively swallowing. “There’s a thread holding them together. If you untie me, I can go into the bathroom and get them out.Please.”
“Not likely. You could have a spare phone shoved up there for all I know.”
A bigger concern is her flushing them before I can stop her or otherwise destroying them out of spite. I grip the string again, pulling it for longer this time, ignoring the way her features screw up, the tension that lets me know I’m causing discomfort.
“It’s stuck,” I say just before it comes free with a jerk.
Not the packages. Just the string.
I toss the useless thing aside and rub my hands on my legs, thinking. “I’ll check the bathroom. They might have something.” Lubricant. Vaseline. Even a tub of hand cream would be worth a try.
She turns on her side, curling her knees up to her chest, shoulders shaking. I walk along the corridor, trying doors until I find the right one. The vanity unit has a bottle of shower power, a toilet brush, and a hairdryer that looks like it teleported from the sixties.
The drawers aren’t any better. If anything was in there, it’s been ransacked long ago.
When I walk back into the room, she’s busy untying her bonds.
I lie across her, pinning her with my weight, listening to her stutter, trying to explain herself. “Shut it,” I tell her when it becomes annoying. I shove my finger back inside her, ignoring the way she twitches, the way her eyes glisten, the way guilt stabs into my chest.
My fingertip rubs against the curve of a packet. The plastic has some give when I try to snag it, instead sending it deeper inside.
“Can’t you bear down or something? Like you’re giving birth?”
I get that snag in my chest again. Rachel is a seven-hour drive from here, in Motueka. Pretty much as far up the South Island as it’s possible to go.
It’s two days until her due date. Given the new set of circumstances, it’s probably going to take at least that to get up there.
Thanks to this woman.
A burn of anger stirs, overlapping the guilt.
My kid could be on his way into this twisted world this very minute, and yet here I am. Stuck. Trying to get this stranger to give birth to a payload of drugs so I can afford the change in plans.
I shove my finger higher, ignoring her gasp. The package is oblong, and I edge my finger along the side, curling it at the tip to hook it. It slips and I growl low in my throat.
Fuck this. New plan. Unless she provides her own lubrication, we’re at an impasse. “What do you like?”
She shakes her head, eyes closed, caution etched in every line of her worn face. The fear she wore earlier has gone, probably lost in the mad scramble that got her nowhere. “I don’t know what you mean.”
