Anger flares hot and stupid, then drains into something colder.I don’t fight him.
I let him take it because fights escalate, but bargains buy time.
When he’s satisfied, he pats my cheek—like I’m a child—then drags me to the bathroom door.
The fluorescent light outside the station bathroom hums.It smells like bleach, piss, and old coffee.
He checks my pockets again, fingers rummaging through the lining of my jeans, the air between us humming with that violation that can’t be erased.
I squirm under his touch, nails worrying the fabric where his hand rests.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
He leans in, breath hot on my ear.“I’m just makin’ sure you don’t try nothin’ clever.”
I swallow.I find my voice small but hard.
“You better just keep your hands off me.”
He laughs and jerks the convenience-store key from the door with a flourish, shoving it into my palm like I’m the one in charge.
It’s a trap on a chain, but I hide the tremor in my fingers.
He lingers until I step through the door, until the lock clicks and the fluorescent light flickers on my skin, until the bathroom stalls swallow me up and I have a second—precious, slippery—to breathe.
Inside, I lock the door, lean my forehead to the cool metal, and let the tiny tsunami of relief break over me.
My phone is gone.Roach has it.
My connection to help is with him—an ugly little bargaining chip—yet for all that’s been taken, I still have something they don’t.
Time.
And inside that cramped, fluorescent-lit stall, I start to breathe slower, thinking fast.
Sawyer said he’d come.I picture him driving like a man possessed, Micah and Benji cursing through the night, lights slicing through the dark.
I scrub my face with cold water, wipe the sweat and the smear of mascara, and try to steady myself.
The ache in my bladder is still there, real and humiliating, so, I do my business.
And beneath my racing pulse is a steadier beat.
Plan.Wait.Don’t give them another reason.
Outside the thin door, someone paces.Roach’s boots scrape the concrete.
I hear him talk, low and bragging, but I can’t make out all of the words.
Just the lewd ones.The disgusting ones.The ones that make me want to peel the skin off my face—because I swear to God if that man touches me, one of us won’t make it out alive.
My hands curl around my stomach until the tension in my fingers fades into pins and needles.
I close my eyes and whisper into the small, cool space, an invocation or a prayer.
Sawyer, hurry.Please.
Chapter 35-Sawyer
