Somewhere in Spain
Alone again.
In the dark again.
Her life was a bad country song.
Jacques had stood over her, nudged the orange peels and water bottle with a booted foot.
“Rodrigo came?”
“No, I snuck out, got myself an orange. Then I decided I missed it in here, so I came right back up and locked myself in.”
He reached down, swept up the peels. Again she was struck by the quickness and precision of his moves. Like the best instructors in her karate classes. Personal trainer her ass. He had hand-to-hand combat training. Too bad he hadn’t mentioned it back in Paris.
“Clever girl.” He nodded at the empty hallway. “He’s not supposed to bother you when we’re not here.”
Because I’ll be worth less if I get raped before I get sold? Because you’re jealous? Or just because you’re a control freak? She didn’t much care. As long as he stayed focused on her and didn’t notice the lighter or the screw and nail.
“He didn’t bother me. I like a man with the confidence to paint his nails.” Probably talking too much, but she didn’t care.
“Promise me you’ll tell me if he tries anything like that again.”
“Trouble in paradise, Jacques?”
“Don’t be too clever.”
He turned, pulled the door shut.
She counted to a thousand, slowly. She didn’t cheat. Four hundred and three… Four hundred and four… A thousand didn’t seem like a big number, not in a world filled with billionaires. But counting it took a while. Eight hundred and five… Lucky her, she had time. When she was done she stood, double-checked the shelf where she’d found the stuff, then the shelf on the other side. She didn’t come up with anything else. She had the lighter, the nail, and the tape. Maybe a piece of wood if she was strong enough to tear the shelving off its hinges.
She had something else, too. The knowledge of trouble between Jacques and Rodrigo. Of course she couldn’t ignore the chance they were only pretending, toying with her. She wouldn’t put anything past Jacques. But Jacques’s annoyance with Rodrigo had seemed real.
They could hand her off or move her to another safe house anytime. She couldn’t wait too long to make her move. But she thought that for now she would be better off biding her time, figuring out how to take advantage of Rodrigo.
She sucked down the bottle of water, sat back, listened, waited. A sweet, dense smell seeped into the closet. When the kidnapping’s done, me and my boys love to chill with a fat blunt.
After a while she realized she had to pee.
Badly.
Thanks, Rodrigo, for that extra water bottle. The need was not a gentle I can hold this a while itch but a heavy hot-stone pressure in her bladder. She tried to distract herself—I’m thinking about kittens now, puppies and kittens, cute lil furballs—but her body wouldn’t take the bait.
Minute by minute, the stress worsened until it was nearly overwhelming. She didn’t understand how a simple need could be such torture. Yet it was. Maybe because she knew she could relieve it in the simplest way possible.
But she didn’t want to piss in here, to foul her nest.
She didn’t want to beg for the bathroom, either. Humiliation atop humiliation. But she had no choice. She went to the door, knocked. Nothing. Downstairs the mumbled voices continued.
She knocked again. Hard this time, hard enough to rattle the heavy door on its hinges.
Finally she heard a slow tread on the steps. Rodrigo. She couldn’t help wondering if he was taking his time on purpose. Like he knew what she wanted and liked making her suffer.
He pulled open the door. “Yes?”
Interesting. He hadn’t pushed her away from the door or even told her to back off. She was standing, barely a step from him. If she’d had the lighter ready…
“I need the toilet.”
He smirked. The weed had turned his eyes into a red-lined map of a country she didn’t want to visit.
“Uno o dos.”
“Pee. Come on. Please.”
He reached behind the door, came out with the hood. So they kept it on a hook out there. Another fact for the file.
She wasn’t going to normalize wearing the hood. She shook her head.
He tapped his fingers to his lips. “Un beso.”
“A kiss?”
“Sí, un beso.”
Could she risk playing this game? What would happen the next time he had the house to himself?
“Jacques told me no.”
“I don’t see Jacques.”
She shook her head. He raised his hands to her shoulders, pushed. She stumbled backward, barely stayed on her feet. He started to close the door.
“Okay. One kiss.”
She put a hand to his cheek, pressed her lips to his, darted out her tongue. Flirty and light. Just a touch, enough to leave him wanting more before she pulled away. Didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.
The wrong idea? Flirty and light? She ought to be clawing his face—
With Jacques and Lilly downstairs?
“That’s all?” He leaned in again.
“For now.” She kept her voice easy. “I really do have to pee.”
He pointed down the hall, mock-courteous with his black-painted nails. Badly as she needed it, she made herself walk instead of run, checked out the hallway. Two closed doors. A plain wood floor. The bathroom door open a crack.
The smell of pot grew stronger. She could hear someone speaking English downstairs, the voice strangely familiar, “You’re probably thinking, ‘My boyfriend said this was a superhero movie but that guy in the suit just turned that other guy into a fucking kebab!’ ”
Great. They were watching Deadpool.
The bathroom was small, a plastic shower-tub, a cheap sink. Not too clean. A narrow frosted-glass window. Not exactly as impassible as the plywood in the closet, but enough to keep her from seeing out.
In a glass on the sink, three razors. Calling her name. She wondered if she was maybe a little stoned herself, she felt weirdly loose. They’d hotboxed her.
She started to close the door. Rodrigo put a hand on it.
“I watch.”
“Forget it.” She was serious, too. She’d yell for Jacques.
He looked around. His eyes stuck on the razors. “One minute.” He closed the door.
She squatted down and pissed. Relief. Her stream mostly clear. Becks was big on making sure that one stayed hydrated, one’s urine remained colorless. Thanks Mom. Through the window she heard the faint growl of a big truck moving fast. Not close, miles away. But still proof that this house was somewhere near a highway. Not in some empty valley in the mountains or a farmhouse ten miles from the nearest road.
The razors weren’t even three feet away. But they were boy razors. Not leg-shaving disposables, certainly not straight blades. Multiple blades in a metal head. Even if Rodrigo didn’t notice she’d taken one, she didn’t see how she could pry the blade out.
Okay, best leave them.
What about a toothbrush? There were three in the water glass on the sink. If she taped the nail to the end of the brush, she’d have a real weapon. She reached for them—
“Almost done?” Rodrigo said from the hall.
She pulled back her arm. Not yet. He was paying too much attention. She knew she couldn’t keep putting off the real risks. But for now waiting seemed like the best move. Gathering information, finding weaknesses.
The door swung open just as she covered herself. His eyes went straight to the sink, the razors.
“You took one.”
“No.” She didn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice. Downstairs Deadpool merrily shot bad guys. “I promise.”
Her fear seemed to please him. He stepped out of the bathroom and pointed at the closet, Go, then. Without a word she walked back to the closet. Hating herself. What progress had she actually made? Found a lighter she was afraid to use and a razor she was afraid to steal?
Worst of all, when she heard the deadbolt snap in place she felt not fear or anger but relief.