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“I have to pee.”
He lets out a sigh and keeps walking.
“Hey,” I snap, “I have to use the bathroom. You’ve kept me locked in that room for hours.”
“Fifteen to be exact.” He stops by a door and waves me toward it with a cocky smile. “Make it quick.”
I swallow past the dryness in my throat and step into the room, wracking my mind to do the simple math of what the hell time it is. Seven? Eight?
I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of a barely functional bathroom. If I make it out of this, let me tell you, I’ll never complain about using a public toilet again.
A bucket at the bottom of a landfill would be cleaner.
I start to shut the door, a plan weaving its way through my mind when a boot stops it, nearly jarring me to fall over.
“It stays open.”
“I can’t pee with an audience.”
He cocks a brow, like a father determined to teach his child a lesson. “Then I guess you don’t really have to pee, then, do you?”
Asshole.
I force a breath to calm myself, wincing at the pain in my throat as my plan slips further and further away.
Think, Hannah.
“Try anything and I’m authorized to do whatever I see fit,” he warns, standing with his hands clasped in front of him like a bouncer at a club. “And I’ve got nothing left to lose.” He shrugs as if his threat of raping me in my disheveled state means nothing to him.
I guess . . . in his line of work, it probably doesn’t.
"Are you going to rape me?"
"Fortunately, for you, I prefer blondes."
With a humiliation I’m not accustomed to, I do my business under the careful eye of the creep who watches me like my peeing is most amusing to him.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.”
“Yes, performance art is definitely my thing,” I mock, wiping the smirk off his face.
Taking me by the shoulder, he shoves me down the hall in the opposite direction of my closet hell, this time, staying behind me to watch me like a predator.
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Straight, obviously.”
“Well, I’m hungry.”
“And a prisoner. Prisoners get food when we feel like it and right now, I don’t know that I’m inclined.”
I know what he’s referring to. A blow job for a scrap of bread.
“I’d rather starve.”
“Be my guest.”
Silently, I mock him because it makes me feel better amidst the turmoil raging around me.
