Page 13 of Delivered to the Devil

CHAPTER 7

“Rule of Nines”

by Spiritbox

Rebecca

I wake up feeling more rested than I have in a week. It’s a terrible feeling. Who sleeps well after such a night?

My red armchair is empty, and I stare at it as I listen for sounds in the apartment. All I hear is the humming of the fridge and faint noises from the street.

I’m alone again.

A voice at the back of my head urges me to get up—take action—but I don’t want to leave the illusory safety of the bed. I want to slip into a void. An emptiness where I can’t feel or remember.

If I lie here long enough, it might happen.

But something else will happen too if I stay here. Gabor has just begun. The STD tests, the contraceptive shot, and not least the words ‘new toy’ are more than enough proof of that.

Fuck.I sit up in bed and look around.How did this even happen?

I’ve always been careful with my submissive proclivities, only hooking up with men I’ve met at clubs and always playing there, yet somehow, I’ve ended up in the clutches of the worst kind ofsadist. A cold, calculated one with more power and money than I can even imagine.

I need to get out of here, fast, or I probably never will.

I stumble out of bed and rush to my closet where I keep my suitcase. It pains me that I have to go back home to the hell of my stifling hometown, but it’s my only option, and that’s a nightmare I have a shot at escaping again. If I stay here too long, I have a feeling there’ll be no out.

It only takes me half an hour to get packed and ready. But as I’m in the hall with my suitcase, about to stick a foot in my shoes, I halt.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t just leave like this. Gabor is smart, and I’ll have to be the same if I want any shot at escape. He might well have someone following me. God knows I’ve felt that prickling sensation at the back of my neck too many times lately. If I just waltz out of here with my suitcase in hand, chances are I won’t even make it to the bus before a suited man grabs me and hauls me back—or off to someplace even worse.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I slam my suitcase to the floor, open the zipper, and rummage through my things to find the most important ones and stuff them in my shoulder bag.

Then I halt again as I have my foot halfway into my shoe. I need to make this look natural, and the only way to do that is to leave when it’s time to go to work. Keep this inconspicuous.

I slip my foot back out and glance at the clock. Three hours until my shift starts.

Time drags on at a dreadfully slow speed as I pace the space, biting my nails and panting through onsetting panic. I try to keep the anxiety at bay by making a cup of tea, but my hands are so shaky that I spill scalding tea over my skin.

“Fuck,” I hiss as I drop the mug and watch the ceramic shatter into pieces in a pool of tea.

I might as well leave it since I won’t return, but ignoring the mess proves difficult as restlessness refuses to let me sit still. So I end up on my knees, picking up the pieces. Stupid, stupid idea. My hands are no calmer than before, and a shard slips between my fingers and cuts my right palm.

The gash keeps bleeding, and I think I might have to forget about the airport and visit the ER instead. Ten minutes before I have to leave, the bleeding finally subsides, and I wrap a quick, messy bandage around my hand. Then I stagger down the four flights of stairs and thank my unsteady legs for bringing me to solid ground in one piece.

Instead of going to the nearest bus stop, I head toward the river—the same way that brings me to work—and get on a bus two blocks from the restaurant after scanning my surroundings for fishy characters. An hour later, I’m at the airport, still paranoid as hell. My eyes flit around, finding suspicious eyes everywhere I turn. People give me strange looks, but that’s because I act like a schizophrenic.If only that were the case.But I’m afraid I can’t blame my paranoia on insanity anymore.

I haven’t checked the flight schedule or done any sort of planning. I just need to get out of this country. I don’t care where I end up. Well, mostly. I’d prefer to leave Eastern Europe so I don’t risk getting caught in an even more corrupt city where Gabor has reach.

I press the heel of my hand to my head as I step into the line to get a ticket. I might not be schizophrenic, but I am going crazy. Why would Gabor go to such lengths for a mere waitress? I’m nothing. He can easily find his next prey among the many beautiful women in this city. Even so, I’m not taking any chances, so when the lady at the counter tells me there’s a flight for London leaving in forty-five minutes, I nod a bit too eagerly. It’s a considerable detour, and it drains my meager savings, but it’s the quickest way out of here.

I swipe my credit card, grab the ticket, and hurry on to the security checkpoint, praying I’ll make the flight.

I hold my breath as I scan the ticket. The air swooshes out in a relieved sigh when the machine beeps me through, and I feel a bit lighter as I walk through the labyrinth of stanchions and end in a line of six people. Maybe luck has finally decided to smile upon me.

Not wanting to risk a manual search of my bag or arouse suspicion with my fidgety hands, I take slow, deep breaths as I place my electronic devices in a plastic tray and check my pockets twice. Then I push my two trays down the conveyor belt and walk through the metal detector. My frantic heart beats a bit calmer when the guard gives me a clear, and yet a little calmer when my first tray appears. I put on my jacket and return my keys and lip gloss to my pocket, and when the tray with my bag and electronics slides toward me, I can finally breathe freely.

Everything will work out now. I still have half an hour to go—enough time to find the gate while keeping calm. Then I’ll be out of this god-awful country for good.

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