Page 56 of Lucky

“Can you hold it?” he asks.

“Does it look like I can hold it?” I ask, squeezing my thighs together.

“There’s no toilet here; we’re in the woods.”

Well, this certainly throws a spanner into any plan I may have had formulating in my head. In the woods. Which woods? We must be way out in the middle of no-where if there are no amenities.

“How can there be no toilet?” I ask him, playing up my distress. “I really need to go.”

“Then you’ll need to go in the woods,” he tells me. “Do you still have to go?”

I don’t tell him that I can’t miraculously switch off a bladder that hasn’t been emptied in hours. I put on my most outraged voice when I respond to him.

“What about insects? What about you? You can’t watch!”

“I’ll turn around,” he says, as he starts to undo the binds behind my back. “Don’t forget, I’m the one with the gun, so don’t try to do anything foolish.”

He even speaks like a preppy college student. I mentally roll my eyes at the false sense of bravado in his voice as I agree to behave. The fact that the toilet is outside in the wild could very well be the break I need.

I stand and stretch to my full height, shaking the cramps out of my hands and feet. He walks me through the room, down a long hallway with doors on either side, and out another door which leads outdoors. The woods are a vast expanse surrounding the rickety cabin, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions.

There isn’t a soul in sight, with only the sounds of the inhabitants of the wild tickling through the trees. On any other day, I would think it’s beautiful, despite the run-down façade of the cabin and the uneven stairs we use to descend into the clearing leading to the forest.

“Over here,” he says, pushing his finger into my back as he leads me to the left. “There’s bushes here, you can have your privacy.”

I walk the way he commands, until about fifty yards away, when we reach a cluster of bushes.

“Don’t forget, no funny business,” he says, as I duck behind the bushes and lower my pants. I relieve myself, humiliationfestering that he’s barely a few feet away. But I push it down, letting out a groan of satisfaction that breaks through the silence of the forest. When I rise, I make a point of taking my time adjusting my clothes, then move around the bush to join him. His relief that I haven’t tried to run away is palpable, and I watch as he lowers the gun, effectively lowering his guard.

My eyes scan the perimeter of the cabin, our surroundings, trying to formulate a plan. It’s one on one; how hard can it possibly be for me to get away from him? It’s as good a chance as any, and I know I’ll probably never get this chance again. I’m prepared; I know what’s coming, so I’m prepared. Whereas, he has let his guard down and believes he has things under control. He must be so proud of himself.

I take the first step up the stairs, then the second. In a quick, fluid movement, I push my elbow back into him until he stumbles backward. He grunts and I deliver a swift kick to his arm, knocking the rifle out of his hand, watching as it goes clattering to the ground. He howls at the pain, and I wince; I’ve probably fractured his writing hand.Preppy probably won’t beso preppy anymore.I grab the rifle and walk past him before he can react, even as his screams fill the forest, overtaking the sound of fluttering birds.

29

JACKLYN

Isprint into the woods, the trees thick around me, the ground uneven beneath my feet. The cool afternoon air slaps at my skin as I rush through the forest without direction. I discarded the rifle a while back after I realized it wasn’t even loaded. My signature heels, too, have gone the way of the wild, and I don’t so much mind the cuts and lacerations that form on the bottom of my feet as I literally fly between the trees. My heart pounds in my chest as I run, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I don’t look back. I can’t.

The afternoon gives way to the darkness, and my body is exhausted, but I can’t stop. I can’t be caught. Not now. Not after I’ve come this far.

I don’t know how long I’ve been running when I finally reach a road. The headlights of a car flash in the distance, and I force myself to wave, my arms shaking from exertion. The car slows, then pulls over.

The window rolls down. An older man looks at me, confused, his gaze flicking from my disheveled state to my wide eyes. He doesn’t ask questions as I struggle to catch my breath.

“Please,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I need help. I... I need to call someone and I need somewhere safe.”

He nods without a word and throws open the passenger side door, waiting for me to get in. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. My fingers fumble as I dial the only number I know by heart—the number my eyes lingered on dozens of times when I contemplated calling then decided not to. The number of the only person I have left who may be able to help me or put me in contact with someone who can.

The phone rings twice before he picks up.

“Lucky?” I rasp.

“Jacklyn?” His voice is rough, but there’s a familiarity in it that almost brings me to my knees. “Where are you?”

“I’m... I’m,” I say, my voice cracking as I look around. We’ve just driven into a clearing, and I duck to get the name of the stop we’re at. “I’m at the Two Rivers Diner at Twin Junctions,” I tell him, as we pull into the diner. “I need your help,” I whisper. “I need to get to Seattle.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak. When he does, his voice is steady, colder than before.

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