Page 142 of Ship Outta Luck

Cellphone safely tucked in my bra cup, I open my shirt, turn the volume down and dial 911. The operator picks up immediately.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Are you really going to shoot me?” I scream, overacting, trying to keep them from hearing the woman’s muffled voice on my bra phone.

“You’re taking too long. I wanted to do this the easy way, like a gentleman, but if you don’t hurry your ass up, I will knock you out and carry you out of here,” Pierce responds.

God, I hope the woman on the line heard that, that she won’t just assume this is some crank call.

A blinking light catches my scattered attention.

Next to the travel-size hairspray, the curling iron is still on. A new plan, hare-brained and ill-advised, forms in my head.

It’ll probably get me killed.

But the stats about kidnapping victims moved to a second location are never good. I did some research after thelasttime I was kidnapped.

Gotta stay informed!

“Not doing that again,” I murmur, and turn the dial up on the iron. Hot enough to burn hair. Hotter than I’ve ever set it.

The deliciously scented bubble bath sits on the counter next to it. The wheel in my head picks up speed, the hamster definitely drunk on power and adrenaline.

I squirt it across the floor, making a foul sound. I kick the handle on the toilet for good measure, and it flushes loudly.

“I’d really appreciate some privacy.” The words fly out of me, sounding embarrassed. I’m not, though, I’m scared out of my mind.

The 911 operator asks several quiet questions to my boob. Outside the men are laughing some more. This time I join in, high-pitched and keening like a hyena.

I shift my weight to my left leg, the curling iron in one hand, hairspray in the other. It’s been a while since I took self-defense, since I forced myself to learn something to protect myself, something my therapist in high school suggested.

I’m not leaving this damned hotel room without a fight.

“I’ll get her.” A frisson of fear curls through me.

I bare my teeth, the curling iron sending up waves of heat as the hotel AC blasts the room. The door squeaks open, and the man I wish I’d told Charlie to run over again steps into the bathroom.

A high-pitched scream tears out of my throat, and I aim the hairspray straight into his eyes, managing to dust his whole body in it as I back away from him.

“That’s super-strength hold. Who’s the bitch now?”

The bitter scent of it coats my nose, my tongue. His scream joins mine, and for a moment, we almost harmonize as his fingers scramble against his eyes.

Stumbling, his foot connects with the bubble bath slicked across the floor. His eyes and arms go wide as he tries to catch his balance, and I aim a kick at him but miss, connecting with the doorknob instead, locking it and slamming it shut.

The gun goes off, and I forget how to breathe, paralyzed with fear.

The shot goes wide, taking out a chunk of the bathroom ceiling. Well, better here than my kitchen.

Another shot goes off and I duck, arms over head, curling iron clenched tight. He hits the floor, his head bouncing off the marble with a sick crack.

Blood spills out of the wound. He doesn’t move.

The whole moment is over in less than thirty seconds. I eye the bubble bath on the counter and edge further away from the bloody bubbling mess on the floor.

Maybe I’ll stick to Epsom salts and bath bombs after this.

“What the hell is going on in there?” Pierce pounds on the door, the handle twitching as he tries to open it. The door shaking as he kicks it.

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