Page 117 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
That only left Ponytail.
For a second, she thought about yanking the gun out of her skirt and shooting them both while they were out of it. It was as good a time as any.
But Ponytail was still lucid. His eyes were a little glazed, but he was watching her. And right beside him on the table were multiple weapons.
And even if she was successful in killing them, she’d remain stuck in this cage. With no water. And a psychopathic German Shepard continuing to observe her every move.
So, she scratched that plan. And quickly came up with a new one.
Crawling forward on her knees, she gripped the bars with her fingers. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Ponytail smirked. “So go.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
She gave the cage a little shake, aware that the dog’s focus on her increased. “Just let me use the bathroom. Please.”
Ponytail sat and stared and smirked.
She swallowed hard. The back of her throat felt like sandpaper. “You can watch.”
His smile grew wider. “I can watch now.”
“But then you’ll have to clean it up. They’ll make you.”
She watched his reaction, hoping she’d got the dynamic right between the three of them. She’d gaged that Ponytail was the lackey, the guy that the others would indeed make clean up any messes. Not that she saw much evidence of cleaning going on around here.
She must have been right, though, because he scraped his chair back across the torn-up linoleum and got to his feet. Muttering curses, he went to the opening in the cage’s side and twisted the lock. She didn’t bother trying to see what the combination was. She had no intention of going back into that crate.
The lock sprung open, and he pulled open the door.
She squeezed herself out before he could change his mind. But as soon as she was on her feet, he took a firm grip of her upper arm and yanked her toward the doorway.
He led her down a dark hallway, stopping in front of a small toilet cubicle. Something brown and foul-smelling stained the rim and pedestal. But she was less concerned with the state of hygiene in there and more interested in the small window above the tank.
The small open window.
Ponytail shoved her shoulder, forcing her into the stinking room.
She turned back to him. “Can you untie my hands?”
He shook his head and pushed her again. “Hurry it up. I don’t got all day.”
She held out her bound wrists to him in supplication. “Please. I’d be so grateful. And if I had my hands free, there’re all kinds of ways I could show you how grateful.”
He paused, and she could see his mind working. She knew he was having doubts. But she also knew that he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. And that he had very poor self-control.
He rummaged around in the pocket of his cargo pants until he came up with a small folding knife. Flipping it open, he sawed through the plastic zip tie on her wrist. Then he returned the knife to his pants and immediately began unbuttoning them.
Before she could even let her disgust register, she reacted. She jammed her elbow into his gut, then got her foot around the door and shoved it shut on him. She pressed all her weight against it, then fumbled for the lock under the handle. By the time she had twisted it into place, he had recovered from the gut punch and was now thudding his fists against the door.
She thought for a second about trying to shoot him through the wood. But then she considered the dangers of firing a weapon in such a confined space.
Then all those thoughts were eclipsed by one: run.
Heart hammering in her ears, she turned from the door and slammed the toilet seat down. She climbed on top and, with both hands, shoved the window open as far as it would go. It was a couple of feet: not much, but enough to push her head and shoulders out. And if she could get those out, she could get the rest of her body out.
