Page 88 of Cash

After bumping into it a few times, he also discovered a rickety table.

He put his hands up against the wall and felt around as he walked the perimeter of the room again, not stopping until he found a door. It was locked, but at least he got to shake the crap out of the doorknob.

That was weirdly satisfying even if it didn’t open.

Now that he’d mapped out pretty much the entire room and had nothing else constructive to do, his adrenaline kicked back in along with a healthy dose of fear.

Someone had kidnapped him.

Someone who was very probably the same person who had attacked both Trixie and Jules. For some reason, he’d been spared the stabbing part—not that he was complaining really. He didn’t want to know what it was like to be stabbed, but it was a bit strange that he was mostly unharmed.

For now.

Those two words filled him with a new dread as he realized he was probably being kept alive as some sort of collateral or bargaining chip.

Jules.

His heart ached, and he hoped Jules was all right.

Trixie too, he realized, since he’d been taken right outside her hospital room or at least close by. He hoped that no one had come back to finish the job or anything so horrible, but he didn’t know what to think. He didn’t even know how long he’d been here. He could have been passed out for hours, even days, and he wouldn’t know the difference without any way to measure time in here.

He stepped away from the door, and he blinked as something hit his face. He recoiled at first because it was cool, but then he leaned back into it trying to figure out what it was that he’d run into.

It was a thin chain.

A light!

Without hesitation, he grabbed the chain in his mouth so he could pull it. He hadn’t thought to close his eyes, and the light was instantly blinding. He cursed under his breath, turning away and waiting for his vision to clear. He squinted and looked around, and he grimaced when he found himself in pretty much what he’d expected—a shitty dank room.

It looked like a basement, and the smell certainly solidified the idea that he was somewhere underground. There were no windows, only the one locked door, and Brick’s heart sank.

He was well and truly trapped.

There was nothing else in the room except the beat-up table, and it was just low enough for him to sit on. He continued to pull and tug at the ropes holding him, but he was still unable to slip free. His wrists were burning from his efforts, and he sagged in defeat, staring at the door.

There didn’t seem to be anything to do now except wait.

Wait for what?

Torture? Death?

Fuck that.

Brick stood up and stared down the table.

It was cheap, already about to fall apart, and it wouldn’t take much to bust it up into something he could use.

He pushed it against the wall with his hip, and he kicked at the legs to knock it over. Once the table was down, he stomped at the top until the cheap wood cracked. Using his feet, he pushed one of the broken halves over on its side.

The jagged edge where the table was broken might be enough to cut through his ropes. He crouched, wiggling backward to line up the rope with it and start sawing back and forth as fast and hard as he could. He hissed in pain when a splinter caught his hand, but he didn’t stop. He had no idea how much time he had left.

Whoever had put him in here could be back at any second, and the noise from busting up the table might have attracted unwanted attention. He had to hurry.

He sawed faster and faster until his arms ached, and it didn’t seem like it was working. He had no idea what the rope was made out of, and the edge of the broken table might not be enough to break through it. He flopped flat on his butt, panting and taking a quick break.

This was bullshit.

Fear bubbled up and made him want to puke again, and he did his best to banish those feelings. Even as tears stung his eyes, he knew he couldn’t give up. He wasn’t going to die down here in some fetid little basement.

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