I swallowed and my pulse hammered. Maybe that was the key. He needed it impersonal and anonymous. It was easier for him to keep me a thing instead of a person that way, and much more difficult to hurt something that didn’t have any feelings.
“My name is Riley Fletcher. What’s yours?” I asked, even though I already knew. Maybe it was really going to be a good thing that I knew who he was.
He stiffened. I’d struck a nerve. I was definitely onto something. He stared at me through his hollowed, ski-masked eyes, and I held his gaze. The silence stretched between us as I stood awkwardly next to the bucket.
Finally, he muttered, “You need to go to the bathroom.”
“What’s your name?” I asked again.
His eyes glinted behind the fabric. For a second, I thought he might hit me. Instead, he shoved me hard toward the bucket. “Are you going to use that or not?” He pointed at it.
I staggered forward, nearly falling again. He stood watching me with his arms crossed against his chest and his fists clenched at his sides. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I tried to wiggle my running shorts down while I was still tied up.
I realized I was still wearing my running belt. But that wasn’t the best part—there was a Kubotan tucked inside. I never ran without it. Dawson didn’t know that I was wearing the belt. It looked like part of my shorts because it was elastic and flat. Just small enough to hold a couple of GUs, my Kubotan, and Advil.
I could probably use it to get out of my ties.
“Can you please turn around so I can have a bit of privacy?” I asked, adrenaline surging through me. “Can we at least try to make this a little less humiliating?”
He shook his head. “You already tried getting away once.”
“And look what happened,” I pointed out. “I’m in an even worse position now. Please, I have to go to the bathroom, like,reallygo to the bathroom, you know what I mean?” I shuffled side to side and tried to look uncomfortable.
He knew exactly what I was implying and didn’t seem to want to watch me poop any more than I wanted to do it in front of him, even though that’s not what I was doing. He tossed me a roll of toilet paper.
“Here,” he grunted. “Make it quick.”
My hands shook with the fear of getting caught, the moment he turned around. I reached behind me and fumbled awkwardly with the waistband of my belt. My fingers brushed the cool metal. Relief nearly knocked me flat.
The Kubotan.
Slim, black, and no bigger than a pen. It was sharp enough to punch straight through flesh if I needed it to. I’dcarried it on every run for years. My little talisman against the monsters that lurked in dark trails and empty parks.
He had no idea it was there. The belt looked like nothing. It was practically part of my shorts, and he probably never considered there was anything in it. His back was still to me.
I eased it out, working it down into my bound hands. My pulse thundering in my ears.
Behind me, Dawson shifted his boots in the dirt. “Hurry up.”
I clenched the Kubotan tight and shoved it into the ties, hiding the long part with my fist. I just couldn’t drop it, no matter what. My knuckles whitened around it as I tugged my shorts back into place.
“I’m done,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
He turned around. His eyes were impossible to read behind the mask, but his body looked less rigid. He grabbed my arm and I didn’t fight him this time. I staggered next to him, pretending to be upset and embarrassed, but underneath my exterior, excitement coursed like fire throughout my entire body.
Because for the first time since he’d taken me, I wasn’t completely powerless.
My first chance at freedom was hidden in my fist.
Chapter Seven
Please, you have to take me to a doctor. Something is wrong with me.” The words scraped out, thin and broken.
I’d been so excited about the Kubotan, but within seconds of hiding it in the mattress, I’d started puking and hadn’t stopped. Dawson was kind enough to bring me a big bowl from the kitchen so I wouldn’t heave on the floor. Violent convulsions emptied my stomach over and over again. My body wouldn’t stop shaking.
He sat at the table, facing the door. He’d been ignoring me ever since he gave me the bowl. My throwing up bothered him. I could tell. He cringed every time I gagged. I was as grossed out by it as he was. I hadn’t been this sick since I got food poisoning from Taco Bell freshman year of college.
Except this all had to be related to getting cracked in the head. Concussions were no joke. My skull throbbed with every heartbeat, pulsing like a drum. The nausea left me feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My thoughts came in fractured jolts. Every time I blinked, I was afraid I’d lose consciousness again. Meanwhile, he just sat in his chair like nothing was happening. Was he just waiting for me to die?
