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A wave of nausea washes over me, and goose bumps form on top of my goose bumps.
In the next stall, a toilet flushes, and the sound of rushing water echoes around me. “Are you kidding me, right now?”
Since I basically locked myself up and threw away the key, I have two choices: Stay in this bathroom forever or ask Dash for help. I yank up my shorts, and with as deep a breath as I dare take, stumble out of the restroom.
Dash is exactly where he said he’d be, oblivious to the tears streaking down my face. “We should stop at the charging station before we—”
“Dash?” I whisper his name on a sob.
“Zoey?” He glances behind me as if the source of my distress is anywhere but directly in front of him. “What happened? Are you okay? You look kinda sick. Was it something you ate?”
More like something I drank. My bladder spasms again, and I whimper.
“Say something.” He locks his concerned gaze on me. “You’re scaring me.”
“I-I have a problem.” My voice cracks.
He flinches, but to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “Like, a female problem?”
I freaking wish.
A hysterical laugh breaks free, and I choke it back, on the verge of losing it. “Not exactly. I, uh, my grandma Lola gave me a pair of . . . of special panties.”
“Special?” Dash cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing as he processes the new information. “Special how?”
Another spasm threatens to drop me to my knees, and I snap my eyes shut. “There’s a secret code to get them off, and I—” Tears spill over my eyelashes. “I lost it.”
He nods and blows out a breath. “So we get a pair of scissors and you cut them off, right?”
I look up at him through wet lashes and shake my head.
“No?” His eyebrows dart up his forehead.
“G-Lo said they’re practically indestructible.”
“Indestruct—” Dash chokes out a nervous chuckle and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“She said I’d need wire cutters to get them off,” I whisper.
He shoves his hands into his hair and swears under his breath. “Okay, come on.”
He practically lifts me off the ground, dragging me down the street in a half run, half power walk.
We pass the trolley stop, and my body goes into a full-on spasm. “Aren’t we taking the streetcar?”
“Too slow.” He scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder. “Just . . . Please don’t pee on me.”
I swallow a snarky reply. At this point, my sense of humor is full-on drowning.
Like freaking Usain Bolt at the Olympics, Dash sprints the last few blocks, practically hurdling the summer tourists and chanting “please don’t pee on me” the whole way back to the parking garage.
When we finally make it to the car, he deposits me at the front bumper and opens his trunk. He pulls out a sleek black bag, and my first instinct is to run. But since I’m incapable of moving without my bladder spontaneously emptying, I stand, frozen in place, while he digs out a giant tool that looks like it would easily cut through bone.
“W-Why do you have that?” My shriek echoes through the parking garage.
Dash cringes. “You said we needed wire cutters. These”—he gives the instrument of death a shake—“are the closest thing I have.”
“But why do you just happen to have a pair of bone cutters in your car?” A jolt of fear spikes through me. “I should’ve waited for G-Lo’s background check. Jeanie was right. You’re way cuter than Ted Bundy. I should’ve known!”
