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Not yet.
“Noted,” I say, brushing past the woman to go into the bathroom. I move to shut the door behind me but meet resistance.
The woman is standing behind me with her hand on the door. “Sorry, the door has to stay open.”
“I see they want to strip us of all of our dignity,” I say.
She shrugs and then lowers her head, her lips barely moving as she speaks. “Basically, yes.”
The quick surge of annoyance fades as I realize this woman doesn’t enjoy her job. She is simply doing what she has to do, just as I am doing what I have to. So, I move into the bathroom and slip out of the loose-fitting sweats and T-shirt Rian Morrison put on me.
I don’t have underwear or a bra, but I assume there will be clothes provided for me. Surely, the Cartel wouldn’t present me in sweatpants.
“I have clothes for you to change into,” the woman says, reading my thoughts.
I look up and see that she is still in the doorway, but looking the other way. She is offering me as much privacy as she can.
The tub is old with dark grout around the edges and a rusted tap, but the porcelain itself is clean and, when I slip my leg in, the water is warm. After days of being in the same clothes and tied to a chair, my body is sticky and sore and the water feels like an embrace.
I sigh as I slide in.
Even a week ago, I never would have set foot in a tub like this. I would have taken one look at the bathroom and turned around. Now, however, my standards are lower. I will do almost anything to wash away the grease caked along my scalp and the oil on my face.
I cup my hands under the water and pour it over my eyes. Then, I tip my head back and submerge my hair. Even before shampoo or soap, I feel infinitely cleaner. I grab the shampoo on the edge of the tub and pour a generous dollop in my palm.
The shampoo is clearly top of the line. It is silky with a strong lavender scent. The Cartel may not be providing nice lodgings for the women they plan to sell, but apparently, they want to make sure we look and smell our best.
Part of me wants to leave this room smelling like manure and looking like I rolled around in an oil slick, but I can’t resist the feeling of being clean. So, I use the conditioner and then the bodywash, lathering myself all over until the water is milky and suds float on the surface.
“Where is the razor?” I ask.
The woman opens a drawer beneath the sink and hands me a razor. As my hand wraps around the handle, she meets my eyes, and I can see her trying to assess whether I’m a danger to myself or her. I smile, not sure whether that is more or less comforting for her.
I shave quickly, not worrying about missing spots. Any man who ends up touching my legs will be doing so against my will, so I kind of hope he feels more stubble than he likes.
When I’m done, I pull the plug on the tub and then turn on the faucet and rinse the last remnants of soap from my skin. There is a towel hanging from a bar next to the tub, and I wrap it around myself quickly, folding back the top corner of the towel before tying it in a knot. Then, I slip past the woman and into the room.
She moves around in the bathroom for a minute before she comes into the room and stares at me.
“Where is it?” she asks.
I lift my brows in surprise. “What?”
“The razor,” she says, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes are downturned and sad. “I can’t find the razor blade.”
I shake my head and hug the towel tighter to my body. “I left it on the side of the tub. Maybe it fell behind the toilet.”
Her forehead wrinkles, and I recognize the expression as pity. “I already checked.”
I clutch the corner of the towel, feeling the bulk of the razor beneath it. I planned to slip it into a fold of my outfit or inside my panties while I was getting dressed. Having anything—even a small razor—would be better than going out unarmed.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says, taking a slow step towards me. “But I can’t let you leave this room with it. It will be bad for both of us.”
I cautiously let the razor fall from the fold of the towel and into my palm, and I contemplate attacking this woman. Maybe if I kill her, or incapacitate her, at least, I could run down the hallway and through the door I was brought in. There are a lot of trees around the inn. I could slip into the woods and run for the nearest road. It could work.
“Please,” the woman says, her shoulders sagging forward.
The woman is terrified. Not of me, but of the Cartel.
