Leaning my head back, I give myself a couple of minutes to recover. My hand hurts, throbbing like a bitch. It feels twice its size. When I catch my second wind, I pick up my saving grace and test the tip with my thumb. Its dullness doesn’t surprise me. If I want it to pierce flesh without using much force, I need the business end to be sharper. Bedlam will not let me leave without incapacitating him first. Knocking him out will not be enough. He will be expecting that and will be on the guard for it.
So, using the wall for leverage, I return to my feet and yank the mattress off the bedframe. I take a seat, straddling the edge. I keep one foot on the floor and stretch out the other along the length of the frame. Then I grasp the makeshift corkscrew with one hand and place the index and middle finger of my free hand over the tip. Applying pressure, I glide the tip over the edge of the bed. It makes a scraping sound. Praying Bedlam isn’t anywhere near my prison, I repeat the process like I’m sharpening one of my blades against a whetstone.
After a few strokes, I test the sharpness of the tip. Still unsatisfied, I spit on the edge I’ve been using to help the sharpening along and continue, applying just the right amount of pressure. The key is maintaining measured strokes. The activity distracts me away from useless thoughts like Mac and Screw worrying over where I may be. Since they don’t know about—I stop myself. Like Star said, my relationship with Bedlam is the worst-kept secret in the Gathering. People may be talking behind our backs without us—me—knowing, but Screw and Mac never give me shit about it. Plus, there’s no way they’ll make the connection between my disappearance and Bedlam. I only have myself to depend on if I want to escape.
By the hundredth stroke, I pause and check for sharpness. The tip draws blood from my thumb. Smiling, I suck on the wound. I stretch to a standing position and muscle the mattress back to the frame. Then I slip my fourth and middle fingers into the loop and make a fist. The bucket-handle-turned-corkscrew juts out. Perfect.
Chapter Fourteen
PACING. LOTS of it. From one end of the box to the other. I’m literally a caged animal. I have my weapon, yet I’m missing the person I’m ready to stick it into. Okay, maybe I’m going a little stir crazy. I lean my forehead against the metal door, allowing the coolness to settle my nerves. The longer I’m here, the more time I waste. The IC will start with or without me, killer or no. Bedlam deciding to play hero now is totally cramping my style.
Stuffing my improvised shank into my back pocket, I drop down to the mattress. I may as well catch up on my sleep, closing my eyes and cradling the back of my head with my hands. He’ll have to feed me eventually. I hope.
The thought of food lifts a gurgle out of my stomach that climbs up my throat to end in a nasty burp. You know the kind that tastes sour? I grimace. How long have I been here? Surely hours. Has to be. With no windows and no clocks, I have no way of telling.
My heart won’t settle. Without the distraction of creating a way out, I’m left with my useless thoughts. I need action. My foot twitches with the need to pace. I tense the muscles along my leg, crushing the urge to get up.
Returning to my meditative techniques, I focus on the rhythm of my breathing. Really no point in pumping myself up. There’s not much else I can do… until shuffling comes from the other side of the door. I go from trying to breathe normally to barely breathing at all. My heart skips a beat at the unmistakable metallic slide of a key into a lock. I count three seconds before the click. Why did Bedlam hesitate? Maybe he’s girding his loins for the wrath that is me. Oh, I certainly have some wrath to dish out, and it’s at the pointy end of my shiv.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as the door’s hinges creak. My eyes fly open, and I sit up. My fingers itch to pull out my escape ticket. Only the thought of timing my attack right for this to work stays my hand. Instead I rub my palms over my thighs to rid them of nervous sweat.
Bedlam enters my prison balancing a tray in one hand. The water in the plastic glass sloshes when the tray tilts precariously to the side. Having one functioning eye messes with his depth perception.
“Aww, you brought me a sandwich,” I say, injecting a good amount of menace in my tone. Our eyes meet. Mine flick to the door for the briefest second. Despite the depth perception issues, Bedlam is quick.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says.
My rising annoyance pushes me to my feet. “Why are you doing this? You know better than to keep me here. I can take care of myself. Or are you just scared that I’ll beat you this year. Is that it?”
He freezes at the door at my accusation. But faster than I can blink, the tray and its contents clatter to the floor and I’m slammed against the wall. My pants infuse my lungs with his heady scent. He braces my wrists above my head. Shit. I need at least one of my hands if I’m to do this right. He runs the tip of his nose along the side of my neck. I feel myself grow damp at the contact. I may be pissed at his attempt at heroics, but my anger doesn’t erase all the times we’ve spent together. I really need to get a grip on my feelings.
“I can’t bear the thought
