Page 17 of Dirty Quinn
“God, Quinn, your tits are amazing. I have to see them.” He pulls my shirt up and off me, leaving me straddling him in my shorts and a bra. His eyes fill with hunger, my panties flood.
“So beautiful.” He grabs a breast in each hand and squeezes, then buries his face between them, alternately licking and kissing the valley in between.
The memories heat my entire body from the inside out, my hand clutching at my throat. Making me suddenly wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Ever feel his touch. My pleasure morphs rapidly to despair as I curl into a fetal position and attempt to cry myself to sleep.
7
Quinn
As near as I can tell, it’s been at least a day since I arrived in this room. Someone came in a few hours ago and left me bottled water and some bread with butter. I had to laugh at the stereotypical-ness of the meal. Isn’t that exactly what prisoners always get? Bread and water?
It’s dank in this room and reminds of how the inside of the washing machine smells if you leave wet clothes in it too long. If I had to bet, I’d say it’s subterranean, which is the worse place to be in most natural disasters.
Earthquake? If the house falls, it’s all coming down on top of you.
Flood? Water finds low points to settle in.
Fire? There are no windows to escape from, and I can’t make it through the door.
Hurricane? Well, shit, maybe it would be okay during a hurricane. Or a tornado. Too bad there aren’t many of either of those in California. If at all.
If I wasn’t so tired and cold, I’d be more worried about my lack of escape route from this room. I usually like to know how I’m getting out of a place before I go into it. The only exception to that was the night I spent as a Dirty Darling for Daria. There’s something about channeling badass vigilante justice that makes anxiety a thing of the past.
I try to summon a bit of that same courage now, but it’s just too hard. The only good thing that’s happened since I’ve been here is that they removed the tape from my wrists and ankles when they brought the bread and water. So I’m able to move around a bit and pee in the bucket.
They only left fifteen squares of toilet paper. I counted to make sure I’d have enough. For what I don’t know since I have no idea how long I’ll be here. But I know for sure I plan to use it sparingly. And, luckily, it’s only pee this time around.
I dab gently with one square, trying not to feel disgusted by the liquid that seeps through the thin single ply and coats my fingers. Making the square I used a total waste. I wipe my fingers on my dress and look around for a way to wash my hands.
“Ha ha!” I say aloud. As if there’s going to be a sink with soap and running water in this weird little room. I’m not about to use my drinking water to wash my hands, so I sit back on the thin mattress, uncomfortable knowing that I have pee fingers and that I wiped said fingers on the skirt of one of my favorite dresses.
“Yeah, becausethat’swhat you should be worried about right now, Quinn.”
I flop back with a sigh. Forgetting for just a second just how insufficient the buoyancy is in my little makeshift bed, as I bang my head on the floor.
Well, when all else fails, maybe it’s time for a good cry again.
* * *
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I’m woken by the sound of the lock in my door jiggling and the creak of the hinges as it’s pushed open. I hold my breath, waiting to see who is coming inside this time. I’m pretty sure it’s the big guy that brought me in here. But he’s not the same one who brought the bread and water and tore off my tape bindings.
I soon see that this man is neither of the first two as he makes his way into the room.
He looks at his palm first, as though the doorknob may have transferred something to it, then takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it repeatedly. He looks around, his face filled with disgust, “This room is quite revolting. I’m almost sorry about it.” Like the other men, his accent is heavy. But unlike the other men, it’s kind of sexy. Guttural.
“Almost?” I scoff.
“Well.” He smiles slightly. “You are my prisoner. It’s only fitting you be held in a prison cell, no?”
“Not if you ask me.” I surprise myself with my limited defiance.
“Is there somewhere you’d rather be?”
“Pretty much anywhere but here. How about you let me out and I’ll tell my best friend to kill you swiftly instead of slowly?” I feign confidence well.
He smiles again. This time it takes up more of his face, making him almost handsome in a way.
“Ah, yes. Quinn Foster. The best friend of Daria Limonov, if I’m not mistaken.”
