Hawk (Sex and Bullets 2)

“Like a very real date. Official date,” I clarify, becaus

e we’ve done the dinner and kissing and wild sex afterward, but it meant nothing then.

It does now.

She nods, smiling faintly, and I kiss her quickly on the mouth.

“Let’s do this.”

Yeah, let’s fucking do it and to hell with doubting and fear.

***

The boxes are open, and we do fit in. We quickly settle inside one each and close the lids over our heads.

It’s stifling. It’s cramped. Try folding a six-foot-four frame into a metal box. I feel like a sushi roll, and all my bruises are screaming at me.

And then there’s the wait. God, I hope they come soon, or we’ll die of lack of oxygen in here.

Maybe slowing down my breathing might help. My heart is pounding with adrenaline. Sweat is trickling down my back, down my face.

I hope Layla is okay in the box next to mine.

I go over our quick plan in my mind, trying to calm the fuck down. I’ve turned it into a checklist, and I start checking items.

Listen out for our captors—Layla will do that, since I’m half deaf. She will open the lid of my box.

I get out and close the lid again.

We creep out of the basement.

We close and lock the doors.

We creep up the stairs.

We check for guards, and make our way out.

Stalk out of the compound.

Find transportation.

Book it outta here.

Sounds simple enough. I bet it won’t be that fucking simple, and I don’t care, as long as it works.

Christ, talk about sensory deprivation. If it was bad with the blindfold and without my hearing aid, now it’s hell. Add to it the way my muscles are cramping over my bruised ribs, and this is pure white-hot agony.

It’s all I can do not to push the lid up and straighten, betray us in case Sandivar and his goons are back.

Seconds turn to minutes, minutes into a fucking hour. The hour turns into two—or so it feels. There is not enough oxygen. My lungs are burning. My folded legs tremble. My chest hurts like hell.

Will they fucking never come?

Three eternities later, the lid of my container rattles. I hesitate for exactly one second—and then shove upward with my back until air fills my lungs, and I see Layla’s face.

She carefully lifts the lid off, and I climb out of the container that felt like a coffin for a while there. A glance around shows me a distinct lack of goons, but the way she flinches and turns toward the rows of containers tells me she can hear them.

I help her put the lid back on, take her hand and hurry to the open doors. I hear something, a faint shout, as I turn and slam the doors shut, then fumble for the lock.