Dirty Minds: An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

One guard opened the door.

I stepped in.

He didn’t.

The door closed.

I’m alone.

Adrenaline spiked through me. I raced through that bathroom, gauging my possibilities. Black and white floor. Red walls. Glass slits for windows. Not the sort I could open and climb out of. Two hand dryers. Five sinks. Five stalls.

I went into the last stall, shut the door, and stood on top of the toilet seat. I peeked my head over the stall’s wall.

No one had come in to check on me, which possibly meant that they didn’t have cameras in the bathroom. I had two to three minutes to get the hell out of there. I pushed at the black and white tiled ceiling, but it wasn’t like the cheap ass ceilings from New York nightclubs.

The manager had renovated everything. There would be no climbing into the ceiling and crawling out. Every tile was new and in place. I shoved at it. Nothing moved.

Goddamn it.

I jumped off the toilet seat and touched the vent on the floor. It was a small box. I could climb into it, but it would be tight. I looked at the screws on the side. They were loose but not loose enough.

Shit. Okay. Think. Think. Can’t go through the ceiling. So try the floor.

I hurried, unlocked the stall’s door, and saw nothing outside of the stalls to help me with the screws. I went back into the stall, locked the door, lowered to the ground, and shook the damn vent. It loosened the edges some more. Heart pounding, I did a quick untwist on of one of the screws. I wasn’t sure if it worked, or if I was just slipping my fingertips along metal.

It’s working. It’s working. You’re getting out of here.

I was sure two minutes had probably passed.

My breath quickened right as the bathroom door creaked opened.

Shit.

Leaving the vent, I jumped onto the toilet seat, cleared my throat, and flushed the toilet. The person stepped into the bathroom. I stood and walked to the door.

The voice held a thick Russian accent. “Are you almost done?”

Fuck you. I’m not leaving this bathroom.

“Hey, I need some help.” I mumbled so that he would come closer.

He walked up. “What?”

I unlocked the stall but didn’t open it as I whispered. “I’m so sick. . .I need some help.”

“Are you throwing up some more?” he stepped closer.

Right in front of me.

When he got an inch closer, I slammed him in the head with the stall.

It didn’t knock him out. Just startled him. He pointed at me. I caught his finger and snapped it at the first knuckle, flicking it up like a light switch. It cracked. He screamed. I covered his mouth with my hand and kneed him in his dick.

He groaned.

I popped him in his right temple. His eyes rolled back. He grumbled under my hand, fell forward, and hung limply on me. I stumbled back, unable to hold his big body.

Fuck. He’s heavy.

With all my energy, I dragged him backward and lay him down. Ass up, the big guy thumped onto the floor.

Sweat dripped from my face. No time to wipe it. I stepped over him and got closer to the door, just in case he woke up. I looked down at him.

Why the hell did I do that? Now I have to escape. Shit. At least, he’s not dead. Or is he?

I rolled him onto his front, lowered to him, grabbed his chin, and checked his pulse. it throbbed against my fingers.

Yeah. He’s still alive.

I pulled his head back to straighten his airway. Then, that way he wouldn’t choke while he was knocked out.

Okay. Maybe I have two more minutes.

I took the guy’s gun, keys, and phone.

Hurry before another comes.

The bathroom door creaked opened.

“ Hello?” Another man grunted as he marched forward. “What the hell?”

The bathroom door closed.

He opened the stall, I stood in.

I pointed the gun at him. “Shh.”

He raised his hands.

I whispered, “Come here.”

“You don’t want to shoot me.”

“You’re right.” I signaled for him to come near.

He did, but I could tell he was waiting to reach for his gun. “How will you get out?”

“That way.” I pointed at the ceiling.

He looked up.

I slammed him with the butt of the gun.

He stumbled back.

Come on. Pass out. I’m tired.

He staggered back, but still stood. Heart pounding, I jumped and slammed him with the gun again. He fell into one of the stalls. My arms and sides ached, but I’d done more than I ever knew I could. One more slam, and he crashed to the floor.

Shit. You’re making too much noise.

He wouldn’t stay down. He pushed off the stalls like a drunk, stumbled ahead, and swung with his right, aiming for my head. With the size of his fist, I would’ve been out for the rest of the week. But the punch didn’t land.

I caught his wrists, snapped it, and sent him barreling back into the stall, knocking him out.