8. Jasmine #2
I forced a laugh, short and low. “Then I find my own way out.”
“Yeah,” she said, and I could hear the hope fighting its way back up her throat.
I took a risk, sat up, and pulled the underwire from my waistband. Even in half-light it glinted, a surgical kind of promise. I angled it so only she could see. She inhaled, sharp.
“You get caught with that—”
“I don’t plan to,” I said. “Inspection’s every three days. Today was day two.” I watched her do the math. “I have one window. Tomorrow night, or never.”
Renata didn’t say anything, but the way her hands flexed around her knees told me she was already inside the plan with me. She shifted closer to the bars, and for the first time since we’d landed in this pit, her voice held something almost like command.
“You want a lookout?”
I nodded once. “Yeah. I want you to scream your fucking lungs out if anyone so much as farts in this hallway. But not until I’m ready.”
She grinned, just a crack. “I can do that.”
“Good,” I said, and tucked the wire back down.
The hush that followed felt less like resignation and more like a truce. She’d shown me her wound, and I’d shown her my edge, and that was as close to trust as anyone got in this place.
I settled back, arms behind my head, and stared at the shadow-webbed ceiling. I wondered what time it was in Kingman, whether Sniper was out on the bike or hunched over a map with Bruiser, plotting. I wondered if Maya still had her shoes.
I wondered if anyone would remember us, if we didn’t make it out.
But mostly, I counted the hours, and waited for the lights to drop, and ran the plan through my head until it was the only thing left.
Tomorrow night, or never.
I could live with those odds.
***
Adam made his rounds at exactly 21:00, same as every night, but this time he stopped at my cell and didn’t leave.
He rested his palm on the bars, not like a threat, more like a priest laying hands on a penitent.
He had the look of a man who’d found peace in his routine and now expected the rest of the world to fall in line.
The light above us flickered once, then steadied, bleaching his knuckles the color of bone.
“You never sleep,” he said.
I stared at his hand, not the face. “Light’s too ugly.”
He chuckled, low and real. “You’d be surprised how many people get used to it.”
I thought of Renata, curled up and still, maybe dreaming of frogs or shoes or the daughter whose name she never spoke after midnight.
Adam traced a slow circle on the bar with his thumb. “You know what I like about you, Eve Eight? You don’t pretend.” He dropped the smile. “Some women bend. Some break. You just get sharper.”
I didn’t blink. “If you’re looking for a thank you, you should check the other cells.”
He stepped closer. “You’re convinced your husband’s coming for you. That he’ll burn this place down.” He tilted his head, eyes pale and unreadable. “You sure you’re worth all that trouble?”
It was a real question. Not a jab, not even a taunt. Just curiosity.
I let my jaw set. “He won’t stop until he finds me. And when he does, you’ll wish you’d left us alone.”
Adam laughed, and it echoed off the concrete, higher than I’d ever heard it. For a second, he sounded almost happy.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “That’s why you’re still alive.” He leaned in, and now his voice was close enough to fog the bars between us. “Just remember: no one ever escapes their story. Not really.” He pulled back, let the words settle, and then moved on to Cynthia’s cell.
I watched him open the cell. He didn’t unlock it because it was never locked. Cynthia sat up on her cot, and he knelt beside her, moving his hand to her face. She leaned forward and kissed him, reaching for his belt as she did.
Her fingers worked his belt with practiced ease, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss.
He didn’t rush her, didn’t push. Just stood there, patient, while she undid his jeans and slid them down his hips.
I wanted to look away, but something in the way they moved together kept my eyes locked on them.
Adam guided Cynthia to her feet. She was taller than I’d realized, almost his height, with long limbs and the kind of grace that comes from knowing exactly what you’re doing.
He turned her slowly, pressing her against the bars of her own cell, his body shielding her from the rest of us. But I could still see.
His hand traced down her spine as she arched into him, her breath catching in a way that wasn’t performance. She reached back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The fluorescent light caught the sweat on their skin, turning them both into something almost beautiful.
I’d seen plenty of sex in my life—club girls and prospects, drunk weddings and after-hours parties. But this was different. There was no desperation here, no transaction. Just two people who’d found something in each other that worked.
Adam’s hand slipped under her shirt, pushing it up to reveal the curve of her waist. She twisted in his grip, turning to face him, and this time when they kissed, it was slower, deeper.
Her hands moved to his chest, fingers spreading wide over his skin like she was mapping territory she’d claimed long ago.
The others in their cells had gone still. Even the wet coughing from down the row had stopped. The whole bunker held its breath, watching Adam and Cynthia move together in the half-light.
He lifted her with surprising ease, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her the few steps to her cot.
The metal frame protested under their combined weight, but neither seemed to notice.
His mouth found her neck, and she threw her head back, throat exposed, a sound escaping her that was equal parts surrender and triumph.
I should have been disgusted. Should have turned away from this display in our prison. But something about it was hypnotic—the way he moved over her, the way she responded, as if they’d done this dance a thousand times and still found new steps.
When it was over—when they both stilled, breath coming hard, skin glistening—Adam gathered her close, one hand stroking her hair while she pressed her face against his chest. For a moment, he looked almost human.
Then he stood, dressed without hurry, and pressed a kiss to Cynthia’s forehead. She watched him go, something unreadable in her eyes.
He looked my way on his way out. “Sleep well, Eve Eight,” he said, and there was something new in his voice—not kindness exactly, but a kind of recognition.
I said nothing, just held his gaze until he turned away.
The vault door hissed shut behind him. The bunker exhaled.
I lay back on my cot, arms folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling. My hands ached from the lockpicking practice, but my mind was clearer than it had been in days.
Adam’s little show had told me something important: he was predictable. Even his intimacy followed a pattern. And patterns had weaknesses.
I closed my eyes and began mapping tomorrow night’s escape in my head, running through every variable, every contingency. The lock was the easy part. Getting past Adam’s inspection schedule would be harder. Finding my way out of wherever this bunker was buried—that was the real challenge.
But I had Renata. I had my tools. And I had the absolute certainty that Sniper was out there, tearing apart the desert looking for me.
Tomorrow night, or never.
I could live with those odds.
I drifted into something like sleep, my fingers still curled around the wire hidden in my palm, counting down the hours until my window opened.