72
TWILL
Langdon crouched at the locked door of the cage. He was wiggling two of Twill’s hairpins around, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. Why did men always do that? You put a tool in the hand of a man, and their tongue slips out. Every time. Fucking weird.
Twill was standing in the corner of the cage.
Langdon had said if she got any closer, “I’ll kill you.
I’ll fucking kill you.” His exact, unfiltered words.
He’d sounded insistent, the bastard. Twill wasn’t exactly worried, but when he made zero progress on the lock with her hovering over him, she decided to give him some space.
Little good that had done. His hands were sweaty, covered in bird shit, and the pin kept slipping from his grip.
The more frustrated he got, the less progress he seemed to make.
Finally, she said, “Do you want me to try?”
“I want you to stay the hell away from me,” he grumbled back through clenched teeth.
Getting bested by a girl had taken ‘big strong man’ down a notch. Twill was willing to humor him for a little bit, but not much longer. She wanted out.
Twill was under no illusion she was safe.
Langdon would certainly try to kill her if it meant saving his own skin.
And whoever had put them in this cage seemed content to let them be as long as they played by the rules.
Those rules were simple—only one of them got to leave.
If he actually got that door open, she’d have to act fast.
The chain was curled on the floor at the opposite side of the cage. It wasn’t long enough to make it all the way to the door. That probably wouldn’t work again, anyway; he’d expect it now. If she were to kill him, she’d have to get creative.
Twill looked down at her torn dress. Filthy. Ruined. She let out a low sigh. “How much did you pay?”
Langdon’s finger slipped again. He swore under his breath, then went back to it. “For what?”
“For me,” Twill said, gesturing around. “For this.”
“Six thousand,” he muttered.
Twill considered that. “Was that on top of the two thousand you paid for . . . our date? For the night?”
“Our date . . .” Langdon let out an aggravated huff. “6k for you. Period. I bought you. I own you to do with as I please. Fuck you, kill you, whatever. That was the deal.”
He said this so matter-of-factly. Like he’d purchased a car or a sandwich. This guy disgusted her.
“You can’t own another person. This isn’t 1840.”
“No? How long has it been since you were . . . what did he call you?” Then it came to him. “Madison Poppy.”
It had been over a year since she’d heard that name.
More than three years since she considered it her name.
As far as she was concerned, Madison Poppy died the moment she ran off from the hell that was Sarah and Nick’s house in Tupelo, and that was what?
Four years ago now? Almost five. She’d been only ten, going on eleven.
Fucking Nick and his grabby hands. Fucking Sarah, who gave exactly zero shits what her husband did as long as the foster care checks kept coming. Fuck them both.
“These people are good,” Langdon said. “Log into any government database, and you’re going to find Madison Poppy doesn’t exist and never did.
Any school records you might have had are gone.
Department of Child Services, gone. Criminal record, gone.
You’re not a person anymore. You’re a nothing.
Nobody’s looking for you. Nobody cares.”
Twill tamped down the anger brewing in her gut. “Who exactly did you pay the six thousand to? Was it Lou?”
He shook his head. “Who the hell is Lou? It was somebody else. Some—” There was a soft click from the lock, and his eyes went wide. He twisted the handle and the door opened with a whiny squeak. “Holy shit. I got it.”
From speakers all around, the voice boomed, “The same rules apply, but the field of play has expanded. Only one of you may leave.”
The voice was followed by a soft click, then a melody Twill had heard before.
Da, da da da. Da, da da da.
The opening to “It’s Not Unusual,” quickly followed by Tom Jones’ deep baritone voice crooning about jealousy and unrequited love.
Landon looked toward the ceiling, his head cocked. Confused.
Twill ran at him and jumped on his back before he could get to his feet.
She wasn’t a large girl, barely a hundred pounds, but he hadn’t been ready for it. His knees buckled and cracked against the concrete, and his head came forward and slammed against the metal bars.
He grunted. Tried to shake her off.
Twill clapped her hands on his ears. She hit him as hard as she could with open palms. Ruddy had taught her the move.
Ruddy said if you do it properly, the air pressure will rupture both eardrums. Not only did it hurt like hell, but hearing would be damaged.
Maybe permanently, maybe not, but either way, it would buy you some time.
Twill had no clue how much damage she’d inflicted, but Langdon screamed like a little girl, and that was good enough for her.
Both his hands went to his head, and when they did, Twill bounced—she brought all her weight down on his back for a second time. His shoulder hit the cage door, knocked it open, and he dropped, splayed out on the floor—half in, half out of the cage, stunned.
Tom Jones launched into the chorus.
“It’s not unusual to be mad with anyone.”
“It’s not unusual to be sad with anyone.”
Twill quickly scrambled off and over Landon, climbed across his back, and found herself outside the cage when his hand shot out and grabbed her by the ankle.
She stomped on his wrist with her other foot.
When he released her, she grabbed the cage door and slammed it against the side of his body.
Once. Twice. Then a third time for good measure.
Langdon went still.
Not unconscious, though. His groans told her that much.
Quickly turning, Twill almost smacked against one of the cameras. She nearly lost her balance avoiding it and got tangled in one of the lighting rigs, almost fell, but managed to stay on her feet.
She got to the hinged wall and pressed against it. The walls were on wheels, meant to be mobile. Temporary. When a gap opened up between them, Twill squeezed through and gasped at what she found on the other side.