11 Under Pressure #2
A whimper sneaks out of me before I can stop it. I’m so close to the breaking point, I can taste it. “Fine! You’re right. I can’t do it. I can’t hold it anymore.”
Dash releases a massive breath. “Jesus, finally.” Grabbing my hand as if he’s the one with the critical bladder situation, he drags me into a little café and walks me all the way to the ladies’ room.
“I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but I promise I’ll be right here when you’re done. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
Blinking back tears, I nod and then scurry into the restroom, barely pausing to close and lock the door behind me.
After launching my tote onto the hook behind the door, I drag my shorts down my thighs, the taste of impending relief on the tip of my tongue. Goose bumps erupt over my skin as I struggle with the waistband on the stupid prison panties for what feels like hours but ... They. Will. Not. Budge.
Then I remember G-Lo’s warning. “The tag!”
Heart stuttering behind my ribs, I snatch my tote from the hook and dig through its contents for the brown paper square with the secret code.
“Come on! Where are you?” Rising panic grips me as I dump my bag onto the filthy floor, dropping to my knees and foraging through the chaos. “No, no, no. Not again.”
Teetering on the edge of desperation, I pitch everything back into my bag and search my memory for the damn code. I vaguely remember the pattern, but no matter how hard I try to re-create it, I fail.
A wave of nausea washes over me, and goose bumps form on top of my goose bumps.
In the next stall, a toilet flushes, and the sound of rushing water echoes around me. “Are you kidding me, right now?”
Since I basically locked myself up and threw away the key, I have two choices: Stay in this bathroom forever or ask Dash for help. I yank up my shorts, and with as deep a breath as I dare take, stumble out of the restroom.
Dash is exactly where he said he’d be, oblivious to the tears streaking down my face. “We should stop at the charging station before we—”
“Dash?” I whisper his name on a sob.
“Zoey?” He glances behind me as if the source of my distress is anywhere but directly in front of him. “What happened? Are you okay? You look kinda sick. Was it something you ate?”
More like something I drank. My bladder spasms again, and I whimper.
“Say something.” He locks his concerned gaze on me. “You’re scaring me.”
“I-I have a problem.” My voice cracks.
He flinches, but to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “Like, a female problem?”
I freaking wish.
A hysterical laugh breaks free, and I choke it back, on the verge of losing it. “Not exactly. I, uh, my grandma Lola gave me a pair of ... of special panties.”
“Special?” Dash cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing as he processes the new information. “Special how?”
Another spasm threatens to drop me to my knees, and I snap my eyes shut. “There’s a secret code to get them off, and I—” Tears spill over my eyelashes. “I lost it.”
He nods and blows out a breath. “So we get a pair of scissors and you cut them off, right?”
I look up at him through wet lashes and shake my head.
“No?” His eyebrows dart up his forehead.
“G-Lo said they’re practically indestructible.”
“Indestruct—” Dash chokes out a nervous chuckle and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“She said I’d need wire cutters to get them off,” I whisper.
He shoves his hands into his hair and swears under his breath. “Okay, come on.”
He practically lifts me off the ground, dragging me down the street in a half run, half power walk.
We pass the trolley stop, and my body goes into a full-on spasm. “Aren’t we taking the streetcar?”
“Too slow.” He scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder. “Just ... Please don’t pee on me.”
I swallow a snarky reply. At this point, my sense of humor is full-on drowning.
Like freaking Usain Bolt at the Olympics, Dash sprints the last few blocks, practically hurdling the summer tourists and chanting “please don’t pee on me” the whole way back to the parking garage.
When we finally make it to the car, he deposits me at the front bumper and opens his trunk.
He pulls out a sleek black bag, and my first instinct is to run.
But since I’m incapable of moving without my bladder spontaneously emptying, I stand, frozen in place, while he digs out a giant tool that looks like it would easily cut through bone.
“W-Why do you have that ?” My shriek echoes through the parking garage.
Dash cringes. “You said we needed wire cutters. These”—he gives the instrument of death a shake—“are the closest thing I have.”
“But why do you just happen to have a pair of bone cutters in your car?” A jolt of fear spikes through me. “I should’ve waited for G-Lo’s background check. Jeanie was right. You’re way cuter than Ted Bundy. I should’ve known!”
“They’re not bone cutters.” Dash rolls his eyes. “They’re bolt cutters.”
“But—”
“I’m on a cross-country road trip. I have flares and a flat tire kit, too. Does that make me a serial killer?”
My voice refuses to cooperate so I shake my head.
“Take these.” He extends the long handles toward me, and motions toward the back of the car. “I’ll be over there ... if you need me.”
I snatch the tool from his fingers. “I won’t.”
Once Dash turns his back, I tuck the heavy cutters under my arm and fumble with my shorts.
My trembling fingers can barely get the button through the hole to unzip.
After peeling back the denim like a ripe banana, I grip the tool in both hands and bring the cutting end toward the edge of the death-trap undies.
But either the handles are too long or my arms are too short, because I can’t quite master the angles.
“How’s it going over there?” Dash calls over his shoulder.
“Fine!” Another tingling ripple runs through me.
“Once you cut yourself free, you can use an empty soda cup—”
“Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate.” I rise onto my toes, hoping the action will somehow make me taller, or make my arms longer, or anything that will get the freaking mouth of the tool into my waistband. It doesn’t. And I can’t. Tears spill over my lashes and down my cheeks. “I-I can’t do it.”
“Need my help?”
I let out a defeated whimper. “Hurry!”
Dash’s eyes soften, but he eases toward me as if approaching a live grenade. His hands are no steadier than mine as he takes the tool from my trembling fingers.
Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he brings the bolt cutters closer. “I’m only gonna cut enough so you can get these off, okay?”
I nod, mentally preparing myself to strip out of my shorts the instant he cuts me free.
“Okay, here goes.” Dash opens the jaws wide and gently slides them into position.
The instant the cold metal touches my hot skin, I release a hard shudder. Then just as the cutter’s teeth bite through my steel-lined waistband, everything inside me lets go. Sweet relief rushes through me like a river breaking through a dam, and no amount of clenching will stop the flow.
The sound of running water echoes through the parking garage, and Dash’s eyes widen with horror.
“Shit!” He dances out of the way of the stream, climbing halfway onto the hood. “That’s a lot of pee!”
“It’s not my fault,” I cry. “I tried to hold it. Honest, I did. It was all that Coke!”
Dash bursts out laughing, cackling so hard he can’t catch his breath. Every time he gets himself under control, he crumbles into another laughing fit.
“Don’t feel bad, Zoey,” he wheezes. “I heard Bowie had a pretty bad coke problem once upon a time, too.”