back, on the floor of her cell, naked and glistening from their roll in the hay. Despite his mirthless personality, Vaughn performed remarkably well for his first time with her. Fit, young, and otherwise bored proved a good mix, if enthusiasm counted for anything. He wouldn’t win any awards for originality, but she didn’t care. He slept now; that’s all that mattered.
She lay there in the humid air and musky smell until he did not stir when she lifted his wrist from her stomach. On the previous three tries, he’d resisted having his arm moved, despite his regular breathing and rapid eye movement. This time she lifted his arm and dropped it back to her stomach in a wet slap. Satisfied, Sam slid from under him, her skin breaking into goose bumps when his fingertips brushed across her waistline.
In any other circumstances, you’d make a decent sparring partner, Vaughn, my boy . He’d declined to tell her his first name when she’d finally asked after rolling off him. Something about how they shouldn’t get to know each other too well. “We just fucked,” Sam had replied.
He’d grunted, considered for a moment, and said, “Fine, it’s Bruce.”
Sam had never met an actual Australian man named Bruce, but she didn’t press it.
The tiny window on her cell door cast a square of dim light onto the concrete floor. Sam pulled the guard’s clothing into the beam and went through his gear. A nightstick, Taser, and red utility knife she set by the exit, on top of her discarded clothing.
In one pocket she found a set of old-fashioned metal keys, the card-swipe system having apparently failed a year earlier, something Vaughn griped about every time he entered. Six silver and bronze keys dangled from the ring. She clasped her fist around them, pulled them from the pocket, and set them carefully next to the other gear, her ears tuned to the sound of his breathing.
The door squeaked when she slipped out. Not enough to stir the guard, but plenty to send her pulse racing. She left her clothing behind. If Vaughn stirred she thought she could return to his side and raise no suspicion. Now out of the cell, she figured her naked state would give her a brief advantage to anyone coming across her.
Samantha padded down the hall and poked her head into the office the guards used. In the middle of the night, Vaughn appeared to be the only person on duty.
She set the nightstick on the desk there and checked all the drawers for proper weapons, a futile effort. One of the keys she’d taken might open a weapons locker somewhere in the building, but a search could take awhile.
A clipboard on the wall caught her eye. A stack of stained papers was tucked under the metal fastener, rows of names written in one column and numbers in another. Using the weak light coming in from a curtained window, she scanned the names. On page two, she found it: Adelaide, cell listed as “Royal 004.” Samantha’s own name noted cell “Main 212.” The numbers were rooms, she guessed, but the words held no meaning for her.
“Royal 004,” she whispered to herself over and over. Near the door an idea struck her, and she snatched up a half-empty bottle of some alcohol or another. Fermented cider, Darwin’s poison, if the smell was any indicator.
Leaving the nightstick behind, she held the bottle loosely in one hand and clutched Vaughn’s keys in the other, and stumbled out the door in what she hoped looked like a drunken swagger.
Her bare feet splashed in puddles on the cracked sidewalk outside. A half second later a spray of warm rain dappled her bare skin. She paused a moment and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of freedom, both physical and metaphorical.
“We have a dress code within the walls,” someone said.
She whirled around, slipped, then righted herself. Liquid sloshed in the bottle, a splash of it clapping onto the ground. The clumsy move fed into her ploy. “Thass a new rule!” she barked.
The man stood between her and a
She lay there in the humid air and musky smell until he did not stir when she lifted his wrist from her stomach. On the previous three tries, he’d resisted having his arm moved, despite his regular breathing and rapid eye movement. This time she lifted his arm and dropped it back to her stomach in a wet slap. Satisfied, Sam slid from under him, her skin breaking into goose bumps when his fingertips brushed across her waistline.
In any other circumstances, you’d make a decent sparring partner, Vaughn, my boy . He’d declined to tell her his first name when she’d finally asked after rolling off him. Something about how they shouldn’t get to know each other too well. “We just fucked,” Sam had replied.
He’d grunted, considered for a moment, and said, “Fine, it’s Bruce.”
Sam had never met an actual Australian man named Bruce, but she didn’t press it.
The tiny window on her cell door cast a square of dim light onto the concrete floor. Sam pulled the guard’s clothing into the beam and went through his gear. A nightstick, Taser, and red utility knife she set by the exit, on top of her discarded clothing.
In one pocket she found a set of old-fashioned metal keys, the card-swipe system having apparently failed a year earlier, something Vaughn griped about every time he entered. Six silver and bronze keys dangled from the ring. She clasped her fist around them, pulled them from the pocket, and set them carefully next to the other gear, her ears tuned to the sound of his breathing.
The door squeaked when she slipped out. Not enough to stir the guard, but plenty to send her pulse racing. She left her clothing behind. If Vaughn stirred she thought she could return to his side and raise no suspicion. Now out of the cell, she figured her naked state would give her a brief advantage to anyone coming across her.
Samantha padded down the hall and poked her head into the office the guards used. In the middle of the night, Vaughn appeared to be the only person on duty.
She set the nightstick on the desk there and checked all the drawers for proper weapons, a futile effort. One of the keys she’d taken might open a weapons locker somewhere in the building, but a search could take awhile.
A clipboard on the wall caught her eye. A stack of stained papers was tucked under the metal fastener, rows of names written in one column and numbers in another. Using the weak light coming in from a curtained window, she scanned the names. On page two, she found it: Adelaide, cell listed as “Royal 004.” Samantha’s own name noted cell “Main 212.” The numbers were rooms, she guessed, but the words held no meaning for her.
“Royal 004,” she whispered to herself over and over. Near the door an idea struck her, and she snatched up a half-empty bottle of some alcohol or another. Fermented cider, Darwin’s poison, if the smell was any indicator.
Leaving the nightstick behind, she held the bottle loosely in one hand and clutched Vaughn’s keys in the other, and stumbled out the door in what she hoped looked like a drunken swagger.
Her bare feet splashed in puddles on the cracked sidewalk outside. A half second later a spray of warm rain dappled her bare skin. She paused a moment and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of freedom, both physical and metaphorical.
“We have a dress code within the walls,” someone said.
She whirled around, slipped, then righted herself. Liquid sloshed in the bottle, a splash of it clapping onto the ground. The clumsy move fed into her ploy. “Thass a new rule!” she barked.
The man stood between her and a
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