Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(87)

Shit.

He’s closer than I thought.

I pass into the next room, this one better lit and full of massive pipes that flow from the floor into the ceiling. Each is wider than my waist. A power grid with switches and a complicated panel of gauges dominates one wall. It’s a maintenance room, filtering water for the exhibit tanks.

There are signs of life, here. An employee badge lying on a desk. Someone’s leftover sandwich, sitting beside it. An empty coffee mug.

That must mean I’m getting close to an exit.

I make my way to the next door, yanking it open and slipping inside.

My mouth goes dry.

I’m in a huge, high-ceilinged room, standing at the beginning of a metal catwalk that extends out over a series of massive holding tanks. The catwalk is maybe eighty or ninety feet long, and about five feet wide, suspended with steel support beams from the ceiling.

My heart pounds as I catch sight of the sign on the wall.

QUARANTINE CENTER

This is probably where they keep new arrivals, until they’re healthy enough to join the main exhibits, or cordon off sick creatures until they recover.

I can see things swimming in those tanks. Big things.

Gulp.

The last thing I feel like doing is walking out there in high heels and a dress, with only a narrow metal guardrail to prevent me from falling in. I’d almost rather take my chances with Cueball. But, on the opposite side, I see another metal door. The hope that it might lead to an exit spurs me into motion.

Ninety feet. Just ninety feet. I can do this.

I picture Luca’s face, smirking at me. Conjure up the feeling of his arms around me.

Babe. You’ve got this. Piece of cake.

Without another moment of hesitation, I step onto the metal catwalk and start to pick my way across the grated steel bars. I keep my eyes up, not wanting to know whether the things swimming beneath me are akin to the friendly sea creatures from Finding Nemo or something out of the movie Jaws.

Just keep moving.

Almost there.

Eighty more feet.

Seventy.

Sixty.

I’m halfway across when the unthinkable happens. My strappy slingback stiletto heel slides down into the space between two of the metal grates, pinning me in place. My forward momentum sends me tumbling forward, head over feet. I wrench my trapped ankle as I fall onto my hands with a clatter. A scream of agony pops out as I land, pain searing through my twisted joint.

Worse, though — my eyes, now poised directly over the metal mesh walkway, spot three fins in the water directly below me, confirming my worst fears.

Friendly fish don’t have that many teeth, as a general rule.

I twist around into a sitting position and attempt to yank my heel free, but it’s jammed in tight. My eyes water as I reach for the clasp on my shoe strap. My ankle throbs excruciatingly. I can see the joint is already swelling and pray to god it isn’t broken, thinking things can’t get much worse than being pinned down five feet above a tank full of man-eating sea monsters.

The door squeals open, as if to prove me wrong.

Shit.

Cueball steps out onto the catwalk, grinning when he spots me in the middle.

“Aw, is someone stuck?”

I tear at the clasp with panicked fingers and extract my foot with a sharp tug. The ache that results is enough to make tears spill down my cheeks. There’s no way I’ll be able to put weight on it, let alone outrun him again.

“Having a rough day, aren’t you?”

He advances on me, laughing as he sees me scooting backward along the catwalk as fast as I can, using my good foot to propel me. My fingers claw at the metal grating, dragging my body along.

“What do you want from me?” I glare up at him.

His steps are leisurely. He’s in no rush — he knows I can’t escape.

“Just what your brother owes us. We aren’t unreasonable.”

I scoff. “You’re kidnapping me! You don’t think that’s a little unreasonable?”

“You’re leverage. Nothing personal.”

“You attacked me on the street, slammed my head into an aquarium, and dropped me in a puddle. Felt pretty personal.”

He shrugs. “Cost of doing business.”

I dart a glance behind me and see the door is still thirty feet away.

“You come quietly, things will go better for you.” He looms over me, mere inches away. “And your brother.”

“Thanks,” I hiss. “But quiet’s never really been my style.”

With my good foot, still clad in a razor-sharp stiletto heel, I kick up and catch him straight between the legs. He goes down with a groan of pain, falling to his knees. I scramble out of range before he can grab me and drag myself into a standing position, using the metal guardrails to support most of my weight. Blinking back tears of pain, I keep my injured foot aloft and start hopping toward the exit, screaming my head off the entire time.

“Help me! Please, I’m in the quarantine room! Somebody please!”

I hear Cueball clambering to his feet. His voice is thick with rage. “You little bitch!”

My eyes are on the door. Twenty feet. I can make it. Almost there.

But my progress is painfully slow.

His hands find my biceps, spinning me around to face him. He presses me back until the railing digs into my spine; I’m bent so far over, I fear I’ll plummet into one of the tanks. His dark eyes are narrowed in vengeance as his grip tightens to the point of pain. I’m so focused on him, I don’t even hear the door clicking open twenty feet from us.