Four Walls

One

The first thing I notice is his tattoo.

A black eagle with extended wings, soaring at a forty-five degree angle. It looks like an ink wash painting—as if it had been brushed on instead of tattooed—and covers half of his upper back, accentuating his broad shoulders and muscled arms.

I shut my eyes, trying not to panic, trying to remember how I got here. My head feels foggy as I sort through vague memories from last night.

The texts from Jackson. Going out alone. The nightclub. Dancing at the promoter's table. Having a drink with a cute guy at the bar.

And then ... nothing.

I can't remember.

My eyes fly open. I take comfort in the fact that I'm fully clothed. I'm wearing the same outfit from last night. But I'm in bed with a stranger. A man who I have no idea who he is.

He must be the cute guy from the bar. I must have gone home with him, as hard as it is to believe. I've never done such a thing. I've never had a one-night stand.

Then again, I've never had a boyfriend dump me over texts before. Without ceremony. As if our three-year relationship meant nothing to him.

Yes, I was clearly upset, but I don't remember drinking that much. I had one vodka tonic at the promoter's table. Another one at the bar. So why can't I remember anything else?

I look at the guy sleeping next to me again. He's facing the other way so I can't see him, but I notice his hair. It's dark brown and unruly. It looks like he hasn't had a proper haircut in months. But most importantly—it's not blond.

The panic starts to take form this time. He's not the cute guy from the bar. That guy was as blond as they come. Probably the reason why I started talking to him in the first place. He was the opposite of Jackson.

God, what have I done?

This isn't good. It becomes clear to me that I need to get the hell out of here before whoever this guy is wakes up. I quickly look around me before spotting the door. I move towards the edge of the bed as quietly as I can.

Thankfully, I find my shoes right underneath. I don't stop to put them on, holding them in my hands instead. I don't want to waste any more time in getting out of here, as much as I'm not looking forward to my upcoming walk of shame. At least I live in New York City, where most people don't care what you look like or even bother to look at you.

I search around for my purse, but I don't see it anywhere. I risk a glance behind me, trying to see if I can spot it somewhere in the bedroom.

What I find terrifies me.

There isn't a single piece of furniture in the room apart from the bed. The walls are completely bare. No windows. All I see is an open shower at the end, and what appears to be a small bathroom next to it. And ... why are the lights so bright?

I lift my head, only to be blinded by the strip of lights from the ceiling above me. They're the type you usually see in hospital corridors.

What the hell is this place? I need to leave. Right now.

Deciding the contents inside my purse aren't worth it, I bolt towards to the door. I push the handle down. It doesn't open. I drop my shoes and pull the handle toward me, trying to force the door open. It doesn't budge. There isn't even a lock on the door—only the handle and what appears to be some type of mail slot at the bottom.

I kneel down to inspect it, opening up the small flap, only to be greeted with pitch-black darkness. Against my better judgment, I stick my hand out through the slot. Nothing besides cold air. I can't tell what is on the other side of this door, but I get the feeling that I'm in a basement. The lack of windows in the room backs up my theory.