No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

He’d caught his breath now, and looked up at her
pointedly. “I need proof.”
“What?”
“Proof. Can you prove any of this?”
Darby thumbed the photo gallery on her iPhone. Behind
her, the restroom door banged open.
It was Lars.
Rodent Face stomped in, wet boots squealing on tile. Just
like that, the kidnapper was inside the room with them,
breathing the same air. Darby’s mind screamed — we’re
cornered in here, we’re both exposed, there’s no time to hide in
a stall — and the slouching figure of Lars whirled to face
them, that stubbly, chinless face wheezing through a mouthful
of baby teeth—
Then Ashley grabbed her face, his palms to her cheeks—
“Wait—”
—And he mashed her mouth to his.
What?
Then Darby understood. And after another heart-fluttering
second, she played along, pressing her body against his,
clasping her fingers behind his neck. Ashley’s hands groped
her back, her hips. His warm breath was inside her mouth.
For a few long seconds, Lars watched them. Then she
heard his squeaky footsteps again, moving to the sinks. A
faucet twisted. A rush of water. The soap dispenser pumped
once, twice. He was washing his hands.
Darby and Ashley kept going, eyes clamped shut. For
Darby it hadn’t been this excruciatingly awkward since ninthgrade
Tolo, just pawing movement and misplaced squeezes
and half-held breaths. He was either a godawful kisser or he
wasn’t trying; his tongue was like a dead slug in her mouth.
After a painful eternity — don’t stop, don’t stop, he’s still
watching us — she heard the sink twist off, then a paper towel