by B.G. Smith

It was the perfect first date until the second Margarita made her drowsy.

He was a blue-eyed hunk of muscle introduced through a friend of a friend.

“You’ll like him, trust me.” Darla’s red lipstick matched the Cabernet in her glass. “He’s a surgeon.”

The crack under the basement door welcomed sunrise and new beginnings.

A handcuff bit into her wrist where it met rusty pipe.

Approaching sirens lifted her spirit.

Fingers found her hidden tracker.

The door creaked. Heels clicked down wooden stairs.

Darla appeared, red smile intact. “You’ll like him, trust me.”

The sirens faded.

“Time for surgery.”