Free Don't Bet On It by J. L. Salter Page A

handsome stranger comes to your aid.
    My forefinger hurt but I couldn't extract a splinter in the dark. Took off my right shoe since I couldn't walk in the dark with one high-heel. Better find the other one. Maybe later. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail. Straight ahead should get me to the door . Tripped on something. Oh, my other shoe. Thank goodness, those heels were way too expensive to leave behind.
    Just a few more steps. Yikes! Bumped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail. Maybe a light bulb! Checked . No, just something with a disgusting spider web attached that I didn't want to touch again, or think about, ever. Hate spiders!
    One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall. Good. Door couldn't be far away. Sideways to the left. Nope. Other direction. Ah, door frame . "Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?" No, I didn't. And I was talking to myself again. I put both shoes on the floor, reached one hand through the bars, and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.
    What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle… it moved. But the door didn't open. "What did the latch look like, Kristen?" I asked myself. A freezer door? No . Gate hasp? Nope. It was like those rental trailers. Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa . Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn't do both with one hand.
    "Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?" Multiple echoes. I'd forgotten how big the main armory space was. When the Tennessee National Guard used it, dozens of cargo trucks fit in there. After the local unit was combined with the battalion in nearby Nashville, Uncle Sam donated the facility to the county. "Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I'm stuck here." Needed to stop talking to myself.
    Tried the latch again from the other side. Ouch . Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicker. Wished I hadn't drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I'd seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I'd just said, "Whatever" and drank another cup. That's how I slept through the abandonment by my former friends and the people I'd worked with on the community extravaganza. "Memo to Kristen," I muttered, "don't ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises." Ha. Not that anybody would see them. Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life. Nobody else in my rented house besides Elvis the neutered feline. Even that cat was probably more romantic than Wally, AKA Walter-who's-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again. Hmm, sounds awful . Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his—
    Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what's-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. "Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who'll let me out?"
    What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over? Better be a "good" somebody. "Hey! Over there… out there. Who's there?"
    "O-o-ow!" From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. "Who's here? If you can speak, you'd better say something real quick, 'cause I've got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!" Bluff 'em, Kristen .
    "O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head's about to explode." Closer. Man's voice. Could be good news… or bad.
    "Well, you'd better show yourself. And get some light over here." Take charge, Kristen .
    "I don't know where the stinkin' lights are. And stop yelling." Closer… I could almost smell him.
    "Don't you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters."
    He groaned a bit more. "Only the ones that smoke."
    "Terrific. The one non-smoker in