The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 6: I Have to Pee
“Maybe later,” she said softly, the hesitation in her voice at odds with the spark in her eyes. “I shouldn’t drink anything. Not—not until I’m out of these.”
Her wrists shifted subtly, tugging against the cuffs that pinned her hands to her waist. She let out a quiet sigh and tilted her head to brush back her hair.
“Using the bathroom will be ... difficult.”
Then, almost to herself, she murmured, “I’m just glad I went earlier ... before these things went on.”
“If you need to,” I said gently, “I can help you. It’s not a big deal.”
Heat rushed to my face the moment the words left my mouth. “You’re my girlfriend. We’ve ... you know.”
She caught the blush rising in my cheeks and gave me a faint, knowing smile. “I know,” she said, her voice smooth and teasing. “But sex is one thing. Helping me pee? That’s something else entirely.”
“I’m a paramedic,” I reminded her, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left. “Next month I’ll be starting at the hospital as an ASN. I’m not squeamish about that kind of stuff. It’s okay.”
Her gaze held mine, and something in her expression softened. Then came that smile—the same one she’d given me the day I drove her back to her car after she’d been discharged from the hospital.
“You’re sweet.”
She leaned in and kissed me the best she could.
“You’re not squeamish about that stuff...” she murmured, lips brushing mine. “But you still turn beet red whenever you even think about us under the covers.”
She nestled in closer, gently resting her head against my shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world. And instinctively, my arm curved around her.
We hadn’t been home long. The drive from the prison had taken longer than we’d liked. We hit the interstate just after midday traffic cleared and early enough to avoid the Friday evening rush. So, in that regard, we were lucky.
But after Officer Claire left us, Isla and I just sat in the van. I don’t even know for how long. The cabin was filled with that uneasy quiet that settled in after something unexpected happened—the kind of silence that held people in a stunned sort of denial.
It wasn’t until the cruisers started flying past—one after another, all heading toward the prison—that we finally got moving.
What also delayed us was pulling over. Isla’s phone had started buzzing with texts not long after we left the lot. At first we ignored it. Too many emergency vehicles were passing for comfort—cruisers, rescue trucks, sirens off but lights flashing. Still, Isla eventually asked me to stop so she could check.
That’s when a cruiser pulled in behind us.
The officer had gotten out and started walking toward the van. We figured he just wanted to know why we were stopped—but with Isla in restraints, that simple stop could’ve turned into something much worse. There was no hiding it if he looked through the window.
Luckily, he didn’t get that far. His radio went off. A second later, he turned, jogged back to his cruiser, and took off—lights on, heading the same direction as the others.
The texts, as it turned out, were from Isla’s old agent. She hadn’t worked with him in months—couldn’t afford to—but I guess he was still looking out for her. Or maybe someone was casting for a very specific look. Either way, he was letting her know about an audition. Normally, that would’ve been great news. But the casting call was for today.
Needless to say, between the close call with the officer and Isla being stuck in restraints on the day of a casting call, the rest of the drive was quiet. Not awkward quiet—just the same heavy silence we’d felt back in the lot.
Isla shifted, trying to readjust herself on the couch. Her movements were stiff and careful, as if her wrists had started to ache from the way she was sitting.
I leaned in to help her as she grimaced, guiding her gently until she managed to sit upright again. Then she eased back into the cushions with a quiet exhale.
“The cuffs were just digging into my wrists a little,” she said, glancing over at me. She looked more comfortable now, but there was still a slight tightness around her eyes.
I could tell she knew I’d noticed. That she wasn’t entirely comfortable, even if she didn’t want to say it outright.
So, she playfully gathered the chain connecting her cuffs and lifted her feet, spreading them as far as the restraints would allow. The chains pulled tight, wrist to ankle—and then she let her legs settle back down. She was trying to show me she was fine. Trying to reassure me without having to say it.
“Do you want a pillow?” I asked. “I can get one from the bedroom.”
She shook her head, realizing the playful gesture didn’t convince me. “I’m okay. It was just the angle.”
Seeing I was still a little concerned, she added, “Really, I’m fine. I just ... need to stop tensing up. If I can do that, I’ll be okay.”
“We can put your feet up on the coffee table, if that helps?” I offered. “Might take the weight off.”
“They don’t hurt,” Isla said. “The boots protect my ankles. I barely feel them—just a bit of pressure.”
She let the chain slide slowly through her fingers until it draped back across the couch between her legs.
“Getting into the vans was the hardest part,” she added. “The chain’s too short to lift my leg high enough. But walking? I think I’m finally figuring that out. The hobble’s really not that bad.”
“Sorry about the blanket earlier,” I told her. “It was the only way I could figure out how to get you from the car to the apartment.”
We’d played musical cars earlier when we reached my work to drop off the van. I’d left Isla inside while I moved the van across the lot, parking it behind the ambulances and out of sight. Then I pulled my car up beside it, passenger door to passenger door.
After transferring her over and returning the van to the drop-off zone, I grabbed one of the lightweight winter blankets we kept around. I used it to cover her for the walk. It did the job, but I knew it hadn’t made walking any easier for her.
“I know why you did it,” she said, then chuckled. “Did you see the look on that one neighbor’s face? He gave us the weirdest look—probably wondering why someone was bundled up like it was winter in July.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I don’t think he noticed.”
“Uh-huh.” Isla gave a dry smile and gently shook the chains. “I’m pretty sure he heard all the rattling.”
Her half-smile lingered before she glanced at me again. “You don’t have to worry about me wandering off. And if I do ... just follow the sound of the chains.”
I smiled back. “Well, the hope is you won’t be in them much longer.”
“Did she respond?” Isla asked.
I had texted Officer Claire when we got home just to let her know we were here and waiting to meet up with her to get the keys.
Glancing at my phone, I replied, “Not yet.”
Isla nodded, looking a little discouraged.
Seeing this, I added, “We’ll figure something out.”
I knew she was still thinking about the audition. And then she confirmed it.
“It’s at that studio park,” she reminded me, from the discussion we had in the car. “The one by the museum. Close to where the Prescotts live. By the downtown area. We’d have to leave soon if we want to make it there before the audition time.”
I could see her starting to work out the time in her head, speaking aloud. “At least an hour from the prison to here, and then another 35 minutes or so to the museum area. But she’d go straight to the park, so maybe she could shave some time off ... maybe an hour and fifteen minutes. Maybe.”
She gestured to her phone on the coffee table, and I handed it to her. I watched as she opened Google Maps. “Yeah, about an hour and twenty minutes right now with traffic. And it’ll just get worse.” She let go of the phone, letting it fall between her legs, leaned back into the couch, and closed her eyes.
“That means, she would have to meet us there, at the studio park, so I can get these off before I go in. And with traffic...” She sighed deeply. “I’m just going to be stuck in these fucking things until later tonight.”
I felt terrible. This was an opportunity for her—one she was going to lose because of me. She was only stuck in those restraints because of what I’d done.
But I didn’t know how to say any of that. So instead, all that came out was, “We’ll figure something out.”
She looked over at me, brow furrowed. “What? These are high security,” she said, nodding toward the lockbox pinning her hands to her waist.
“And you heard her,” she went on. “They’re cut-proof, pick-proof, tamper-proof ... designed to make sure you can’t get out—not until the person with the keys decides you can.”
She was right. The restraints were heavy-duty. The lockbox looked like it had been built specifically for those cuffs, shaped to fit over the protruding locks of the handcuffs with precise, unforgiving geometry. The reflective powder-coated finish wasn’t just for appearance either—it probably made it easier to spot in low light or nighttime conditions. The hinged lid folded down over the cuffs and locked into place with an angled steel clip, clamping shut with brutal efficiency. It did exactly what it was designed to do: prevent tampering by sealing off the locks and forcing the wearer’s hands into a fixed, angled position.
I’d seen boxes like it before—usually at crash sites, when a prison van was involved. But not like this. This one was something else entirely.
Isla shifted and lifted her legs slightly, drawing my eyes to the cuffs at her ankles. “Have you seen anything like these before?”
I shook my head. “Not with locks like those,” I said quietly.
Each cuff was fitted with a high-security cylinder lock, just like the handcuffs. I didn’t know much about locks, but I didn’t need to. These were built to resist everything: picking, tampering, cutting. So, when Isla repeated what Officer Claire had told us, I believed her. The only way out was with the specific keys we’d seen earlier at the prison.
Isla’s phone buzzed again—another incoming text. She reached down, but her hands were too tightly restrained, positioned too high on her waist to get it. So, I handed it to her.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Charlie,” she replied as she read the message. “About the audition.”
“He’s making sure I’ll be there.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, the way they always did when she was trying to hold something back. I knew she didn’t panic easily. She’d tell you that herself. But I could hear the slight tremor in her voice. “They want to meet me. He sent them a headshot. I guess he kept the ones I gave him ... even after I told him I couldn’t keep him as an agent anymore.”
I glanced at my phone, hoping maybe Officer Claire had responded and I’d just missed it. But there was nothing. No incoming messages.
“What else did he say?” I asked, noticing she was still reading.
“It’s for a dark-edged drama,” she said. “One of the streaming platforms, but he’s not allowed to say which one. It’s just a scene—not a main role. More like one of those side characters that shows up for an episode. But sometimes those turn into something bigger, especially if the character becomes a fan favorite.”