“You should probably get that stitched.” I sneer.
“Fuck off, bitch,” he replies as he knots the fabric, then pulls at it with his teeth.
The wheelman starts the car and pulls away from the curb. We pass my Yaris, and I watch forlornly out the side window as a tow-truck backs up to it. “You guys are gonna pay for the impound.”
“You should be more fucking afraid,” Russian with the bite warns.
I am. Inside I’m a quivering mass of jelly, my legs are vibrating and I feel like vomiting. These are Russian thugs and for some reason unknown to me, they seem to think I have something they want.
Still, in the world of fight or flight, I am genetically predisposed to fight. I inherited it from my mom who once punched a cop in the face because he told her she had she great tits. Her mother almost beat a guy to death with a baseball bat for calling her a whore.
What would they do in this situation? Mom would go for the damsel in distress pretending she’s scared to death. I’ve seen her in action at the bar when the boys have had too much to drink and start to bump chests. It works for her but I can’t pull it off. I don’t have her great tits. Still, thinking about her settles my heart rate. Enough so that I say, “So should you, asshole. I have friends who’ll bury you.”
Wheelman chortles. “Who the hell would want to be your friend?”
“I have friends,” I say sulkily. Oscar would be my friend. He likes me enough to try to help.
Which reminds me. Little shit. I’ll be talking to Eight when this is done. He needs to teach his kid to know when to back off. Oscar could’ve been killed. They want me, not him. He’s expendable in their eyes.
I shudder and bite-man notices. “Scared now are you?”
“No,” I lie as I channel Hannibal Lector. “I was just anticipating how tasty your liver will be fried and served with fava beans and a nice Chianti.” I grin at him with big teeth and googly eyes.
His face goes slack as he tries to sort out how serious I am.
Wheelman isn’t as impressed. “Hannibal quotes are so fucking overused. Try watching some Tarantino.”
Bite-man says, “Why don’t I just punch her in the face and knock her out?”
I throw my hands in the air. “No need. I’m done talking.”
He looks like his Christmas present was taken away, but he doesn’t touch me. I give myself a mental high-five for knowing when to shut up.
For a couple of minutes anyway. “Where are you taking me?” I ask as the car accelerates on the highway.
“Reno,” Bite-man replies. “We don’t do business in a shithole like Sagebrush.”
Wheelman laughs heartily at what he perceives is the clever comeback of the decade.
Bite-man is kind of right about Sagebrush, but it’s my shithole and big-time city boys don’t get to talk trash about it. “Sagebrush is not a shithole. At most it’s boring and uninviting, but it has its advantages like hot running water and electricity. It even has schools to educate the young.”
“Punch her, Igor,” Wheelman says.
“Don’t punch me, Igor. Or I’ll find a way to rip your hand off.”
Once again, Igor aka Bite-man looks uncertain. I’m not sure he’s ever kidnapped a woman before because he seems to have a preconceived notion of how kidnapped women should react.
I roll my eyes and offer him the cheek that he didn’t hit back in the alley. “If you’re gonna punch me, do it on this side so that I’ll have matching bruises.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he says.
And I do, because there’s no point in further antagonizing him. It’s not going to make them stop the car and let me out. I may as well save my breath until we get to where we’re going.
Turns out the destination is Reno’s classiest Hotel and Casino, the Grand Sierra. Wheelman pulls into the underground garage and parks in a spot reserved for hotel guests.
“Let’s go,” Igor says grimly as he yanks me out of the car.
“I have a gambling problem,” I say because I do - it’s called lack of money. “You take me in there, you’ll have to cover the debts I rack up.” Little do I realize this is foreshadowing of what’s to come.
