“Better back up,” she warned. “Unless you want what I had for supper last night to end up all over that top.”
Black Widow’s top lip curled even as she stepped back. “Vance,” she snapped. “Find a bucket.”
Vance. That was the blond man’s name. Sabrina tucked it away with all the others.
“Let her puke on herself,” Kurt sneered.
Sabrina gagged, loud and wet. “You’ll be smelling it for?—”
“Dammit!” A blade appeared in Black Widow’s hand like magic. Light hit it just right, making the steel gleam like fangs.
Sabrina barely registered the motion before Black Widow sliced her ankle ties and yanked her upright.
“Take her,” she ordered Hummer. “Let her puke in the corner. Away from all of us.” She waved a dismissive hand toward the far end of the room.
Hummer grabbed Sabrina’s elbow and frog-marched her across the dirty concrete and around the rusting machinery.
Pins and needles attacked the soles of her feet. Her knees ached from having been bent for so long. But she barely noticed either of these things as she pretended to stumble, made another gagging sound, and gasped, “Hurry.”
When they reached the end of the room, she spied the piece of glass she wanted and staggered so she could fall against the wall. Catching herself with her shoulder, she slid down the grimy surface until her butt hit the ground and her bound hands could feel for the makeshift weapon.
She carefully closed her fingers around the shard. Then, getting her knees under her, she bent at the waist and made a show of retching like a cat trying to puke up a hairball.
She brought up more air than vomit. But thankfully, there was enough bile left in her stomach to make her performance convincing.
Fear still coiled inside her like an insidious serpent. But now it had a twin spiral of resolve sitting next to it.
She might die in this place…probably would die in this place.
But by god, I’m going to take at least one of these motherfuckers with me!
10
Black Knights Inc.
Graham Coleburn stood at the kitchen island, a jar of Duke’s mayo in one hand, a bottle of French’s mustard in the other, and a head full of thoughts that didn’t have a lick to do with condiments.
Lura Dougherty.
It’s a damned small world.
What were the odds someone from his past—his hometown, no less—would show up at BKI with the answer to their prayers?
Considering he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone from Clayton, Georgia, in nearly twenty years, they had to be as slim as a sliver.
And yet here I am. And there she is, all grown up and filled out and remindin’ me of home in a way I haven’t been reminded in a long, long while.
Hell if he knew how to feel about this blast from the past.
On the one hand, she was easy on the eyes, and he was never one to complain when a pretty woman entered his orbit. On the other hand, he'd spent his adult life putting distance between himself and the tragedy he left behind the day he signed enlistment papers in that hot little booth at his high school career fair.
Having Lura Dougherty walk through BKI’s front door brought back all that old shame. That old guilt and sorrow.
Home is where the heart is. That’s what folks said. But for him…it was where the hurt lived.
“Which is it?” He wiggled the containers in his hands.
She wrinkled her nose from her spot atop a barstool on the other side of the island. He didn’t notice how cute the expression was.
