“Wait!" I hold up my hands and Pint stops.
I shrug out of his grip and walk ten feet to the truck engine. I reach in, pull out the filter and reset it. “Someone doesn’t even know how to put on the freaking oil filter,” I mutter as I finish tightening a few of the screws. I turn and they’re all still watching me, some of them looking confused, a few shooting glances at each other.
Pint grips my shoulder and shoves me.I’m hauled down a hallway and manhandled into a back room that smells like mold and regret. I hit my head when I land and I rub my head. “Ow.”
I regret coming here. The door slams shut behind me, and the lock clicks. Oh, shit. This just got really, real. And I don’t like it.It’s dark, with concrete walls. No windows.I reach for my phone. No signal in my concrete jungle.
I lean back against the wall and blow out a breath. “Cool. I’m in a concrete coffin. Great.”
At least if Maggie doesn’t hear from me in like an hour or so, hopefully she’ll call someone. If I’m still alive until then. But they’ll probably have no way to know where I went. I regret not taking someone with me. I should have brought Cami or Violet with me. Wait, scratch Violet, she’s pregnant. And Cami would probably have gotten us shot already. Probably should have brought Maggie. She’d have charmed them all and I definitely wouldn’t have been kidnapped. Anywho, I wouldn’t want to drag any of them into my mess. Keep them all safe.
I slide down to sit on the floor, hand brushing the tire iron tucked in my side.
If this is how I go out, at least I’ll go out swinging.
Chapter 19
Poppy
Dancing In The Sky by Sam Barber
Iwake up convinced of three things.One, my head hurts from Pint pushing me in here and my head hitting the wall.Two, I am absolutely being kidnapped.Three, my tire iron is still in my hands, clutched to my chest like a baby. That’s my lifeline that will be absolutely used on Pint’s kneecap when he comes back, Nancy Kerrigan style. Asshole. I’m getting a goose egg, and he’s going to pay for that. And for threatening the innocent dog. Because who does that? A freak that’s who.
I have a weapon if I need one. I can take care of myself. Well, I thought I could anyway, but here I am trapped in a concrete room that apparently lulled me to sleep by the buzzing sound of a bug zapper or something.
I blink a few times, and the room swims into focus. Concrete walls. Low light from a single bulb buzzing overhead like it’s debating its life choices.Same, lightbulb. Same.
And two men are watching me.
One of them is the pint. I recognize him instantly. Same greasy scowl, he looks like he’s barely older than some of my students at the school. Same confused expression, as if he didn’t order this level of chaos. Yeah, he definitely needs a tire iron to the kneecap. But I don’t necessarily want to provoke someone with a gun, either, so there’s that.
The other one stops my brain completely.
He’s tall, broad, and scary in a quiet way where you can’t read what he’s thinking. Dark hair pulled back and a dark beard neatly trimmed. Tattoos peek out from under his sleeves, and his eyes are sharp and unreadable. He has massive forearms and a very foreboding presence. Unlike the pint. Douchebag. I narrow my eyes at the pint. I think I’m going to call him the prick from now on.
But the other guy is hot in a terrifying way. I’m a married woman now, but I know a good-looking dude when I see one.
They’re both staring at me like I’m an unsolved mystery or potentially about to become my own Dateline episode.
I tighten my grip on the tire iron when I think of the last option.
“Jesus, Pint,” the hot, scary one says. “What the fuck?”
Pint huffs. “She’s alive.”
Something nudges my boot, and I yelp, curling around my tire iron protectively.
“If you’re gonna kill me,” I say quickly, “can I at least say goodbye to the dog first? I would really like to pet him while you take me out. It feels rude not to let me have a last dying wish.”
The older guy snorts before he can stop himself. He turns his head away and shakes it once like I’m a headache. “Get up,” he says.
Pint tries to grab me, and I slam the tire iron into his kneecap. “That’s for hitting my head on that wall.” Then I kick him in the nuts when he falls to his knees. “And that’s for threateningBandit.” The hot scary dude watches all this with fascination and then reaches out and hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing, which I resent deeply. He marches me down the hall while I drag my boots and glare over his shoulder at the pint who is yelling back to me and grunting.
“You know,” I say, “this is not how you treat a guest.”
He doesn’t respond, shoves me into an office and pushes me into a chair in front of a desk.
I look around in surprise. Wow. It smells like leather, smoke, and pine. The hot, scary guy sits down in a chair behind the desk and leans back in his chair like he owns every breath in the room. He slips a toothpick into his mouth and tilts his head, studying me. I’m guessing he’s the boss around here.
