Quiad’s voice cut through, rough and cold. “You want to try again, you better bring more than a couple of scarecrows.”
She wheeled on him. “You think I’m scared of you, you overgrown redneck? You’re just as rotten as the rest of them. I know about the moonshine. I know about what goes on out here at night.”
He stared her down, brown eyes gone flat and dead as creek rock. “You know less than nothing.”
She hesitated, looking from me to him and back. For a second, I almost saw pity flicker there. Then it was gone, replaced by pure calculation.
“You can do this the easy way or the hard way,” she said. “Don’t matter to me. But you’re not leaving me out in the cold after everything I gave up for you.”
I laughed, and even to me it sounded mean. “What did you ever give up, Gloria?”
She moved fast, faster than I thought she could. Her hand darted into her coat pocket, and the next second there was a gun out—a little revolver, battered chrome, the kind of thing you buy at a pawn shop for cash and never fire sober. The sound of it cocking was so crisp it snapped the air in two.
The men flanked her, one stepping toward Quiad, the other toward me. I saw the glint of a knife at the jacket guy’s belt.
Gloria leveled the gun at my chest, but her hand was shaking so bad the barrel jerked with every heartbeat. “You got no right to laugh at me,” she said, voice gone hoarse. “You don’t get to make me the villain. Not after all I did for you.”
Behind us, the shop door creaked open. Knox stepped out, slow and deliberate, the silhouette of him tall and wide as a barnbeam. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, arms folded, face in shadow.
A second later, Ransom appeared on the other side, hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans, eyes bright and deadly. The way they moved was almost synchronized, like they’d practiced this a hundred times.
I could feel the whole farm holding its breath. The birds had gone silent, even the river noise seemed muted. The only sound was Gloria’s ragged breathing, and the high whine of the cicadas starting up for the night.
“I’ll give you to the count of three,” she said. “Then I take what I’m owed.”
I looked her right in the eye, forcing the words out over the thump of my own pulse. “You never wanted me, Gloria. Not really. And you can’t have me now.”
Her face fell, just a notch. Then she bared her teeth. “Three,” she spat, but she didn’t move.
Jacket Guy lunged at Quiad. The movement was so quick it was a blur, but Quiad had seen it coming. He side-stepped, grabbed the guy’s wrist, and bent it back until I heard the bones grind. The man yelped, high and animal, and the knife clattered to the ground. Quiad twisted again, and the man’s knees buckled.
Tattoo Guy rushed me, but I wasn’t alone. I heard boots hit gravel, and Ransom was suddenly at my side, shoving the man back with a speed I’d never seen in him before. The two of them hit the dirt, rolling in a tangle of elbows and curses.
Gloria shrieked, turning the gun on Quiad. She fired.
I didn’t hear the shot as much as feel it—a pressure wave that sucked the air out of my lungs. The bullet missed, whistling past Quiad’s ear and hitting the shop door with a thunk.
In the next breath, he was on her, grabbing her wrist and squeezing until her fingers opened and the revolver dropped into the dust.
She screamed, tried to scratch at his face, but he just held her there, implacable as stone, not even looking at her—his eyes were on me, checking for blood, for holes.
“Sunshine?” he called, voice sharp and wild.
“I’m fine!” I yelled back, though my legs were made of wet paper.
Jacket Guy tried to run, but Knox stepped in front of him, intercepting him with a punch that made a sound like a sledgehammer on wet clay. The man spun, collapsed in a heap, and didn’t get up.
Tattoo Guy fared no better. Ransom kneed him in the balls, then dragged him up by the collar and slammed him face-first into the tailgate of Gloria’s truck. The sound of teeth hitting metal was almost a relief compared to the gunshot ringing in my ears.
Gloria still struggled, but Quiad didn’t even seem to notice. He kept her arm twisted behind her back, her face pressed into the side of the shop. When she finally stopped fighting, her breath came in wet, hitching sobs.
“You’re done,” he said, voice so soft it barely carried. “You’re not getting a second chance.”
She didn’t answer, but I saw the defeat in the way her shoulders dropped.
The brothers herded the men together, kept them corralled under the cold stare of Knox, who looked ready to kill anything that twitched. Quiad let go of Gloria, shoving her down to sit on the wood step of the shop. She curled in on herself, clutching her wrist, and looked up at me—not angry, not triumphant, but small. Smaller than I’d ever seen her.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to scream, or throw up, or maybe just sit down and cry until it was all spent. Instead, I crouched, picked up the dropped revolver, and pointed it at the ground.
