Two mountains of men are standing there, oozing danger like a toxic spill. The first one’s built like a brick shithouse, with a face that looks like it’s been used as a punching bag one too many times. The second’s leaner, but his eyes are cold as ice. They ain’t here for the watered-down booze, that’s for damn sure.
They shove Jerry aside like he’s a ragdoll, and the poor bastard doesn’t even squeak. Smart move. These guys look like they eat guys like Jerry for breakfast.
As they approach the bar, the air around them seems to chill. The chatter dies down, replaced by an uneasy silence.
Fuck, what now?
The big one leans on the counter, way too close for comfort. His breath reeks of cigarettes and something stronger.
“Vodka,” he grunts in a thick Russian accent. “Two.”
I grab the bottles, trying to keep my hands steady. As I pour, they start talking in Russian, probably thinking I’m just another dumb American bitch who can’t understand them.
“Chert voz’mi, ne mogu poverit’, chto u etogo starogo mudaka takaya goryachaya doch’,” the leaner one says, eyeing me up and down.
I turn around, pretending to be busy with the glasses. From the mirror behind the bar, I catch their reflections. The lean one’s eyes are crawling all over me like I’m a piece of meat at the market.
My heart drops to my fucking shoes. Being half Russian, thanks to my deadbeat dad’s side, I picked up enough of the language during months I lived with Grandpa when Dad was doing time. I’m rusty as hell, but I catch enough to make my blood run cold.
“Can’t believe that old fuck… hot daughter,” the lean one says in Russian, not bothering to lower his voice.
They’re talking about me. About my dad.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell has Dad gotten into now?
I slam the glasses down harder than necessary. “That’ll be twelve bucks,” I say in English, playing dumb.
The big one grins, all teeth, and no warmth. “You Wren Davis?” he asks, his accent thicker than concrete.
I consider lying, but something tells me that would end badly. “Who’s asking?”
“Your father, he owe us money,” the lean one says. “Two grand. We here to collect.”
Jesus fucking Christ, John.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “whatever my old man owes you, that’s his problem. I don’t have that kind of cash.”
The big one laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. “Old man is useless. Few punches, he puke and faint. Now, is your problem.”
My stomach churns. They hurt him. And as much as I hate the old bastard, the thought makes me want to vault over this bar and claw their eyes out.
“I told you, I don’t have the money,” I repeat, gripping the edge of the bar so hard my knuckles turn white.
The lean one leans in, his breath hot on my face. “Maybe we find… other ways for you to pay,da?”
I feel sick. But I’ve dealt with creeps before. These guys might be scarier than most, but I’ll be damned if I let them see me sweat.
“Sorry, boys,” I snarl, baring my teeth in what might pass for a smile if you squint. “I’m not on the menu. Now buy a drink or get the fuck out.”
I stare them down, my heart pounding but my face a mask of steel. These fuckers might think they can intimidate me, but they’ve got another thing coming.
The big one takes a step toward me, his meaty fist clenching. I brace myself, ready to vault over the bar if I have to.
But the lean one stops him, putting a hand on his chest. He says something in Russian, too low and fast for me to catch. Then he smirks, a look that makes my skin crawl.
“Net, staryy khren govorit, u nego yest’ yeshche doch’. Pomolozhe.” he says, loud enough for me to hear.
I catch enough to make my blood freeze.
