“That’s a personal favorite of mine,” she says, as she cuts the price tag off and starts to roll it in layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper.
“I love it so much. Did you make it?”
“Believe it or not,” she pauses, “I made everything in this place.”
We chat for a few more seconds and I pay with cash and then leave the store, feeling better than I have in years.
I sneak another piece of tasty bread and walk to the end of the street and turn right. There’s another block to explore.
That’s when I see him across the street with a camera, staring at me—snapping shots of me.
That wonderful feeling disappears immediately and my fight or flight instinct kicks in. Sheer panic really, because there’s no one around now. Not within calling distance. I fumble with my purse, desperate to dig my cell phone out while keeping my eyes on the bastard who assaulted me at Lazaro’s bachelor party.
Why did I let my guard down? How could I have been so careless?
Where is my damn phone? I look down for a split second, and when I check across the street again, he’s gone. That’s when I start running in the opposite direction, toward the truck. I don’t get far. He’s waiting for me in the shadows of an empty storefront, the end of a pistol aimed right at me.
“Mamacita,” he says, in that voice that makes my skin crawl. “Nice to see you again.”
I swallow the lump of terror in my throat, trying to remain calm. “What do you want?”
He flashes a lewd grin, his gaze travelling down my body. “Your absolute cooperation and perhaps that table dance you never finished.”
I take a step back, the memory of his hands all over me flashing through my mind like a movie in slow motion. I taste bile and fear. “Fuck you,” I say, regretting it immediately.
“Didn’t Laramie teach you manners yet?”
“Laramie?” I ask like I don’t know who he’s talking about.
“Don’t play stupid, mamacita. That rock on your finger confirms everything. You married Eagle.”
How in God’s name does he know? Our wedding was so unexpected and unplanned. None of our guests . . .
“Look at what that bastard did to me.” He shoves his maimed hand in my face.
I gag at the sight of the missing finger—the scar tissue is still swollen and probably infected. “I had nothing to do with that.”
His smile turns into an angry scowl and he waves the gun. “You had everything to do with it. And now it’s time to pay for it.”
Several people pass by, but I don’t move or ask for help. I’m not the kind of person to endanger innocent people. This is my problem to deal with until we’re safely away from this very public place.
“W-what do you want me to do?”
“Walk away with me. Do it and I promise I won’t hurt you. But if you make a fucking sound, bitch, I’ll slit your throat while I shove thispistolaup that pretty pussy.”
Frantic and feeling so alone, I weigh my options. He’s obviously a lunatic with nothing to lose. All I can think about is how children get caught in the crossfire of gang shootings all the time. I picture one of Debbie’s children lying on the ground bleeding to death . . . “Where are we going?”
“You don’t get to ask the questions.” He reaches out and I flinch, thinking he’s going to hit me. Instead, he tugs my bags from my arms.
The bread and vase hit the sidewalk with a thud. My purse is still hanging on my arm.
“Walk.” He points south.
I do as he commands, turn and take a first step. He jams the barrel of the pistol in my back, wrapping his arm around my waist from behind. “Good girl,” he says, the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath.
