Page 83 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Hugo and I exchange a “What the hell?” glance while the dog—small, floppy ears, white with brown spots—looks between the two of us with a smile and a lolling tongue.

“Oh, gosh. There’s no need to call the cops.” Hugo’s voice is relaxed and friendly, although he reaches for my hand and squeezes it in a death grip.

“I’m not,” the man says as he rummages through the bag around his waist. His face reddens when the dog trots over to sniff Hugo’s shoes. “Goddammit, Cosmo!”

He gives the leash a sharp jerk, and the dog yelps.

“Hey!” Hugo and I shout in unison.

“Useless fucking mutt,” he snaps, jerking on the leash again. The dog whimpers.

Absofuckinglutely not.

“Dude,” I say in warning, sliding my knife out of my pocket and stepping toward him.

“Aha!” A pack of gum tumbles to the floor as the man pulls an enormous silver gun out of his fanny pack.

Hugo and I both freeze. I certainly wasn’t expecting this goober to produce anything more threatening than a poop bag, but that’s a Desert Eagle he’s brandishing like he’s about to fire the starter gun for the one-hundred-meter dash. It takes him a second to realize he should point it at one of the other humans in the room. He chooses Hugo.

“Whoa.” Hugo lifts his hands in the air and takes a few steps away from me. “Let’s put that down, okay? What’s your name?”

“Shut up,” the man snaps. He’s holding the gun like he’s not quite sure what to do with it, but that doesn’t stop my neighbor from staring him down without flinching.

The guy eventually figures out he can cup the butt of the gun with his other hand, which controls the shakiness a bit as he points it at Hugo’s chest. The only thing keeping me from losing my mind at the sight of it is that his finger’s not actually on the trigger, and his grip’s all wrong. If he tries to fire it, the gun’s going to fly out of his hand, and the bullet won’t hit Hugo.

Probably.

Then the guy’s wild eyes swing to me, and I watch him realize I’m the smaller and less muscular intruder. I’m also within grabbing distance. Faster than I would’ve thought possible, his hand darts out to grip my left hand and pull me toward him. Hugo responds just as quickly, catching my right wrist and trapping me in a game of human tug-of-war that I didn’t ask to be part of.

I try to jerk free from Hawaiian Shirt, but I’m still gripping my knife in the hand facing Hugo. If his fingers slide any farther down my arm, he’s going to get slashed.

“Hu—Gomez,” I hiss, wanting to warn him about the blade without tipping off Hawaiian Shirt. “Careful.”

But he’s too intent on prying me out of the man’s grip, and when he shifts his hold to wrap around my hand, I’m a millimeter away from slicing into one of his fingers or accidentally stabbing him in the gut. Goddammit.

Gritting my teeth, I drop the knife, which frees my hand to grab onto Hugo.

Hawaiian Shirt picks this moment to remember he’s holding a gun.

“Let go of her and back the fuck up.” His voice is reedy and nervous as he extends his right arm and points the gun at my neighbor.

“No.” Hugo plants his feet and tightens his grip on my wrist.

“I said back the fuck up!” The barrel wavers, but it’s still pointing in Hugo’s direction.

Panic clogs my throat.

“Gomez,” I whisper. “Don’t.”

Hawaiian Shirt snaps out a curse and presses the barrel against my temple.

“I will fucking shoot her if you don’t back up,” the guy warns.

Hugo releases me immediately.

“Okay,” he says, “there’s no need for⁠—”

“Back up!” the man screams, jabbing me harder with the gun. “I warned you!”