Page 84 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Hugo steps backward and watches in anguish as Hawaiian Shirt yanks me the same way he did the dog, pressing my back against his front and wrapping an arm across my throat.

My empty fingers flex, itching for my knife. But it’s on the floor, near the couch and a good ten feet out of reach. Even without it, I could probably overpower this guy. I did take Gomez to the ground at Navarro’s place—oh my god, that was Hugo; I really need a couple of hours to have a mental breakdown about that—but Hawaiian Shirt has a gun.

A gun.

I’ve never liked guns, never been threatened with one before, and my entire existence narrows to the small piece of metal that’s warming against my skin.

I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me in front of Hugo, which is exactly what I’ve been afraid of.

“Let’s take a beat here, okay?” this new Hugo says. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

Hawaiian Shirt ignores him as he walks backward toward the fireplace, dragging me with him while the dog tugs on the leash in the opposite direction, barking his displeasure.

“Fucking useless animal,” the man mutters. He can’t free himself from the leash’s wrist loop without swinging the gun away from me, so he drags the dog toward us as he moves, tightening the arm around my throat and sending the gun barrel sliding across my sweaty skin.

I can’t help it. I whimper. It sends Hugo lurching forward, but the man tsks and wiggles the gun against my head, freezing my neighbor in his tracks.

Even from ten feet away, though, Hugo’s a clear threat. Yesterday, I would’ve bet the contents of my bank account that my neighbor would back down from any fight, but now I’m not so sure. Would this fists-clenched, taut-muscled version of Hugo care that I’ll probably get shot if he tries anything?

If only I had my knife. If only this guy didn’t have a gun. If only Hugo wasn’t a huge unknown in my escape equations. If only the dog wasn’t…

Wait, what is the dog doing?

Running laps, apparently. He zips around the room, barking happily, and I’m slow to realize the problem.

“Hey, dog,” I choke out around the arm at my throat. “You’ve gotta chill, buddy.”

The dog screeches to a halt in front of me and presses his cold little nose against the sliver of skin below my leggings. I squeak, the arm around my neck tightens, and the dog decides we’re playing a fun game and launches himself into action again, happily yipping as he avoids Hugo’s attempted grab and runs another circle around us.

“Don’t move!” Hawaiian Shirt shouts at Hugo before snarling at his dog. “Goddammit, Cosmo. Sitz. Platz. Fucking sit down!”

By the time the dog flops panting at my feet, his chin on his paws, the leash spirals from Hawaiian Shirt’s raised right hand, across our chests, and down to our waists like the ribbons on a maypole. My arms are trapped at my sides, forcing my body into even tighter contact with the man behind me.

He shifts, trying to loosen the tangle, then bellows in frustration.

“I’ll fucking waste you, you useless piece of shit,” he hisses at the dog, his onion breath blowing past my nose.

I thrash until he loosens the arm around my neck.

“Have you considered being nicer to your dog?” I wheeze.

“Have you considered not being a mouthy femoid cunt?” he snaps back, shaking me.

This time, Hugo doesn’t check his advance until he’s within arm’s reach.

“Have you considered that I will fucking murder you for talking to her like that?” he asks in a dangerous voice.

The instant the gun barrel leaves my head, I coil myself to strike: throw my head back, stomp on his foot, anything. Then I see Hawaiian Shirt’s gun aimed at Hugo’s heart, so close he’d never miss, and I freeze.

Hugo, however, narrows his eyes and takes another step forward. Oh god, he’s willing to get shot over me.

The guy seems to realize this, too, and he swings the gun back to my head.

“I’ll kill her, man.” Both his voice and his weapon shake from being within punching distance of a huge, enraged Hugo, but it works. Hugo’s eyes flick from the guy to me, then along the leash that’s made it impossible for me to make any kind of clean escape, and he reluctantly shifts back.

You’re a psychologist, you dolt, I think really hard at him. Don’t threaten him. Do your psychology thing and talk us out of this.

Instead, he stands there, his chest heaving as he considers whether to charge the man who’s literally one finger twitch away from ending me.