Page 86 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Hugo, who’s been slowly sliding to my right, freezes. Then he straightens to his full height.

“Nobody’s killing anybody.” His just-us-bros voice is gone, and Hawaiian Shirt’s chest expands on an inhale.

“I’ll do it,” he insists, repositioning the gun to jab me in the ribs. I don’t like this position any better than I did when it was pointed at my head.

The man is silent for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, before he asks, “Did that asshole attorney send you? I told that fucker I’m not gonna say anything about Les’s bitch.”

So he’s involved in the plot to kill Paul Franklin and frame Angie Timms for it, and he knows Greg, the asshole attorney I killed four days ago.

Not good. This is not good.

“We already told you why we’re here, man.” Hugo’s back to being the guy who’s only interested in getting laid. “I don’t know any attorneys, and I never met this chick before tonight. Just let us go, and none of us has to see each other again.”

His story would be more believable if aggression weren’t pouring off him. Even Hawaiian Shirt notices.

“I don’t believe you.” He snaps the gun back to my head, jabbing me in the same spot. I’m definitely going to have a bruise, assuming I’m still alive to notice.

Hugo forces a smirk onto his face. “Maybe you don’t believe me because you can’t find anybody who wants to fuck you, even with a mask on.”

Bizarrely, the insult gives Hawaiian Shirt a boost of confidence.

“I don’t hear her complaining.” He strokes a thumb down my neck, and when I don’t react, he runs his tongue up my cheek, leaving a wide, damp streak.

I jerk my head away with a dry heave. My braids have come undone in my struggle, and I tilt my head to keep my hair from dragging through the disgusting slime he left behind. When I look up again, Hugo’s forgotten about getting himself into position and has turned to face us fully, fury etched on his face.

“Do not.” He takes a step forward. “Fucking.” Another step. “Touch her.”

Hugo Mohr is desperate to rip this man apart for me, and the two halves of my heart slot together with a click.

Inevitable. He was inevitable. We were inevitable. Even though his threat is likely to get us both killed, at least I’ll die knowing that truth.

For some reason, Hugo’s rage relaxes Hawaiian Shirt even more.

“I’m starting to think you two aren’t strangers at all,” he says with a chortle. “In fact, I think she’s your girl, and you don’t like watching her with a real man.”

He thrusts his groin into me, and my stomach lurches with a new kind of fear.

“No,” I whisper, freezing when I should be fighting even harder to pull away from this man and the erection prodding me. My wide eyes meet Hugo’s, and I watch him clock my terror, then turn his incendiary gaze on Hawaiian Shirt.

Hell. I need to distract everyone in this room before Hugo does something recklessly brave.

Thinking fast, I shriek, “Ew! Get your own internet girl to work out your kinks with.” I’m using my hot dummy voice to keep Hawaiian Shirt off balance, but my panicked thrashing is real.

“I don’t have any kinks!” the guy bellows in my ear, making me wince. “And if I did, used-up sluts like you aren’t my type.”

“Nice try,” I say past my tight throat, “but that’s not even close to the worst thing a man’s called me this week.”

Hugo’s calmed down enough to take another step to my right, getting closer to what I’m guessing is his ideal attack position.

“If I’m not your type, then why is your tiny dick inviting itself to the party?” I ask.

“My what?” the guy snaps.

“She said your tiny dick invited itself to the tiny-dick party,” Hugo says. “Also, I know you’re fucking lying. She’s every man’s type.”

Goddammit, Hugo. We’re in a life-or-death situation. Don’t make me swoon.

“Tiny? Tiny?” Hawaiian Shirt’s voice trembles upward in outrage as he thrusts the gun in Hugo’s direction. “How about this? Is this tiny?”