Chapter 47

“Areyou sure you want to do this, man?” I say in a low, calm tone.

Behind me, Molly scrambles off the car, landing with a squeak against the concrete. Instead of putting distance between herself and the gun-waving lunatic, she rushes to my side.

I curl one arm back, keeping her behind me.

“You realize this is Lost Kings MC territory, right?” There’s a fifty-fifty chance that’s enough to scare him away.

He twitches and glances over his shoulder. My stomach drops with every jerky movement he makes while he’s holding that gun. “So what? No it’s not. They don’t run this far west.”

“Yeah, they do,” I say with exaggerated patience. “And my club’s under their protection.” We haven’t quite formed the club, yet, but Greasy doesn’t need to know that. Anything to get him and his gun away from Molly and me.

“That ain’t got nothing to do with me. Or our business.”

Fighting the urge to take Molly’s hand and run outside, I keep slowly backing us farther into the garage. Lots of tools that could be used as weapons are only a few feet away. If only I hadn’t put everything back as soon as we finished.

“Do you have me confused with someone else?” I ask.

“Don’t think so.” He takes a few steps closer.

Are we being pranked?This lowlife has his hair slicked back with so much gel—or grease—and twitches so often, he’s a living, breathing caricature of every strung-out junkie who ever robbed a liquor store on a cop drama.

Those jerky movements are a problem. One wrong twitch and he could accidentally blow a hole through Molly or me. Slow as possible, I hold my arms out in front of me, to show him I have no weapons and ease my body fully in front of Molly’s. She curls her hands into the back of my shirt, her warmth and fear soaking into my skin.

“Where’s she goin’?” he shouts. “Hey, stay put, bitch.”

I grind my teeth. “She’s got nothing to do with this.” Neither do I, but that’s beside the point. “And the way you’re waving that gun around’s making me nervous.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. You want to play human bullet vest for your little sweetie?” He licks his slimy lips and leans sideways, trying to look at Molly. “I get it. She’s a pretty one.”

Black dread expands in my stomach. But I keep my face blank. He’ll have to put every single one of those bullets in me to get to Molly.

“Just take it easy and tell me what you want,” I say, keeping my voice calm and even.

“Fine,” he spits. “She can stay back there. But I want to see her hands.”

Molly rests both of her hands at my waist, then flashes her palms at him.

“Good.” Greasy paces backward and rubs the barrel of the gun across his forehead. If he does that again, I might have time to take him to the ground before he gets off a shot.

No.My gaze pings around the garage. It’s too tight in here. A bullet could ricochet and hit Molly. I can’t risk that.

He’s so careless, maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll accidentally shoot himself.

“Look,” I say, a hell of a lot calmer than I feel. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I can help you.”

Get him talking. Divert his attention. Grab that fucking gun.If I was the only one here, that’s what I would’ve done by now.

“You’re Griffin, right?” He runs his beady eyes up and down me. “Christ, she wasn’t kiddin’. You’re a big dude.” He lets out an unhinged cackle and waves the gun at me.

“She? Who?” As soon as I ask, my blood runs cold.

Tanya Royal. Who the fuck else but my junkie mother would bring this craziness into my life?

I’m shocked it’s taken this long for one of her dealers to show up looking for money. Maybe her lowlife friends don’t watch reality TV. I haven’t spent a lot of time worrying about it but in the back of my mind, I’ve been waiting for the day when she—or someone she owes—shows up looking for money.

I guess that day is today.

“Your mother skipped town.” He tsks at me like a cartoon gangster. “She owes some people money.”

Of course she does.

“She says she’s clean now,” he adds.

Well, at least that’s something.

He lowers the gun to mid-thigh. It’s still aimed in our general direction but at least it’s not pointed at my chest anymore. “That don’t mean she ain’t gotta pay her debts, you know? Everyone’s gotta pay.”

“Where is she?” I desperately want to somehow signal to Molly she needs to drop to the ground and take cover behind the car if I make a move. But how? All the training I’ve done. All the times I’ve taught her how to defend herself, why didn’t we ever come up with some sort of plan or signal for a situation like this?

“How the fuck should I know?” He shrugs, holding his hands—and the gun—out wide.

Christ, if he wasn’t armed, I could’ve taken him to the floor ten times by now. But this isn’t a cage match.

I lower one hand and slowly reach behind me, tapping Molly’s leg and pointing to the floor. Who the fuck knows if she can even see what I’m doing.

But a second later, she gently squeezes my side.

That’s my girl.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. The next time he points that gun elsewhere, I’m going for him.

“So, who does my mother owe?” I ask.

“A guy I work for.” He paces closer. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me. If you expect me to give you money, I want to make sure her tab’s paid in full and I don’t see you again.”

“What? You think I’m gonna give you a receipt or something?” He flashes a dirty-toothed grin.

Behind me, it feels like Molly’s sliding down to the floor, using my body and our gunman’s inattention as cover.

“How much?” I ask. Just keep him talking.

“Twenty k.”

I choke on a laugh. “You think I have twenty thousand dollars in my pocket?”

He glances around the garage. “You got tools and shit here.”

“This isn’t my place.”

“Ain’t my problem.”

My blood’s boiling but I pretend to slump my shoulders and look defeated. “If I put together that kind of cash, I’m gonna need some assurances that this won’t happen again,” I say. “I’m not an ATM for my mother.”

“I’ll get him on the phone for ya.” He reaches in his pocket, lowering the gun in the process.

I’ll never have a better chance than this. I launch myself forward, wrap one hand around the barrel of the gun, forcing it down. With my other hand, I grip his wrist and give it a vicious twist, slowly rotating the gun until it’s pointing at his stomach. He screams and drops to the floor, his bony knees making a sick thud against the concrete.

“Stop! Stop!” he screams.

In an organized fight, hell, even in an underground match, I would’ve released him by now. But this is life or death. I yank the gun out of his hand, but keep rotating his wrist until there’s a sickening, but satisfying, snap.

He screams and his eyes bug as he stares at his hand. I set the gun on the roof of Molly’s car and curl my fingers in his shirt, dragging him up. I slam my fist into his face twice, then drop him.

Behind me there’s a scraping and a clang. Molly rushes forward, a crowbar clutched in her hands. She raises it sideways like a field hockey stick and plows it into the back of his knee.

He shrieks again, clutches his dangling hand to his chest and half-rolls, half-crawls toward the open garage door.

Molly brings the crowbar down again, smashing his ankle. The tip hits the concrete floor with a hard clang, probably rattling her teeth. The man howls and rolls onto his back.

She opens her hands and the crowbar clatters onto the floor.

I stare at Molly for a few stunned seconds. “I had him, Muffin.”

Her wide, unblinking eyes don’t seem to focus on anything at first, then slowly slide my way. “He could still walk with a broken wrist.”

Who is this woman? “Good point.”

Heart still hammering, I rush to the wall and slap my hand over the button to close the garage door.

The guy flops and drags himself faster over the dirty concrete.

He won’t make it in time, so I leave him be.

Everyone, even this greasy piece of shit, deserves the delusion of hope.