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He bites at my neck, not breaking the skin, but enough to hurt. His voice is darkly satisfied. “You like it rough, don’t you?”
It’s Jase. My manager. Who sent me in here. It was all planned; I never should have gone against my instincts.
Now I’m not just scared, I’m furious. And with a wrench of my arm, I get it unstuck and I jab the crap out of the earring.
Oh, please work.
Jase licks my neck and whispers in my ear, “I’m so glad I hired you.”
My skin crawls. Please, Rylan. Come quickly.
CHAPTER NINE
RYLAN
I have a bad feeling about this place.
Not the actual restaurant, but the people in it. The servers who keep glaring at Charlie behind her back. The customers who whisper to each other as she walks by. And that manager, with the predatory gaze, his eyes on Charlie wherever she goes.
I don’t like Charlie working here. Even though I’m keeping eyes on her as she circulates through the restaurant, I don’t like the minutes she’s out of view. When she goes into the kitchen, my gut clenches until she reappears again, safe and unharmed.
This time, she’s been gone too long.
I saw her head toward the back of the restaurant a few minutes ago, but there’s a wall separating the dining area from the kitchen and restrooms, so I don’t know which direction she took. Is she waiting on food in the kitchen? Did she need to take a quick trip to the restroom?
Opening the tracking app, I locate Charlie’s pin just off the hallway to the restrooms. Based on the blueprints Lee found, it’s a supply room. Shit.
I told her not to go anywhere alone. But she might have felt pressured into it, a new employee, wanting to make a good impression.
Maybe I should check on her.
And then.
Her alert goes off. Flashing red on the screen. She’s in trouble.
Shit. I knew this place was bad news. I knew it.
Sprinting to the back of the restaurant, my knee twists and a sharp pain shoots up my leg, but it’s unimportant. All that matters is getting to Charlie.
People are staring as I run by, conversations pausing, then re-erupting with a frenzy of whispered questions.
At the unmarked door—the supply room—I take one moment to assess.
Handle, locked from the outside by a key. Rustling inside, murmuring. Something clunking softly. And a muffled cry, feminine and fearful.
No time to pick the lock. The door is hollow, composite wood, not sturdy—my best bet is kicking it in.
I don’t know what I’m facing inside, so I pull out my folding Ka-Bar and hold it down by my hip, thumb ready to flip it open if needed. Then I brace myself and kick at the door with my good leg, all my muscles tensed and ready to fly into action.
The wood splinters around the doorknob and the door flies open, bouncing off a shelf on the wall. Straight ahead are shelves of supplies—silverware, toilet paper, paper towels, napkins. A small step stool lies tipped over in front of it.
A millisecond later, my gaze shifts to the right, and a haze of red sweeps over it.
It’s the manager, his back to me—tall, slightly overweight—his head jerking around to look at me. And Charlie—
Oh fuck.
She’s pinned against the wall, facing it, trapped, almost hidden behind his body.
