“Maybe it’s a long con.”
“It’s not.”
“That’s exactly what someone running a long con would say.”
B.E.B. steps back and gestures toward the swinging door. “Go, then.”
That throws me for a loop. “What?”
“If you don’t believe me, go. Walk out the front, turn right, head east toward your car. See what happens.”
We look at each other. He’s got this total calm about him that makes me want to throw something at his head. The knife resting on the counter next to me would do the trick nicely. It’s not even that I think he’s wrong, per se—it’s just that, after four years married to Raymond Snyder, I’ve had as much snide, condescending arrogance as a girl can handle.
“Fine,” I decide. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
I push through the swinging door and walk through the bar without looking back. I can feel him, though. His eyes on me, tracking me all the way across the room. The sensation of blue on me prickles along my spine and stays there even after I shove open the front door and step out onto the sidewalk.
The night is cold for October. The garbage bins lined up along the sidewalk are radiating putrid fumes into the air. I hike my purse strap higher on my shoulder and start walking.
I make it one block. I’m passing the mouth of an alley between a laundromat and a payday loans place when a thick arm shoots out of the dark and grabs the strap of my purse.
It’s Mr. Refrigerator.
And just like the B.E.B. predicted…
… he’s not alone.
3
CASS
Dammit.
The Blue-Eyed Bastard was right. Of all the many things that have not gone my way tonight,thatmight be the part that stings the most.
It’s tough competition—after all, there’s a meaty hand clamped on my purse strap, Mr. Refrigerator and his two friends (Dr. Dishwasher and Sir Shelving Unit, I’m naming them) looming closer and closer with obvious ill intentions, a dank alley in which all of this is taking place, the looming implication that my life is about to get much worse in a hurry…
But no, it’s admitting I was wrong that’ll truly be the death of me.
Four years with Raymond “Shithead” Snyder and I still haven’t learned when to swallow my ego. You’d think survival instinct would kick in at some point. That, sooner or later, the part of my brain responsible for self-preservation would send up a flare and go,Hey, Cass, just STFU for once in your life.
You’d be wrong. Instead, I marched my stupid ass right out the front door, turned right, and headed east toward my car. Exactly the route B.E.B. described. I followed his prediction to the letter—and walked straight into the trap he warned me about.
I am, it must be said, a moron.
But I am not aquietmoron. Nor a meek one. If I’m going to die here, I’m going to do it while kicking and screaming and fighting like my life depends on it.
Judging by the nasty gleam in the eyes of the men crowding me against a leaky dumpster, it most definitely does.
“Get off me!” I shriek as loud as I can. The sound bounces off the alley walls and dies a quick, ugly death somewhere in the dark. I yank back on my purse strap with both hands, digging my heels into the wet pavement.
Mr. Refrigerator doesn’t let go. He jerks the strap hard and I stumble forward, almost crashing into his chest. He smells even more sour than he looks. I wonder if he bathes with the washcloth that the bartender at Khaza was using to wipe down the countertop.
“Shut her up,” one of his friends says. That would be Dr. Dishwasher. He’s shorter than Mr. Refrigerator, but wider, with a flat face and small, beady eyes.
I open my mouth to scream again, but before I can, a hand clamps over it. That’s Sir Shelving Unit, behind me now. I didn’t even notice him move. His palm is damp and unpleasant. I bite down as hard as I can and he rips his hand away with a grunt.
“The bitch fuckin’ bit me!”
