Page 32 of Property of my Boss

I blow out a breath and refocus. There’s too much to think about this morning. I can’t be getting lost in thoughts of her thighs or I might crawl back into this bed and let the moment bury me.

A heavy knock hits the door.

Jesus Christ. I toss on my jeans, and I pull on my shirt as I make my way to the solid wood door at the front of the cabin. I’m half expecting it to be the asshole looking for his ransom, but it’s Atlas’ shadow that’s casting onto the front porch.

“What the fuck, dude?” I swing the door open and step outside, trying not to wake Tilly.

“Not all of us are playing house this morning,” Atlas groans. “I’ve got a big fucking problem.”

“What could possibly be wrong now?” I groan as I stare down into the valley where campfire smoke puffs in the distance. It’s a cool morning, and the air is crisp. If it weren’t for all this bullshit, it would be the perfect fall day.

“Bowers never showed up with his cash last night.”

“What do you mean he didn’t show up? Why wouldn’t he show up? Last night was move night, right?”

Atlas nods. “That’s the fucking problem, man. I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t get ahold of him on the burner, and with this asshole coming to collect, we were counting on that money.”

My head is pounding. “Okay, so… I don’t fucking know. Without Bower’s, we don’t have enough to pay the ransom. I’ve got like fifty grand in a coffee can, but I don’t think he’s taking negotiations.”

Atlas nods and grips the edge of the porch. “We have like ten minutes to figure this out. There’s got to be something of value around here.”

I laugh. “We don’t have shit. All we have of value is this campground, and I don’t think he’s going to take that on trade. Might raise a few flags.”

Atlas huffs low under his breath, and we’re both staring off into the distance when a pickup truck I don’t recognize pulls into view, stones popping beneath the tires.

I’m not sure what’s going through my head as the man parks and climbs out. I’m doubly lost when Bowers slides out the passenger side door and makes his way up the driveway toward us, but I’ve got the feeling things are getting exponentially worse.

The taste of prison food is already on my tongue.

Atlas crosses his arms over his chest and stands with purpose, as though he’s ready to take whatever these people throw.

I’m not sure I’m feeling as calm or composed. In fact, that thing I told Tilly earlier about not being a killer might be a complete lie an hour from now.

“Gentleman,” the asshole says, climbing the steps up onto the old pine wood porch I should’ve gotten around to replacing this summer, “I assume you know my colleague.”

He doesn’t explain the situation further, and Bowers doesn’t say a word, though I don’t suppose they need to. Clearly, Bowers was a rat. I knew something was off about that deal.

“We don’t have the money,” I say, “so you should go. Call the police, tell your boy, do what you have to. You’re not getting a penny.”

“We can afford one fifty,” Atlas says, stepping forward. “That’s all we have.”

“That’s too bad,” the man continues, his hand in his pocket. “My partner and I are going to need two hundred to make this a solid deal.”

The morning wind carries the scent of roasted coffee beans from the campers below.

“Well then, we don’t have a solid deal,” I groan. “Do what you have to.”

“No,” Atlas insists, that damn crow cawing again in the background. “We’ll get the rest of the money. We just need more time.”

The asshole steps forward, the gun in his pocket on display like he’s trying to intimidate us. “That’s not going to work. The money transfer was for—”

He’s halfway through his sentence when the sheriff pulls up… because why the fuck not?

I swear to fucking God this day couldn’t get any worse. Why do I have a feeling this was Tilly thinking she was helping?

“Boys,” Sheriff Williams nods as he steps up the stairs with a folder in his hand, “I have that paperwork all signed and ready to go.”

I think he’s spent more time on his mustache than usual this morning.