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“Yeah,” said Tyler, jerking his arm free, the can still in his fist. “Try that kung fu shit again, and see what I do to you.”
“The manager will be right back,” she babbled. “He’s ... yeah. Take the dog food—whatever you want—I’m not going to kung fu—to—ah—”
Tyler pulled her closer. “What’s yours?”
He still hadn’t let go of the can, and she felt certain that he was going to slug her in the face with it. It took her a moment to respond, and even then, she had no idea what he was talking about. “What’s ... mine?”
He leaned in and inhaled, as if smelling the air around her. “Look, you want to play stupid in here, fine. Maybe we can send you home to Chris with a little message.”
How frigging long did it take Jerry to smoke a cigarette? “I don’t live with Chris—I mean, I barely know the guy—”
“Save it.” He gave her a little shake. “That little stunt they pulled last night? The deal is done. Get it? Done.”
He was staring down at her as though his words should have made an impact. She shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.”
He shoved her up against the shelving, until metal dug into her shoulder and scraped her through the shirt. “If they pull this shit again, we’re going to take care of it ourselves. Get it?”
She tried to squirm away from him, feeling her throat tighten.
His grip tightened, and her arm started to ache. No, it started to burn. She squealed, but that only made it worse.
He leaned in. “Get it?”
His hand felt hot through her sleeve, like a branding iron. She could swear her arm was on fire. Tears were in her eyes and she didn’t care now. “But I don’t—”
A dog growled to her left. A dark, menacing growl, the kind that prefaced an attack. She and Tyler both snapped their heads to the side.
Pets were allowed in the store, of course. Nice ones. But a massive German shepherd stood there, his lips pulled back, his black ears flat, a low round of bass rolling from his throat. His tail wagged slowly, a sure sign of aggression. A red leash hung from his collar, but there was no human attached to the other end of it.
Her head snapped back to Tyler. Her mind couldn’t decide which to fear more.
“Get.” Tyler lashed a foot out at the dog. “Go on, get.”
The dog dropped a few inches and did that sharp snapping growl. Tyler lifted the can again, this time aiming for the dog.
“Casper.” A male voice spoke from behind the guys. “Hierr. Fuss.”
Either that wasn’t English, or her mental faculties had completely abandoned her.
The animal sprang over the spilled cans of dog food, dashed between the two guys who had her, and snapped to attention beside a man at the end of the aisle.
No, not a man, a teenager. Defined features, sandy blond hair with a streak of white, and small, odd tattoos—the new kid from World History.
Could her night get any more surreal?
Tyler and his friend were staring at him, too, sizing him up, their expressions locked in that panic between fight and flight. Tyler’s fingers loosened on her arm. The burning stopped.
“Oh, good,” said New Kid, his tone flat and ironic. “Here’s the dog food.”
“Get lost,” said Tyler.
Becca forced her tongue to work. “Call the cops.”
shook her head quickly. “I just—I meant—you weren’t here this morning.”
“It was a rough night.” He shrugged and picked up another fry. “Michael let me sleep it off.” He looked down at the table, apparently noticing for the first time that he was the only one eating. “You guys are already done? I barely made it through the line.”
Quinn took a swig of her water.
