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And, best of all, I spied the sign for Grand Street at the end of the block, as well as one for Betsy’s Bakes.
Hot fucking damn, I actually found it. I smiled. Look at me, getting the hang of this big city shit.
An elderly man strode by, humming softly to himself. A cyclist wove between cars and darted through the intersection with a Fuck You to traffic laws. A couple of young women exited Betsy’s Bakes, and a man talking on his phone on the opposite corner watched them for a few seconds before turning away again. The man’s bomber jacket looked like poor Chris Peterson’s, and a tug of grief went through me.
The man turned his head to glance down the cross street, and my heart gave a quick double-thud as his profile registered. Boat Launch Guy—Edwards, the security guard at Saberton who’d helped escort Jane out. He wasn’t in uniform now, but rather a dark green sweater, khaki slacks, and the jacket stolen from a murder victim. But I didn’t believe for a second that he was off-duty.
Pulse racing, I stopped and pretended to consult something on my phone while I continued to scan. Saberton. Did they have Brian? Or had Brian sold me out? Were they waiting for me?
I had no answers, and I also had no way of knowing if any of the other pedestrians were bad guys. No way was Edwards here staking this place out on his own, but he was the only one I recognized. And if I didn’t get the hell off the street, it was only a matter of time before they recognized me.
Doing my best not to appear suspicious, I ducked into the nearest shop and quickly closed the door behind me. Some sort of antique shop or interior design place, judging by the furniture and knick knacks and décor shit. I edged past a settee and a table full of globes to where I could peer out the window, angling so that I could watch Edwards on the corner as well as the entrance to Betsy’s Bakes. Another man ambled toward the intersection from farther up the street, and I caught the quick glance he exchanged with Edwards before he crossed. He had h
is hands tucked into the pockets of a tan trench coat. I had no trouble imagining weapons in them.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” a clear voice asked.
Startled, I spun around to see a sharp-featured, thirty-something man in a dark grey suit regarding me with a wary expression. “I don’t want any trouble in here,” he stated, then pointed toward the door. “Take it outside.”
I shot a quick look at the man in the trench coat, pulse quickening as he began strolling toward the shop. Shit! Had he seen me? Or was he simply walking and patrolling, or whatever it was called when bad guys did it? Either way, my level of “I’m fucked” was rapidly climbing.
I quickly moved away from the window and toward the shop dude. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled even as I cast another furtive look over my shoulder. I couldn’t see where Trench Coat had gone. “You got a back door I can use?” I asked him, not faking the desperation in my voice one bit. “I swear to god I’m not running from the cops.”
His eyes narrowed as they raked over me, and I had no illusions about what he saw. I looked like a homeless waif, possibly a drug addict. And not from New York either, not with my southern accent waving the not-a-Yankee flag. I half-expected him to reach for a phone to call the cops, but to my surprise he jerked his head toward the back.
“Thanks,” I breathed, then darted toward the little hallway that led to the rear of the shop. At the end of the hall was a small bathroom and a storage room, and to the left was an office with a loveseat crammed in a corner and a desk against the far wall. A brass coat rack held a black wool coat and a tweed fedora. But I didn’t see a back door anywhere.
I turned to Shop Dude in time to see him click the lock on the front door and flip the sign to Closed. That done, he turned and headed my way, an ugly smile on his face.
I’d almost been raped once, though I was drugged at the time and managed to almost die before it could happen. Since then I’d processed the various thoughts and feelings about that incident any number of times and wondered what would have happened if the guy who’d spiked my drink hadn’t taken that curve too quickly and died in the resulting car wreck, wondered what would have happened if I’d survived the cocktail of drugs in my system and he’d done the shit he’d wanted to do to me. I still had the occasional nightmare, even though I survived the experience in every way that mattered.
But all that shit came swimming back up to the surface as Shop Dude came toward me, confident and cocky. He was about to get himself a piece of southern tail from the pathetic homeless waif who’d wandered into his shop late on a Sunday afternoon. He knew he was in control. Maybe he’d threaten to call the police if I fought back, accuse me of theft or prostitution. He looked like a fairly respectable man, not at all sleazy or smarmy. Cops would believe his side of it, no doubt.
“C’mon, man, where’s the fucking back door?” I said, then ducked into the office as I saw Trench Coat walk past the shop. Shit. Maybe I was reading the whole situation with Shop Dude wrong. Anything was possible, right?
“What’s your hurry?” he asked, stepping into the office. He closed the door behind him, eyes traveling over me with a combination of distaste and nastiness in them.
Nope. Wasn’t reading the situation wrong one little bit. Damn it. I backed away out of pure instinct, stopped when I came up against the desk then lifted my chin.
“Seriously?” I loaded my voice with exasperation, though it sounded high and shaky to my ears. “Is this where I have to give you a BJ to get out of here?”
“For starters,” he replied, then reached behind him and locked the office door, a move that I knew damn well was meant to intimidate me.
I pushed the hood back from my face and bared my teeth. I had a gun, but a gunshot would bring the Saberton guys running. “You do this often?” I asked. “You see girls in trouble and figure you can get some action?”
He shrugged as he unbuckled his belt, eyes remaining on me in a way that made my skin want to crawl off and take a hot shower. “All I see right now is you,” he said, unzipping.
I looked down at the semi-hard cock that flopped out of his pants. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” I said, then returned my attention to his face. “No way is this your first time.”
“Suck my dick, you little whore,” he sneered, “or I call the cops and tell them I caught you shoplifting.”
Even though I’d known he was going to say that, it still robbed me of my breath for an instant. My pulse raced as old fear yammered in the back of my head, trying to tell me I was weak and small and couldn’t possibly fight back against this guy. Old insecurities joined in, adding that I wasn’t worth fighting for, that it would be easier to let it happen and try and put it behind me later.
I heard a low growl and realized it was coming from my own throat. Fuck the fear and fuck the insecurities. I was worth fighting for. Every woman was worth fighting for. Didn’t matter if they were trash or addicts or rich or popular. Didn’t matter if they dressed like a homeless waif, or in tight skirts and heels, or in jeans and flannel. No one deserved to feel helpless and worthless the way this goddamn asshole wanted me to feel and, I had no doubt, made other girls feel.
“If you’re going to call the cops to report a crime,” I said, flexing my hands, “it should be for something more interesting than theft.”
A flicker of hesitation passed over his face, but he recovered and let out a chuckle before giving his stupid cock a couple of strokes. “You think I’m scared of a little whore barely half my size—”
