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I think I passed that test.
We get to work unloading the produce. There are moments where I’m completely comfortable in the amicable silence. But those moments are always followed by the realization I’m in a very insulated metal box with only one exit and a serial killer. No one would hear me scream.
Which is why it doesn’t make any sense that when he lightly places his palm on the small of my back and leans across me to put something on the shelf in front of me, I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
His masculine sandalwood smell cloaks me, and the warmth from his palm spreads all the way down my legs. A full-body shiver runs through me when he whispers in my ear, lips almost grazing my skin. “Excuse me.”
Fuck.That is not the reaction I should be having right now.
I jolt back, but he grabs me by the hip and pushes me up against the shelving. “Don’t be scared of me.” There’s a sweet drip to his words, and if I wasn’t so fucking shocked, it would almost be endearing.
He leans forward until the tip of his nose grazes mine, his breath fluttering on my cheek. “Though I do love the way your cheeks flush when you’re scared.” In a slow, testing motion, he presses his hips forward until I can feel his erection through his pants, the friction of the fabric on my bare legs sending sparks up them. My blood pounds in my ears and my body trembles with the desire to rock forward into him too.
His hands glide down the swell of my hips and over the curve of my ass. One hand scrunches the material of my skirt while the other continues the descent.
If his hand goes just a little lower, he’ll be able to…
Instead, I push him off me and storm away. “Yeah, well you can start by not shoving me up against walls in enclosed spaces.”
“It was a shelf, not a wall!” he calls after me with a devilish laugh.
I regret not slapping him in the face when I had the chance.
I hate my body.
I hate it for the way it betrays me.
The night Beth died, it refused to listen to my pleas. It wouldn’t scream, it wouldn’t stand. I wouldn’t fuckingmove.
And right now I hate my body because I have to spend the rest of my shift in soaked panties because of its traitorous reaction to a serial killer.
The taunting looks Cash gives me all day makes me think he knows it too. Walking around looking smug and annoyingly good in a navy suit. I hate him.
A tall, white man with a buzzed head comes in, dressed in a red Adidas sweat suit that immediately catches my attention. And when I see his face, it stops me in my tracks.
It’s Beth’s uncle, Ivan. I’ve never met him, but I recognize him from her family photos and his resemblance to her father. I don’t want to interact with him, it’s a risk I can’t take. If he recognizes me for whatever reason—I mean, I’ve been in Beth’s life for the past twenty-three years—and calls me Harlow, it’s all over.
But our hostess is out sick, so the servers have been picking up the slack and right now, I’m the only one available. I suck it up, paste a friendly smile on my face, and go to him.
“Hi, sir. Welcome in,” I say while obviously fidgeting with my name tag, hoping it will draw his attention. If he does recognize me, perhaps he’ll think he’s mistaken when he sees the name. “Table for one?”
He nods and scrunches his nose, looking around with a sneer like he’s disgusted by the place. “Well then, if you’ll follow me.” My tone is sickly sweet trying to hide my nerves.
The corner booth is open. It’s a big, round table with the only benches in the place that are upholstered with the same rich, red leather as the waiting area. I go to make a joke about his tracksuit matching the cushions, but think better of it when he sits down looking like he wants to punch a hole through a wall.
When I ask him what he wants to drink, he only answers with a grunt, his eyes glued to the back of house. “Okay, I’ll be right back with yourwaterthen.”
I’m coming back when I stop midway because Cash is having a tense conversation with Ivan. They keep their voices down, but by the way their faces are twisted up in fury, they may as well be yelling.
I timidly approach, desperate to hear their conversation. Beth’s uncle versus her killer. Does he know that? Is that why he’s here?
Their voices become audible the closer I get, Cash’s voice slicing through the air. He leans across the table to jab his finger accusingly at Ivan. “...You come in here, to my fucking place of business, and start throwing bullshit accusations around—”
Ivan’s hand shoots out and grabs Cash’s wrist, shaking his tattooed hand. “You think you are the only one with sources in the police, huh?” His Russian accent is thick and harsh, the meaning of his words dropping like a lead weight in my gut.
Cash rips his hand away and points it at the door. “Get the fuck out of here before you start a war you can’t possibly win.” He rotates slightly, and I notice his other hand slide to his coat pocket. Ivan’s eyes flick to the movement too and he gets up with a death stare.
It’s only when he’s walking away that I see a sliver of metal tucked into his waistband.
