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CHAPTERONE
Presley
My felon pops’s enemies found me.
And I’m out of a job. Again.
I tried to explain to my boss at the gas station that those guys in the expensive suits were liars. That their business cards are phony. That they show up to my jobs regularly, claiming that I used to work for them and owed them money, even though I don’t.
“My pops is in debt to them, not me.”
My now-former boss believed them — the New York guys in the fancy suits with the Russian accents — over me and apologetically sent me packing. “I’m really sorry, Presley, but I don’t need this kind of trouble at my store,” he’d said.
Apologies don’t change the fact that I’m now without a job and have no marketable skills. Ruby’s Diner isn’t hiring, and Ruby’s catering business only pays per gig, and there are not many events in this town where she needs me.
I’ve spent all afternoon begging for work at every business in town. The visitor center, city hall, the brewery, the junk stores, the supermarket…nobody has anything for me. I even checked at Rex’s Garage. Not that I know how to fix cars or drive a tow truck, but as the mayor’s human companion, Rex knows everything going on in town.
“You might check with Wood Brothers; they’re always looking for crew members,” Rex had said.
That’s very generous of him to think I know the first thing about what to do with nails and screws and whatnot.
“I’m sorry, honey. A yarn store just doesn’t have the volume of customers that would demand more workers other than Hayden and myself,” Billie says on my final stop at her yarn and crafting store.
My last rejection of the day. I can’t take any more.
I understand what she’s saying. But I’m done now, and I’m headed home to eat my weight in ramen and cry in front of a re-watch ofGossip Girl.
You’d think a couple of wise guys trying to collect a debt would prefer I earn a legitimate income to pay off my Pops’s debts at some point.
But that’s not what they seem to care about. It’s all intimidation. Those guys from New York don’t want my money in drips and drabs. They want me to come and work for them and for their oligarch boss. They want me dependent on them, just like everyone else who works for their boss.
I shudder to think what that means.
I amble down the street, feeling on edge after what happened today. I walk with regular glances over my shoulder, even in this town of 1,001 people.
The sun sets behind me, and I can’t see very well, but a shadowy figure seems to be following me.
Was that the same stranger who got me fired today? He was smoking a cigarette on the stairs of the old courthouse as I zipped from store to store, looking for work today.
I’ve resisted Ivan Guzinsky’s overtures for so long now that I worry that his thugs will up and grab me right off the street now that they found me. Especially now that there’s no employer here accounting for my whereabouts.
I recall what one of them told me when they first approached me last year, right before I left the city and went into hiding: “No one will miss you. And things will be easier if you come willingly. He knows you like pretty things, like that Prada bag you have there. There’s a lot more where that came from if you don’t put up a fight. Ivan Guzinsky prefers it that way. Less messy.”
That day is burned into my brain. I vomited my meager dinner after that.
My pulse pounding, I decide it’s best if I make contact with as many people as possible tonight. Someone will have been the last person to see me. Someone will miss me. Someone, hopefully, will help me.
When I get to the aromatherapy store, I consider ducking in there for safety. Dammit, it’s already closed.
I look again, and the man turns and heads into Other Brother Ben’s Brewery. I blow out a breath of relief, scurry past the aromatherapy store, and head down the block, past the construction crew at the old Ingalls house. Thank goodness my best friend Grace’s husband, Buck, doesn’t tolerate catcalling from his crew. The Wood brothers have been rehabbing old, abandoned homes all over town, and not once have I been whistled at as I stroll through downtown.
“Downtown” is a bit of a stretch. Not much happens here. No noise at night except for the crickets and the occasional live band at the brewery.
The quiet is too quiet tonight, and I scurry to my crappy apartment in the sagging three-story Victorian.
I felt more secure in my crowded New York neighborhood. I believe in safety in numbers.
I had to leave that high-rise apartment in Manhattan, though, after the Russians came after me.
