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“Everything okay?” he asks, his gaze going from me to the approaching car, his brows pulling together in question.
“Get away from him, Brinley,” the governor instructs. “Start walking to Scott’s car.”
Doing as I’m told, I almost trip over my own feet. Panic now has me in a firm hold, and I can’t get my body to respond like it should.
It feels like being at Myth again the night of the fight. Like I’m being closed in with danger all around me. Like I’ll be trampled underfoot with one wrong step.
I’m almost to the car when Shane starts heading my direction.
“Wait,” he calls out, his long stride faster than mine, his hand reaching out to grab me when he gets closer.
The only thing that stops him from reaching me is Scott. While I’d been watching Shane, Scott had stopped the car and climbed out, moving fast enough to get between us.
Releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I push up on tiptoes to look over Scott’s shoulder.
He and Shane are now locked in a death stare, and by the looks of it from where I’m standing, this encounter is about to explode into a fight.
Shane
What in theRambomeetsFull Metal JacketmeetsAmerican Psychois going on here?
In one second, I’m grabbing for Brinley as she makes a beeline to some random ass Rolls, and in the next, I’m being stared down by some sociopathic asshole who looks like he kills people slowly and painfully for sport.
Maybe that’s too calm a description of him.
Giving him a quick rundown, I’m pretty sure he eats puppies for breakfast while clutching an AK in his fist, his trigger finger itchy because of the military propaganda films he devours to relax during every spare bit of free time he gets.
About my height yet slightly larger in build, the son of a bitch has dark hair close shaven to his head, empty dark eyes and a practiced sneer that causes my balls to shrivel up and retreat inside my body.
It’s not that I’m afraid of the guy, it’s just that I value my life and body enough to know messing with him without some kind of weapon in hand would most likely cost me a limb or two and probably leave a few bite marks permanently imbedded in my skin.
I take a step back—a large step—and reevaluate the situation.
Not understanding where the fuck he came from, I look around the parking lot to make sure he’s the only one. There’s nobody else but the three of us, and I’m seriously regretting telling Priest it was cool for him to go home earlier.
A murder of crows catches my attention when they take off flying from where they’d sat perched on a power line, and I can’t help thinking they’re cowards for leaving me to deal with this alone. They caw in unison as they go, most likely telling me to save my own ass and hightail it back in the shop.
I would, but unfortunately, Psycho here is standing in front of something I need, and someone I can’t let go.
As if intuiting my thoughts, Psycho’s sneer turns into a knowing grin when I look back at him.
“Miss Thornton is leaving with me,” he says, leaving absolutely no room for question.
Except I have questions.
Lots of questions.
First: “Who the hell are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am, just that I’m taking Ms. Thornton, and we’re leaving. I suggest you run inside your shop before I put you there.”
Put me?
Fucker’s ego is a big as the guns he’s packing on both arms. I check him out again and realize he may have a right to that ego. But it still won’t deter me.
Second and third questions: “Brinley, are you seriously leaving with this psychopath? What about your car?”
Her eyes peer over his massive shoulder from where she stands behind him, fear easily seen in her expression. She clears her throat then offers me a wobbly smile.
