Page 161 of No One But Me
The taller man leaned in closer, voice dropping low and vicious—intimate in a way that made bile rise in my throat. "See, sweetheart… We've been patient. Real patient. But if Jones doesn't pay?" He shrugged, smile widening. "We start with you."
My heart stopped.
Actually stopped.
The shorter man stepped behind me—not touching, but lining up just enough to make me feel cornered. Trapped between their bodies and the counter I'd been clinging to.
"And once we're done?" The shorter one shrugged, casual as discussing weather. "Maybe someone will finally take your problem seriously."
I choked on a breath that wouldn't come.
Ice crawled down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, settling cold and heavy in my stomach.
They weren't bluffing.
I could see it in their eyes—the flat certainty of men who'd done worse things to better people and never lost sleep over it.
My hands trembled against the wood. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But my legs wouldn't move. Wouldn't carry me away from the counter or toward the phone or anywhere that mattered.
The taller man straightened, adjusting his jacket with deliberate slowness. "You know what? I think we've given her too much time. I think we send the message now."
I forced my voice to stay steady, though my entire body screamed otherwise.
"This isn't Gideon's business. My father's mistakes are not his responsibility."
The taller man grinned—slow and satisfied, like I'd just given him exactly what he wanted. "Then they're yours."
My throat tightened until breathing felt like swallowing glass. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed too loud in the sudden silence.
"Please—just leave."
He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Each footfall deliberate, measured, designed to make me understand how small I was. How cornered.
"We gave you time. We warned you."
My legs shook so violently I pressed harder against the counter just to stay upright. The wood grain bit into my palms. Grounding. Real. The only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways. "Don't do this?—"
"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice dropping to something intimate and vicious, "we're done asking."
His hand shot out. Grabbed my wrist before I could pull away.
The grip was iron. Bruising. Final.
I gasped—not screamed, not yet—just a sharp intake of breath that wouldn't form words.
The shorter man moved behind me.
I felt him there—close enough that his breath ghosted across the back of my neck, close enough to smell cigarettes and old leather and something metallic that made my stomach turn.
"You're gonna learn real quick," the taller one said, twisting my wrist until pain shot up my arm, "what happens when people don't pay their debts."
I tried to jerk away.
His grip tightened.
"Let me?—"
"No." He pulled me forward, dragging me halfway across the counter. Books scattered. The register beeped once, sharp and panicked. "You're gonna tell Gideon Jones exactly what happens when little girls play games they can't win."
