Page 8 of Forgiving Utah

“Let me go, you piece of shit!” The overhead lights catch on metal at his mouth and eyebrow, familiar piercings flashing as he twists violently, trying to break free.

My stomach drops through the floor.

I fucking knew it was him.

CHAPTER THREE

Devon

I’m fucking dead. Goddammit.

My chest’s been in knots all day, but I push through the door of Arnie’s bar with a swagger I don’t feel. The place is dim and crowded like always. Almost every table is full of bikers, either killing time or killing each other, depending on their mood.

I tug my hood up and head for the back corner booth, half hidden in shadow. Arnie’s already there, legs spread with a drink in hand. My stomach churns at the sight of his pasty face.

“Devon,” he grins, flashing rotten teeth. “About damn time.”

His little court of douchebags surrounds him like usual—two meatheads and some scrawny fuck flipping a butterfly knife.

I slowly slide into the booth across from them. “You said nine o'clock. It’s nine.”

“Depends on whose clock you’re using.” The bastard chortles before slicking back his greasy hair. “You got my money?”

My fingers twitch nervously against my knee. “Almost.”

I ain’t got shit.

Arnie chuckles and shakes his head. “‘Almost’. You love that word. Almost doesn't get me my dope back, kid.”

“I’ve been working on it, man. Things have been slow.”

“See, that's the problem. Slow don't pay the bills. The longer you stay at my motel without paying, the more money I lose from clients who actually can. This ain't a fucking charity.”

My pulse pounds in my ears loud enough to rival the music. I drop my gaze to the weathered tabletop. “I'll get the rest. Just give me a few more days.”

“I've heard that before.” He tilts his head. “Unless you’d rather work it off again like last time. You were good for business.”

Every muscle in me locks up. “I said I’m done with that.”

Arnie downs what’s left of his drink and slams it on the table. “Sure you are. But we both know you don’t have many options, do you?”

The air thickens, clogging my throat. Every instinct screams at me to bolt, but I don’t move—not with his dogs flanking me. I just pat my pockets instead and pull out a lighter to ignite the cigarette tucked behind my ear. “What do you want me to do?”

Please, not like last time. Not again.

Arnie watches me lengthily before nodding toward the bar. “Tell you what. Get yourself a drink, you look like you need it. We’ll talk business after.”

Inhaling deep, I let my lungs fill with smoke. “I’m a little short on cash right now.”

“Then you owe me that, too. And I'm not asking.”

His cronies get up from the booth when he snaps his fingers, and the click of a blade flipping open has me stiffening.

“Go on,” Arnie says softly. “Get him a drink.”

The guy with the knife steps forward, but he doesn't move toward the bar. He moves toward me.

Grabbing my wrist, he hauls me to my feet hard enough to knock the cigarette from my fingers. “Jesus, what the fuck.”