Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
If I survive it.
I draw in a breath at the idea, holding it, dreading what might come next.
Our destination is the farthest booth in the rear of the building, where the bar hides us from view of the front door. The perfect place to kill me, I think again. And clearly, he’s not worried about who might walk in. The staff probably locked up after we entered. He motions for me to sit with my back to the door. Once I’ve settled onto the leather bench, I’m aware now that the high backs create the illusion of a secret hiding spot. A place where only we know what happens next.
Oliver joins me, claiming a position directly across from me. “This is cozy, isn’t it?”
Cozy is not a word I’d expect to come from such an intensely male and formal man such as this one, therefore the word sounds patronizing at best, threatening at worst. He leans into the aisle and motions to someone, which can’t be good either. With a leap of my heart, I unzip my purse, but before I can reach for my weapon, my moment has passed.
Oliver straightens to face me again, my spine is stiff with yet another rip of anticipation. Who is joining us? Who did he just invite to be a part of my “talking to”? That’s when a pale-skinned mid-fifties woman steps to our side, an apron around her waist. “Sorry. I didn’t see you come in. Can I get y’all some drinks?”
“The lady likes lemon drops,” my abductor states before arching a brow at me. “Unless you’d prefer a Bloody Mary?”
Unease settles low in my belly at the mention of the two drinks I favor, which is no doubt his way of letting me know he’s been watching and studying me. “I’ll pass,” I reply tightly. “Thanks.”
“Two Bloody Marys,” Oliver orders, his eyes locked with mine before he glances at the waitress. “And some of that amazing spinach artichoke dip you make here.”
“Coming right up,” she replies and hurries off.
“Who are you?” I demand, deciding there is strength in confrontation, and I need to show strength. This table has to be a negotiation like any other, with the endgame being a peaceful resolution.
“Call me Oliver,” he urges.
“Oliver,” I repeat. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He doesn’t bite on my effort to get him talking, replying as if I had not spoken. “I want you to pull out your cellphone and hand it to me.”
Not yet, I think. “And if I don’t?” I challenge.
“Again, this is in the best interest of Tyler.”
My lips press together, and my heart thunders in my chest. I don’t need my phone, I remind myself. I have a sweet little Smith and Wesson tucked away in my bag. Almost as if he’s read my mind, he says, “It’s also in your best interest to leave your weapon in your purse. I don’t need you to hand it to me, but I do need you to be smart enough to stay alive. If I die, the people I work for will stop playing nice. And believe me, I’m the nicest this gets, Bella.”
Acid burns the back of my throat, and I decide his version of nice is likely the promise to kill you but make it fast and clean. After all, he wouldn’t want to bloody up his expensive suit.
I reach into my purse and offer him my phone. He doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he commands, “Unlock it.”
My jaw clenches. “Why?”
“Unlock it,” he repeats, his tone low but taut as a rubber band about to pop you right in the face.
I have no idea what he’s about to do, but it can’t be good. I unlock the phone and fight the urge to rebelliously text Dash, right here in front of him, everything inside me warns against it. I’m trembling inside when he motions for me to hand over my cell, but somehow my hand is steady when I drop it in his palm. He snaps a photo of me, and then starts typing. He dramatically taps a button, clearly wanting me to know he’s sent a message, before he removes my SIM card, and sets my phone face down at elbow length to himself.
My fingers curl on my knee beneath the table. “What did you just do?”
“I let Tyler know you’ll be late.”
I scream in my head.
No. No. No.
And yet, it’s done. Tyler is about thirty seconds from losing his mind.
The waitress appears and sets chips and waters down in front of us. “Drinks coming right up,” she says and walks away.
“Oliver” drops my SIM card in the water and then laces his fingers in front of him. “Now we won’t be rushed. You can enjoy your drink.”
I tamp down on my emotions and with good reason. Everything about his demeanor is calculated and I must meet that energy with my own. “What is this game you’re playing?”