McCoy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 3)

"I won't be long," he said, making my heart seize as I whipped around, my heart skipping into overdrive. Because while, yes, we had the occasional male client, they were rare. And any random man waltzing into a place of business when he'd been told it was closed couldn't have any good intentions in mind.

As my gaze fell on the man, in my mind I was calculating if I would have a chance to get back to the main desk to trip the silent alarm.

He wasn't someone I recognized, and he didn't fit what you expected from a male client at Lily's either. Generally speaking, when men came in, it was younger gay men, or older metro men.

But this man didn't fall into either category.

He was a little taller than average with the kind of skin tone that hinted at either Latin or mixed race, tan with rich, warm undertones, black eyes, black hair kept short, and a sort of average good-looking face. Nothing stuck out to make him truly memorable, but he wasn't hard on the eyes either. Just... average attractive.

"Was he wearing anything distinguishing?" Huck asked.

"No. Just long jean shorts and a black tee. No jewelry. And no tattoos."

"How old?" McCoy pressed.

"I'm not great with that. Maybe late twenties or early thirties? I'm not sure, though."

"Okay. What did he want?" Huck asked.

"One of you dead," I told them, picking up my fork, knowing I needed to eat even if my stomach felt wobbly once again.

"That's what he said? Just that?" Huck asked.

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"You're going to do something for me," was what he'd said to me as he dropped his ass down on the edge of my desk, reaching down to grab a nail file, and inspecting it.

"I, ah, I think you have the wrong person," I'd told him, feeling my jaw starting to tremble. He'd blocked me in by positioning himself in my only way to exit save for jumping over my table.

"Shyanna Jordan. Think you're the only one of them in Miami," the man said, putting down the file, and picking up one of my fine-tipped polish brushes.

"How do you know who I am?" I asked, trying to speak past the lump in my throat.

"Turns out you and me, we know the same person."

Miami wasn't exactly a small town by any measure, but it wouldn't be unheard of for you and a stranger to have some people in common.

"Oh, really? Who?" I asked, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to convince myself there was nothing to be so anxious about. Sure, he was giving off creepy dude vibes, but no more so than the guy at my local convenience store whenever I ran in to buy milk or snacks. Sometimes people just weren't self-aware enough to realize they were being weird, or making other people uncomfortable.

But then he said the name.

And I knew there was nothing casual about the interaction.

"Belle," he said, gaze cutting to mine, like he wanted to see the shock and horror on my face when he dropped that name.

Because there was no way in any possible scenario that my little sister would find herself wrapped up with this kind of guy.

Belle was bubblegum sweet and painfully shy. I'd seen her with exactly two guys ever. Both of whom had been even more socially awkward and standoffish than she was.

Nothing like this guy.

This guy would have scared the crap out of her.

"Where is Belle?" I asked, mentally running through my phone, wondering when it was that she texted or video called me last. It had been at least a full twenty-four hours. Which wasn't completely unusual, but not all that common either. We were constantly getting in touch with each other, sharing videos or memes, pictures of something cool we saw at a store, or pictures of our pets.

Sure, life got busy. But we usually knew when life was going to get busy for the other person, so we weren't concerned if we didn't hear from the other.

Belle's life wasn't busy.

She, like me, was just doing the usual work and life thing, nothing extra. And she damn sure had no random guy friends who have "Bad News" practically tattooed across their foreheads.

"She's hanging out with my friends right now," the man declared.

When I say my stomach dropped, I mean I actually looked down at the floor, sure my insides were out.

Because there was no way Belle was with this man's "friends" willingly. And if she was with them unwillingly, what was happening to her?

"Why?" I choked out past the bile in my throat.

"Well, because I need you to do something for me. And you're not gonna like it. So, I figured you'd need some motivation?"

"What do you need? I'm just... I'm just a nail tech," I insisted. I had no special skills to speak of unless a really steady hand and some decent nail art counted. Which, call me crazy, but I was pretty sure that wasn't what this man had in mind.