No, she'd have to take care of this before her parents even heard about it.
“Look, I don't have it all, but I'll get it. I just need some time. Come by the diner during the lunch shift tomorrow and I'll give you five grand.” Just saying the words was like watching her dreams curl up and die.
Snips' eyes lit up, no doubt at the prospect of getting his grubby hands on her hard-earned cash.
That money was her entire life savings after she'd paid for her stay at the Rose O'Neill Dry Creek Artist Colony, but if Cy was desperate enough to borrow money from Snips, he really needed it. The fact that he'd dropped out of sight meant something had gone very wrong and he was in real trouble. Damn, why hadn't she followed up on his last cryptic text? He'd promised to never leave her to clean up his messes again—unless something awful had happened.
“I need it all.” Snips snuck across the invisible line separating her space from his. “Of course, you're such a hot piece of ass that I could be persuaded to give you a few extra weeks, if you asked in the right way.”
The ants double-timed across her skin and she took an involuntary half-step back. “Come on, we've known each other since
middle school. I've told you a million times, no way, no how.”
Anger flashed in his beady eyes. “Yeah and in all that time, Miss Tight Ass, you've never given me a second glance or the respect I deserve. I was never good enough for you. But guess who needs me now?” He raised himself on his tiptoes and jutted his face into hers. “Who's hot shit now, bitch?”
His hand shot out so fast it must have broken some kind of land-speed record and clamped onto her left breast.
Shock stopped the moment in time. Her brain emptied until it was a vast white space with only one thought: What. The. Fuck?
He kneaded her tit like a baker with a loaf of unformed dough.
Rage and disgust rattled and climbed up to her throat, her cheeks flamed. She gritted her teeth and shoved his hand away, her knee slamming into his steroid-shrunken balls. He bent over with an oomph! She grabbed the metal serving tray in both hands and swung it with everything her five-foot-eleven-inch body could give. The tray made a heavy boing sound on the side of his head.
He went down. Hard.
Lungs heaving, she tried to bring her breathing and heart rate back to normal while her brother's loan shark—the man who held Cy's kneecaps in his hands—wriggled on the ground in agony.
The other poker players, waitresses and even the new bartender let out a collective gasp. Pandemonium broke out as the crowd converged around them. Mr. Tall Drink of Water hung back, but he tipped an invisible hat at her. Shouted questions bounced off the walls.
“What the hell happened, Josie?” Her boss, Clive, picked that moment to appear.
“He grabbed my boob.”
“Aw, hell.” He swiped his fingers through his hair and aged about ten years in a breath. Snips dropped a ton of cash at the casino on a regular basis. “Go change and then let's talk in my office.”
Clive went to work dispersing the gawkers.
Fuckity fuck fuck. And this was why Cy rolled his eyes at her whenever she called him out about his temper.
Snips staggered up, holding his junk with both hands. An apricot-sized goose egg deformed his round head.
“You fuckin' cunt.” Spittle sprayed from his angry mouth. Hatred and pain twisted his face. “Forty thousand dollars. I want it all. Tomorrow.”
He limped to the door and out to the Paris Casino's general gambling floor.
Well, she'd taken the bad and made it about twenty times worse. Way to go, Josie. She had less than twenty-four hours to find Cy, or cash out her life savings and find an additional thirty-five thousand dollars. Bile rose in her throat. The tray slid from her clammy grasp.
She could sell her car. Work extra shifts in the poker room and at the diner. Forget about Dry Creek. Maybe she could get a refund.
Her shoulders slumped. Exhaling a deep breath, she headed for the employee locker room. There was no time for feeling sorry for herself. As her dad, a lifelong plumber, said, life doesn't always give you copper pipes, sometimes it just gives you shit.
Swiping the diary from its hiding spot, she gave herself a mental shake then marched out of the poker room.
Sinking down onto a metal folding chair in the employee locker room, she tried to steady her shaking hands enough to unbuckle her shoes. It took three tries, but she finally got them undone and tossed them into her duffel, then wriggled out of her miniscule uniform. So much for the bonfire she'd been planning. Josie sniffled back a tear. She couldn't stop her bottom lip from quivering, but dammit, she would not actually cry. It wouldn't change anything.
Pulling on a pair of dark denim jeans and tugging a soft cotton T-shirt over her head, she contemplated her next task: persuading Clive to give her some more shifts in the poker room. It would take a whole lot of fast talk to get him to agree. Lately, he'd been overwhelmed with requests for overtime from everyone and Josie had three things working against her. She stuffed the diary in her backpack and swung it over one shoulder, grabbed her duffel bag in her other hand and cataloged the negative marks.
One, she'd already quit.