No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

...Ha.

How cute, me thinking that.

Back in reality, she’d cut me open and make that person watch, then shoot them in the head and sit there filing her sparkly pink nails while her goons dispose of our bodies.

If it’s a customer, I have to get rid of them ASAP.

Wrong place, wrong time doesn’t begin to describe what any randoms would be walking into tonight.

But I can’t tell where the noise is coming from.

The glare from my store’s lights reflecting on the windows blocks my view. All I can see is two sets of headlights that cut off, leaving nothing but ominous darkness and my own sickly reflection staring back at me.

Even in the glass, my face looks white with fear, this pale oval hovering near the register.

I’m suddenly freezing, ice-cold with terror sweat.

God.

I just have to hope this plan of mine actually works.

It’s simple enough—I mean, as simple as taking out a whole crew of soulless killers can be.

Just get them inside.

Bait them into the back.

Spring the trap.

The gold waits, right there, begging them to go for it.

Of course, the shelves are rigged.

If I pull that cord, it’ll slip the pin just barely holding everything in place, and hundreds of pounds of gold will come tumbling down in an avalanche of blunt force trauma, giving them all the money they wanted in a way they never asked for—plus some stabby shrapnel from my big glass growler jugs for good measure.

Maybe if I’m lucky, a shard of glass will pierce a certain someone’s femoral artery or jugular or something.

I’m not out for blood.

Not really.

I’m not sure I can live with murder on my conscience, even in self-defense, self-preservation.

Still, I want to make sure they’ll regret this and never consider coming for me again—and realistically, that means they can’t survive this. If I even survive it.

They call it blood money for a reason, don’t they?

I’ve just got to make sure I’m not the only one who’s bleeding over it.

Not the hell anymore.

It’s eerily quiet now. With those headlights out front going dark, I can’t see anything.

That makes it even more unnerving not being able to tell what’s going on out there—who’s in the cars, who’s getting out of them, why there are two vehicles to start with.

Paisley’s being practical, I tell myself. Bringing extra help to haul the gold away.

Maybe some kind of criminal specialist to help make sure my body disappears that much faster.

I shake my head. Stop thinking like tha—

I nearly scream as the bell over the door jingles.

The most familiar sound of my life, what used to be a comfort.

Tonight all I hear is an angel of death, shaking those bells like a demented tambourine.

I brace for Paisley, her goons, blazing guns, and imminent doom.

What I’m not expecting to see is the single man who pulls the door open and walks inside, his sallow face curled into a sneer.

Huh?

He looks familiar, but I don’t know him.

Where have I seen this guy before—

Oh.

Wait.

The police station. What feels like forever ago. The drunk tank.

Isn’t this the guy Alaska got in a brawl with at the gas station after he came snooping around the cabin and stole a couple gold bars?

The guy Alaska said blamed him for everything wrong in his life after they’d both had a bad run in business?

Gavin Coakley.

He’s...definitely not who I expected.

I don’t know. There’s something about him that weirds me out, something unclean and unwholesome, but what makes me nervous right now is the fact that I’m alone in my coffee shop with a strange man who’s much larger than me and none too friendly.

He also has the worst timing in the universe.

If I don’t get him out of here, stat, he’ll get in the way of my trap. I also hate that he’s looking at me like he wants something stronger than hot coffee.

My stomach tightens. “I’m sorry, sir, but as the sign says, we’re cl—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it,” he snarls.

That’s when I hear the click of a gun’s safety.

Oh, crap.

He pulls a shining black semi-automatic pistol from behind his back, holding it casually against his shoulder, and yet I know—with my mouth drying and my bones turning brittle and my courage crumbling to dust—he could flick it at me in under a second, pull the trigger, and then this will all be over.

Everything I’ve done spoiled by my typically Randall rotten luck.

The story of my freaking life.

With a harsh sigh, I hold my hands up, hoping this is just a boring robbery from a desperate weirdo looking for his next hit of booze, dope, or whatever keeps him alive and horrible.

“Please. Just take whatever you want from the register and go,” I whisper, stepping away to give him clearance.

“Didn’t come here for fuckin’ beer money,” he says. “You won’t mind if I have a little look around, will you?”