Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(9)

I drop the bags on the ground next to the Dumpster and throw the lid up and back, toward the building. My push is hard enough that the lid flies all the way up. It comes to rest against the wall with a clatter.

I toss the two bags in, then trudge back inside to get two more. Then I do it again, determined to at least make a dent in the mess before I get too cold and wet to continue.

On my fourth trip, someone grabs me from behind.

I’m yanked so violently away from the Dumpster that I lose my balance. I stagger back and crash into a solid form—a chest. When I scream, an arm clamps around my throat. The tip of something ice cold and sharp jabs into the soft hollow beneath my jaw.

“Scream again and I’ll cut out your fuckin’ tongue.”

The voice is low, male, and deadly serious.

I stiffen in terror. Instinctively, I grab the arm clamped around my throat. It’s covered by a jacket made of a thin layer of nylon, through which I feel sinews and muscle, hard as stone.

My pulse crashes so loud in my ears it drowns out the patter of rain and the distant sounds of traffic. Gasping in fear, I start to shake.

Don’t panic don’t panic oh god he’s going to kill me I’m going to die.

Two more men emerge from the shadows on the far side of the Dumpster. Their heads are covered by hoodies, so I can’t see their faces in the dark, but they’re both broad and hulking, and both carry guns in their hands.

When I whimper in fear, the one behind me gives me a hard shake, so hard my teeth clatter.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he hisses into my ear. “We’re gonna go inside. You’re gonna show us where the safe is and give us the combo. Then we’re gonna take whatever’s in the register, and we’ll be on our way. Do as I say and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”

He has a heavy Boston accent. His breath is hot against my cheek, steaming white in the frigid night air. He sounds young and feels very strong, and I know in my bones that if I do anything he doesn’t like, he won’t hesitate to slit my throat.

There’s only one problem: Buddy’s doesn’t have a safe.

Buddy’s wife comes every day at four to take cash from the register, then goes straight to the bank. Our credit card machine deposits charges automatically to the account. These guys would be better off hitting a Laundromat if they want easy cash.

But he’s already pushing me toward the open door.

“There’s no safe!” My voice is high and panicked. My fingers claw at his arm. “Only the register has cash, and there’s not much in it!”

“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, bitch,” he snarls into my ear, shaking me again. “I know that old prick has a safe in his office. Heard him braggin’ about it myself.”

My mind flies at a million miles per hour. I can’t think straight, can’t scream, can’t run. Something warm and wet trickles in a wavering path down my throat.

Blood.

I’m bleeding.

This asshole cut me.

Something in my brain snaps. Terror turns to rage. The rage incinerates the fear and takes my brain hostage so all thoughts of cooperation vanish, leaving me a snarling animal operating on instinct alone.

I turn my head and bite down as hard as I can into the crook of his bent elbow, clamping my jaw and digging my teeth through that thin layer of nylon right into his soft, unprotected flesh.

He jerks and howls, staggering back a step. Before he can recover from the surprise, I move my hips to one side and swing my arm back as hard as I can, driving my closed fist directly into his balls.

He grunts in pain, bends forward, and drops the knife.

I twist away from him, leaping out of his grasp. Then I bolt.

My heart hammers against my ribcage as I run as fast as I can down the alley, pumping my legs and arms and gulping air like I’m drowning.

I make it almost to the street before they catch me again.

This time I’m grabbed by the hair, so hard it lifts me off my feet. I’m airborne for a moment, then my back and head slam against wet cement. All my breath is knocked out of me.

Gasping, I roll to one side to try to get my feet back under me, but am stopped by a hard kick to my stomach.

Then another to my face.

I collapse onto my side again. Coughing and wheezing, fighting the urge to vomit, I curl into a protective ball. The concrete is wet against my cheek. Everything looks watery and wavering. There’s a high pitched ringing in my ears.

Get away. Get away. Hurry up and get to your feet and GET AWAY!

They drag me back farther into the alley and throw me up against the wall. The one I bit, who seems to be the leader, crouches down next to me and grabs my jaw.

“We got ourselves a fighter, boys.” He sneers, fingers digging into my face.

One of the others snickers and rubs the heel of his palm against his crotch. “That could be fun.”

All three of them laugh. Low, nasty chuckles that spread like a virus through my veins.

It seems they might be in the mood for a little playtime before they go back to Buddy’s to get what they came for.

My lip throbbing, my eye beginning to swell, my liver screaming from the kick it took, I look up into the face of the guy bending over me.

He’s got a hoodie on, too, but this close I can see his blue eyes glinting, see his crooked nose and his crooked grin and the trail of inked teardrops beneath his left eye.