Just one drink.
“How about I have Anderson here make you one of his specials.” I raise an eyebrow, alarms going off as I catch the bartender wink in what he thinks is a subtle gesture.
My need to drink does not supersede my safety. While I’m armed, there are far too many of them. And looking a little more closely, the walls are adorned with strange plaques and emblems, along with photographs of what look to be the same men sitting around me. Maybe this isn’t a bar, after all, but some kind of club.
“You know, I didn’t catch your name, but actually, I’m heading out. Maybe next time.” As I motion to stand, he grabs my arm.
“Come on, Lena,” he taunts, saying my name with an accent. “Sit.” His command is exactly what I need to tip over the edge of a blind rage.
“You need to let go. I won’t ask twice.”
“Oh!” His stupid mouth opens into an exaggerated O as he tightens his hold on me. “Tell me, sweetheart? What will you do? Scream?”
“No, that’s your job.”
There’s a twitch in his eye for the briefest of seconds as understanding seems to dawn, but it comes half a second too late. My hand is around the hilt of a steak knife, and before he can react, I stab it into the hand he has resting on the wooden counter.
His pained howl pierces the establishment, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Goddamn you! Get that bitch.”
Chairs screech against the hardwood as the men break to their feet in their attempts to reach me before I can get to the door, but I yank it open in time and sprint around back toward the snowy path. I’m banking on them not knowing which direction I came from.
The slick sheet of snow has very little traction, and I find myself slipping and stumbling like a fucking baby dear. But the snowmobile is just a few feet away, and I’ll be home free.
You’re so stupid.
I should have walked out of there the moment my instincts screamed for me to do so, but I let this shit with Mikhail get the best of me.
Damn him and damn them.
As I reach the embankment, a wave of relief washes over me, but the moment is short-lived. I hit the ground with so much force that it pushes the air out of my lungs, causing pain to explode in my chest.
My mouth parts, but nothing comes out, just shallow, agonized groans.
Shit.
I was totally kidding about the whole ‘wrong turn’ thing, yet here I am, starring in my own twisted version.
Mustering the strength to get on my hands and knees, I make a move for my gun. But whoever this bastard is yanks my hair and tosses me on my back.
The bartender, Anderson, is standing over me, holding a shotgun with a sadistic grin on his face. I’ve killed a man before, and as much as he deserved it, it wasn’t something I enjoyed. But the way this stranger is looking at me like I’m an object made for his depraved satisfaction lets me know he’s done this before.
“It’s rude to leave without a goodbye. You didn’t even tip.”
“Fuck you.” I make another attempt to reach for my side piece, but he sees my intention and raises the shotgun.
“I’ll blow a hole through that pretty face of yours if you don’t relax,” he warns, steadying his aim. “All we wanted was to have a little fun. You wouldn’t have remembered a goddamn thing, and we all would have gone about our lives as if none of this had ever happened.” He kicks my legs open. “But you think you’re some bad bitch, don’t you, sweetheart?”
The front end of his boot pushes against my center, and I clamp down on my jaw, willing back my anger because pissing him off won’t help. I have to be smart about this.
“You’ll never see me again. I promise. I don’t even live here,” I plead, putting on my best damsel act.
“I let you go, and the feds will be knocking on my door by morning. You fucked this up, not me. And poor Simmons is in there, bleeding out all over my fucking bar. You owe me, and I intend to collect.” Leaning the barrel of the gun on the ground, he flashes another one of his psychotic smiles and motions with his chin. “Take off your top.”
I stare him down in defiance. If I’m going to die, I’ll go out fighting.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Bitch, you have two seconds before I—”
It takes several beats to register what my eyes are seeing. Blood gushes from the man’s throat, where the jagged edge of a thick branch is protruding like something out of a horror movie. Red splashes onto my legs, staining my suit.
“Are you hurt?” Mikhail’s voice is strained, eyes wild, as he scans me from head to toe. “No.”
The bartender is still twitching and attached to the branch when Mikhail tosses him to the side and lunges for me.
“Look at me. Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”
“No, but we have to get out of here. There’s more of them.”
“Chasing you?”
“Yeah,” I say as he tugs me to my feet and cradles my chin. “You think I’m going to let that slide? No one threatens what’s mine.”
He snatches the shotgun from Anderson, who’s finally dead, and turns his back to me, headed toward the tavern. “Leah, get back to the resort.”
“Fuck that! You either come with me or we do this together. It’s your choice, because I’m not leaving.”
