“Enough,” he barks, and the other three men at his sides draw their guns.
Now we’re having fun.
I glance up at the highest point of my roof where Grady hunkers down underneath a silvery grey cloak that matches the shingles, the long nose of his gun shifting.
He’s got Clay right in his sights.
I shift my weight and stiffen, acting like I’m intimidated, giving him a false sense of control.
“You’re not playing, are you? What’s this all about? We...we were supposed to meet at the hotel.” I throw my pitch a little higher, panic entering my voice.
Clay just nods, motions with two fingers, and three more hulking thugs step out of the green truck, guns drawn.
No sign of Nelson, which also means there’s more to his crew than these freaks here. He probably left one or two guys behind, guarding him elsewhere.
“What is it you want?” I ask again, staring back into his dead-eyed gaze.
But Clay looks past me then, toward the house, and gives me the words that ice my blood.
“About damn time. Hello, Gracie,” he snarls.
Grace?
Shit.
I spin toward the house and stifle a curse hanging in my throat.
I should’ve known she wouldn’t stay put. Jackie couldn’t hold her. Not when it’s Satan himself on our doorstep.
Think, dammit.
I’m desperate for ideas. Every hot second counts. I can’t let her get in the thick of it.
So I take a long deep breath and let go. Losing it comes all too naturally.
“Hey, Godfather man, what’s going on here?” I shout, then whistle so loud their ears twitch. “How do you know her?”
Grendal stares at me for a moment, dumbfounded, and shakes his head as a smile that’s too wide for his mouth stretches across his face.
So much for acting.
I don’t have to fake looking freaked. For Grace’s sake, I am.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you, Hollywood?” He looks back at Grace. “Looking for your daddy, Gracie? Come on over, let’s have a chat. It’s up to this playboy if you want to see Nelson alive again.”
I take a step forward, needing to work my way to Grace, but stop as half the men point a gun at her, and the rest turn on me.
Shit, shit. I wasn’t expecting this type of firepower.
I’m sure somewhere up there, Grady is just as confused, weighing his options. He’s only one man. He can’t shoot them all simultaneously. He might blast three or four guys at best before the others react.
If he has to pull the trigger on Clay, it might scatter them, but also might not buy us more than thirty seconds to run.
I can’t even count on his sniper skills.
There’s no more safety net.
I have to fucking act.
“You blowhards mind putting your guns down for a second? Christ. You’re not careful, you’ll put somebody’s eye out. And we have a party to get to, so hurry up,” I say, throwing the subject off Nelson.
For a second, Grendal looks at me, his head cocked and his nose wrinkled.
“You’ve either got balls of steel or you’re mentally deficient,” he says with a bitter chuckle. “I should’ve known you were missing a few marbles with the stuff you ordered. It’s true what they say—a man’s got a better chance at spotting a unicorn than one of your kind sober. You’re fucked up right now, aren’t you?”
He thinks I’m on drugs.
I flash him an empty smile, raising my hands, giving them a nervous shake.
“I don’t know what your deal is, bro...I just want to party. You’re holding up a sick bash. Or did you come to drop off the goods? Is that what this is about, you worried I won’t make good on the money? Shit, I’ve got it in the barn. Let me just head over and grab it so we can—”
Everybody’s guns pivot toward me, thankfully off Grace.
She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Inwardly, I smile.
If it looks real to her, then these boys are almost where I want them.
“Not so fast,” Grendal mutters, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the sun, lighting him up like an evil shadow in broad daylight. “We have more important matters to discuss than money.”
“What? Ohhh. Oh, hell.” I whack my hands against my thighs loudly. “I get it. You’re pissed because you didn’t get an invite?”
“What?” he clips off, a disgusted look on his face. “That’s not even remotely true, you idiot fuck of a—”
“Talk to my manager,” I say, giving him the idiot he wants. “Actually, don’t. Tell you what, if