Chapter 2
DAISY
Dear life, fuck your lemons. Squeezing them in people’s eyes isn’t working. Please send a shotgun, instead. Thanks. Xoxo, Daisy.
Calm down.” The man who shoved me into a nearby chair the moment the older man—Otello, I dimly remember—disappeared casts me an annoyed look when I gasp out a breath and settle my head deeper between my knees.
I’m doing everything I can not to fall into a full-blown panic attack. I mean, who in the world wants to see that anyway? I guess I’ve already experienced death today; might as well check another box off the bucket list of things I never planned to do or experience.
Also, let’s take a vote. When in the history of ever has a woman calmed down after you told her to do so?
No worries. I’ll wait for you to answer.
No one, that’s right. But telling him that feels about as useful as asking for help from the dead woman still sprawled out on the floor.
I hope they don’t plan to keep her there much longer.
“You calm down!” I half cough, half sob as tears prick at my eyes.
Stab him, Mean Daisy orders, side-eyeing the prick. In the guts. And then wrap them around his neck like you’re stringing lights on a Christmas tree.
No, I reply, because unlike my inner psycho bitch, I recognize it’s probably not a good idea to yell at a man who might kill me, but I’m also not thinking too rationally at the moment.
Kill me. They’re going to kill me. Oh God, I’m too young to die. I’m too—hungry, I recognize a moment later as my stomach grumbles in displeasure.
A groan rumbles up my throat. Yes, I’m too hungry to die.
I can’t die hungry; that’s just cruelty on top of cruelty.
I glance mournfully at the old wall clock hanging above the door.
If things had gone as planned, I’d be finishing up in the reception hall by now and on my way to break for lunch before the wedding guests flood in.
The thought of my homemade peanut butter and jelly sitting in a Ziploc bag in my purse only serves as another reminder of how screwed I am.
A small whimper escapes me, and I curl my arms around my middle.
PB&J on white bread and a bag of plain ol’ potato chips sound divine right about now.
The sweet jelly and the salty chips dance round and round in little happy, sentient, jerking movements in my mind.
Lifting my head, I peer at the two men still left in the room, both of them quietly talking in low tones. “Hey,” I croak, my voice thick with the flux of my emotions taking over now that I’m totally expecting to die. If I’m going to die, I deserve a last meal, right?
They turn and look at me, the younger of the two—a man likely in his thirties with short, dark hair that’s shaved practically to baldness—answers me. “What?” he demands.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him. “If you guys are going to kill me, don’t you think you should offer me a last meal or something?
I mean, even murderers on death row get a last meal.
” And I’m not a murderer—at least, not in real life.
Video games and my imagination? For sure.
But in reality? I’m an innocent bystander.
Brown eyes blink back at me, but instead of responding, he merely turns toward the door as it opens. The older man from earlier comes walking in behind a tall, well-built man with a shock of jet-black hair and angular features that belong on a runway rather than a mobster’s wedding.
Holy shit—they kidnapped a model. Why would the mob kidnap a model? Does he owe them money? Why would they bring him here?
The man turns his attention to me, and wickedly brilliant ice-blue eyes meet mine.
My whole body goes quiet as our gazes collide—or at least, it would if it weren’t for the riotous hunger in my gut.
A loud gurgle sound erupts from my belly, and heat steals over my cheeks.
I don’t know why. There’s nothing embarrassing about being hungry, and I did warn them.
The man—model?—doesn’t appear that concerned with his current predicament, or that he’s stumbled upon a woman being held hostage while another lies on the floor—dead, literally, to the world.
He strides farther into the room with only a cursory glance at the dead bride on the floor.
No reaction, words, or scream? Weird. It’s really his lack of reaction to the dead body that tells me he’s not a second captive as I originally thought.
No normal person just looks at a body and scowls in annoyance, which means this man is not normal—not at all. He steps over the white-heeled foot of the would-be medical cadaver and then comes to stand over me.
Straightening where I sit, I quickly wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands and sniff indelicately. “Are you the one in charge?”
Confidence, I try to project. I am total, undeniable confidence… that is, if confidence had tear streaks down her face, cheap, smudged makeup, and a weird sort of hive reaction to stress starting to make itself known on the back of one of her arms. Yup. Total confidence.
I reach up and scratch at that confidence as I continue to stare at the man in front of me. If I’m gonna go out, I’m not going out like a coward. I’ll be looking him right in the eyes when all this ends.
At that moment, the man lifts a hand, and just like that, coward Daisy is back.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I practically scream as I shrink back into the seat beneath me. “Please don’t kill me!”
Wooooooow. My internal bitch, otherwise known as Mean Daisy—the deeply buried badass that I carry inside of me—whistles beneath her breath. You are such a fucking pussy.
She’s right, but she doesn’t need to point it out.
The man before me pauses and then frowns. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says testily, as if he’s annoyed by my hysteria. “You have a streak of black on your cheek.”
“Oh.” I absently shove my palm up the side of my face and it comes away with a dusting of my mascara. “Thanks,” I mumble, cheeks heating again.
The man in a pristine suit slowly goes down on his haunches before me and then carefully tucks a knee under himself on the floor. The crisp white shirt and black tie that matches the rest of his suit wrinkles upward with the movement, and he smooths it down before speaking again.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Daisy,” I answer suspiciously.
His frown deepens.
“What’s with the frown?” I snap. “Does my name offend you?”
The man snorts, and the soft fall of dark hair shifts against one side of his head. “No. It’s just that’s not a damned name,” he states. “It’s a flower.” He shakes his head. Then, absently, he mutters, “Fucking hippies and their fascinations.”
“Hey, my parents weren’t hippies,” I gripe. “If you hate my name, then why don’t you share yours? I’m sure it’s the coolest name ever, right?” I cross my arms and nod my head to him expectantly. “Well?”
Sometimes, the best way to forge ahead is to forget that the man you’re talking to could order your death in an instant, and word vomit all over him—at least, that’s what I tell myself to excuse my brazenness. That, and maybe I was dropped on my head a few dozen times as an infant.
One curved brow arches. “Well, what?”
I snarl. “What’s your name, Mr. I Hate Pretty Floral Names?”
A glitter of something illuminates the frost in his eyes.
I get the feeling he’s not often challenged by others.
His lips pinch down slightly at the corners, but those corners tremble as if he’s suppressing amusement.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to give you my name unless you can do something for me, Daisy. ”
My hands tighten against either side of my arms, and I instinctively squeeze myself a bit tighter. “Wh-what is it?” I manage to stutter out, anxiety crawling viciously up my throat. My eyes flick to the dead woman and then back, but the man merely tilts his head.
“I’m sure you’re aware that what you’ve seen here today can’t be reported,” he says in a conversational tone.
At his back, the three other men remain quiet, watching the two of us with a mixture of curiosity and slight unease.
I bob my head in what I’m sure is an expected move. “Of course,” I say. “I won’t say anything to anyone.”
The man draws in a long breath. “Unfortunately, your word means nothing in my world. I’m sure you understand.” I don’t, but I press my lips together as he continues. “So, there are really only two options left for you.”
Options? I have options? I sit forward. “Does one of these options involve me continuing to breathe?”
The twitching corners of masculine lips draw my attention. “Yes,” he drawls—and suddenly, the skies open up and sunshine beams down on the room. Phantom birdsong fills the space around me.
I know that’s physically impossible, but in my mind, that’s exactly what’s happening. Somehow, four years of constant stress, essays, and exams haven’t completely drained me of the will to live. Even if living means becoming some mobster’s errand girl, life is still life.
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly before he even draws another breath to continue talking. “Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”
With his hand back on his suit, slipping under the jacket and into an inner pocket that I can’t see, my heart rate speeds up.
Oh God, I didn’t agree fast enough. This is the end of the road, Daisy.
He’s got a gun, and he’s going to shoot me.
I’m about to be plucked and fucked—and again, not in the fun way.
I return to staring at the dead woman on the floor.
I can’t end up in the same grave as a stranger.
I only deal with strangers for work. I don’t want to be attached to one for the rest of my life or death.
The only reason I filled in for Michelle today was because, with tips, the pay was too good to pass up.
Take it from me, the risk isn’t worth the reward. Stay home and away from strangers.
My eyes burn with the urge to cry. Fuck, am I about to start my period? I always get emotional when bleeding out of my uterus. That has to explain the overwhelming urge to break down.
Those tears halt in an instant when, instead of a gun, the man withdraws a handkerchief. Then, with more than a little confusion, I watch as he gets to his feet and steps back over to the dead woman. Bending down, he uses the handkerchief to slide something off her hand. A ring, I realize.
I’m gonna be sick.
Returning to me, the man quickly smooths the fabric over the ring before displaying it for me to see. I glance from the dead woman’s now empty hand to the obvious engagement ring he’s holding up. There’s no matching wedding band, but that’s supposed to come later, right?
My head is ringing with shock as the man reaches for my hand, pulling it away from my body. I want to resist and tell him to fuck off with a dead girl’s jewelry as he slides the ring onto my finger and holds my hand in his much larger one. What in the Inception bullshit is happening?
“Then, Miss Daisy,” he murmurs, “let’s get you ready for our wedding.”
Our fucking what?