Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rue
In theory, not a single thing in the universe should be able to pull my eyes away from Hugo.
The neighbor I was falling for. The killer I couldn’t resist.
Same man.
But I have to say, the arrival of a guy in skinny jeans and a red Hawaiian print shirt has successfully stolen my focus.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” says the stranger in a high, nervous voice.
If his sudden appearance, his wispy combover, and massively freckled face weren’t startling enough, he’s accompanied by a small dog on a long, purple leash.
“Did you hear me?” The man’s voice pitches even higher. “Why are you here? Who sent you?”
He tosses the bundle of mail under his arm onto the couch and slips the leash loop over his wrist so he can fumble with the zipper on his fanny pack.
Hugo and I exchange a “What the hell?” glance while the dog—small, floppy ears, white with brown spots—looks between the two of us with a smile and a lolling tongue.
“Oh, gosh. There’s no need to call the cops.” Hugo’s voice is relaxed and friendly, although he reaches for my hand and squeezes it in a death grip.
“I’m not,” the man says as he rummages through the bag around his waist. His face reddens when the dog trots over to sniff Hugo’s shoes. “Goddammit, Cosmo!”
He gives the leash a sharp jerk, and the dog yelps.
“Hey!” Hugo and I shout in unison.
“Useless fucking mutt,” he snaps, jerking on the leash again. The dog whimpers.
Absofuckinglutely not.
“Dude,” I say in warning, sliding my knife out of my pocket and stepping toward him.
“Aha!” A pack of gum tumbles to the floor as the man pulls an enormous silver gun out of his fanny pack.
Hugo and I both freeze. I certainly wasn’t expecting this goober to produce anything more threatening than a poop bag, but that’s a Desert Eagle he’s brandishing like he’s about to fire the starter gun for the one-hundred-meter dash.
It takes him a second to realize he should point it at one of the other humans in the room. He chooses Hugo.
“Whoa.” Hugo lifts his hands in the air and takes a few steps away from me. “Let’s put that down, okay? What’s your name?”
“Shut up,” the man snaps. He’s holding the gun like he’s not quite sure what to do with it, but that doesn’t stop my neighbor from staring him down without flinching.
The guy eventually figures out he can cup the butt of the gun with his other hand, which controls the shakiness a bit as he points it at Hugo’s chest. The only thing keeping me from losing my mind at the sight of it is that his finger’s not actually on the trigger, and his grip’s all wrong.
If he tries to fire it, the gun’s going to fly out of his hand, and the bullet won’t hit Hugo.
Probably.
Then the guy’s wild eyes swing to me, and I watch him realize I’m the smaller and less muscular intruder.
I’m also within grabbing distance. Faster than I would’ve thought possible, his hand darts out to grip my left hand and pull me toward him.
Hugo responds just as quickly, catching my right wrist and trapping me in a game of human tug-of-war that I didn’t ask to be part of.
I try to jerk free from Hawaiian Shirt, but I’m still gripping my knife in the hand facing Hugo. If his fingers slide any farther down my arm, he’s going to get slashed.
“Hu—Gomez,” I hiss, wanting to warn him about the blade without tipping off Hawaiian Shirt. “Careful.”
But he’s too intent on prying me out of the man’s grip, and when he shifts his hold to wrap around my hand, I’m a millimeter away from slicing into one of his fingers or accidentally stabbing him in the gut. Goddammit.
Gritting my teeth, I drop the knife, which frees my hand to grab onto Hugo.
Hawaiian Shirt picks this moment to remember he’s holding a gun.
“Let go of her and back the fuck up.” His voice is reedy and nervous as he extends his right arm and points the gun at my neighbor.
“No.” Hugo plants his feet and tightens his grip on my wrist.
“I said back the fuck up!” The barrel wavers, but it’s still pointing in Hugo’s direction.
Panic clogs my throat.
“Gomez,” I whisper. “Don’t.”
Hawaiian Shirt snaps out a curse and presses the barrel against my temple.
“I will fucking shoot her if you don’t back up,” the guy warns.
Hugo releases me immediately.
“Okay,” he says, “there’s no need for—”
“Back up!” the man screams, jabbing me harder with the gun. “I warned you!”
Hugo steps backward and watches in anguish as Hawaiian Shirt yanks me the same way he did the dog, pressing my back against his front and wrapping an arm across my throat.
My empty fingers flex, itching for my knife.
But it’s on the floor, near the couch and a good ten feet out of reach.
Even without it, I could probably overpower this guy.
I did take Gomez to the ground at Navarro’s place—oh my god, that was Hugo; I really need a couple of hours to have a mental breakdown about that—but Hawaiian Shirt has a gun.
A gun.
I’ve never liked guns, never been threatened with one before, and my entire existence narrows to the small piece of metal that’s warming against my skin.
I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me in front of Hugo, which is exactly what I’ve been afraid of.
“Let’s take a beat here, okay?” this new Hugo says. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”
Hawaiian Shirt ignores him as he walks backward toward the fireplace, dragging me with him while the dog tugs on the leash in the opposite direction, barking his displeasure.
“Fucking useless animal,” the man mutters. He can’t free himself from the leash’s wrist loop without swinging the gun away from me, so he drags the dog toward us as he moves, tightening the arm around my throat and sending the gun barrel sliding across my sweaty skin.
I can’t help it. I whimper. It sends Hugo lurching forward, but the man tsks and wiggles the gun against my head, freezing my neighbor in his tracks.
Even from ten feet away, though, Hugo’s a clear threat. Yesterday, I would’ve bet the contents of my bank account that my neighbor would back down from any fight, but now I’m not so sure. Would this fists-clenched, taut-muscled version of Hugo care that I’ll probably get shot if he tries anything?
If only I had my knife. If only this guy didn’t have a gun. If only Hugo wasn’t a huge unknown in my escape equations. If only the dog wasn’t…
Wait, what is the dog doing?
Running laps, apparently. He zips around the room, barking happily, and I’m slow to realize the problem.
“Hey, dog,” I choke out around the arm at my throat. “You’ve gotta chill, buddy.”
The dog screeches to a halt in front of me and presses his cold little nose against the sliver of skin below my leggings.
I squeak, the arm around my neck tightens, and the dog decides we’re playing a fun game and launches himself into action again, happily yipping as he avoids Hugo’s attempted grab and runs another circle around us.
“Don’t move!” Hawaiian Shirt shouts at Hugo before snarling at his dog. “Goddammit, Cosmo. Sitz. Platz. Fucking sit down!”
By the time the dog flops panting at my feet, his chin on his paws, the leash spirals from Hawaiian Shirt’s raised right hand, across our chests, and down to our waists like the ribbons on a maypole. My arms are trapped at my sides, forcing my body into even tighter contact with the man behind me.
He shifts, trying to loosen the tangle, then bellows in frustration.
“I’ll fucking waste you, you useless piece of shit,” he hisses at the dog, his onion breath blowing past my nose.
I thrash until he loosens the arm around my neck.
“Have you considered being nicer to your dog?” I wheeze.
“Have you considered not being a mouthy femoid cunt?” he snaps back, shaking me.
This time, Hugo doesn’t check his advance until he’s within arm’s reach.
“Have you considered that I will fucking murder you for talking to her like that?” he asks in a dangerous voice.
The instant the gun barrel leaves my head, I coil myself to strike: throw my head back, stomp on his foot, anything. Then I see Hawaiian Shirt’s gun aimed at Hugo’s heart, so close he’d never miss, and I freeze.
Hugo, however, narrows his eyes and takes another step forward. Oh god, he’s willing to get shot over me.
The guy seems to realize this, too, and he swings the gun back to my head.
“I’ll kill her, man.” Both his voice and his weapon shake from being within punching distance of a huge, enraged Hugo, but it works. Hugo’s eyes flick from the guy to me, then along the leash that’s made it impossible for me to make any kind of clean escape, and he reluctantly shifts back.
You’re a psychologist, you dolt, I think really hard at him. Don’t threaten him. Do your psychology thing and talk us out of this.
Instead, he stands there, his chest heaving as he considers whether to charge the man who’s literally one finger twitch away from ending me.
Time to pivot.
Thinking fast, I give a little giggle. I’m going for young, dumb, and horny, but between my fear and my desperation, I have no idea if I’m pulling it off.
“We are so, sooooo sorry,” I say in a breathy, girlish voice. “We heard this house was gonna be empty, and we snuck in because…” My brain stalls until I blurt out, “because we have a… a danger kink.”
Hugo’s incredulous gaze swings to me, and I grimace, grateful Hawaiian Shirt’s at my back.
Play along, I beg him with my eyes. Try to look kinky. Don’t get me shot.
Please don’t get me fucking shot.
“You’ve got a what?” Hawaiian Shirt scoffs.
Hugo’s furrowed brow tells me he’s just as confused as the guy with the gun.
Even without the cardigan and the glasses, his genuine bafflement’s so sweetly Dr. Mohr that I can’t breathe for a second.
Then his expression clears, and a split second later, it’s Gomez and all his confident charm shooting the guy a lopsided smile.
“C’mon, man. You get it.” His whole body relaxes into a sexy, unconcerned slouch. “Haven’t you ever put on a mask and broken into somebody’s house so you can fuck a stranger you met online?”