Page 28 of Hannah and the Hitman
I shook my head. I didn’t have the same optimism as her. Her parents weren’t crazy and either ignored her or were constantly disappointed. When they came to visit, she and her mom–and me–went shoe shopping and got facials. She didn’t have a boyfriend who’d dumped her when she found out she had a brain tumor. Not that Brittany hadn’t had shitty moments in her life. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I cornered the market on rough times. She didn’t have plain bad luck like me. It’d been aroughyear; having the tumor symptoms for a few months without knowing why, then being diagnosed, then the treatment. Physically. Mentally. I was jaded. Doubtful. Skittish. Scared, too. “No. It was his excuse to leave. Everyone was on their worst behavior. God, I was so mad!”
My voice was shrill and raised, upset even now, the next day.
“If he met Perry and didn’t throw his drink on him to see if he melted or burst into flames, then he’ll call.”
“Briana offered up her breasts for him to rest upon.” I frowned, glaring at the outdoor gear in the next shop’s window display. Hair on the back of my neck rose remembering. I was getting used to the sensation since it seemed to happen with increasing frequency.
Brittany stopped and turned to me, eyes wide in surprise. Dressed for a day of cavity filling and root canal drilling, she wore red capri pants and a multicoloredsleeveless blouse. Both, against her dark skin, were striking. While Coal Springs was at eight thousand feet, it was still a warm day. “Say what?”
I waved my hand, not remembering the Bible quote exactly. Jack’s ability to spout verses on the fly was something I wanted to know more about. I wouldn’t call it a talent, but it sure had come in handy. “She pretty much offered herself up to my date.”
“She’s twenty-four, lives in your parents’ basement and jumps on a trampoline for a living. If this guy is into that, then he’s totally not the one for you.”
We walked on to the next store, which was a vacant space, the ‘for lease’ sign in the window. It was where I wanted my romance bookstore to go. We stopped in front of the dusty window to peek at an empty room with a counter and shelving along the walls. It used to be a knitting shop, but the owner’s husband had passed away and she’d relocated to Utah to be closer to her children. It’d been vacant since the beginning of the year.
Brittany and I walked past it every week. I wasn’t sure if it was cruel or me being hopeful. Before my radiation, it’d been to make plans about what I was going to do, talk leasing agreements, and what color to paint the walls. We’d been excited together. After the radiation, I didn’t talk about it at all. Getting the call that I had a brain tumor had scared me shitless. Soon after, I’d had to go through the gamma knife radiosurgery and recover. While that had stalled things, my dream had been put on hold due to hospital bills. They’d stripped away all my savings, the money I’d put aside for the new venture. I’d had health insurance through the ordeal, but it hadn’t coveredeverything. And no bank was going to give me a loan when I still had medical debts. I rented my apartment and had an old car that wasn’t worth much. I had no collateral.
I sighed, glad the prime spot had yet to be taken. I could picture exactly how I would arrange the books. Colorful displays in the window, Contemporary down the left wall, new releases front and center. There’d be comfortable pink chairs and couches for readers to sit.
I used to cry when we walked by, the missed opportunity and feeling of loss too keen. I’d been so close, then it all fell apart. No new business. No boyfriend. No money. A newfound panic about life and death. Over the few months since the radiation, I became resigned. Even more quiet and subdued than ever. It had felt as if the world was out to get me, and it was safer on my couch with a nose in a book. Heroine’s might struggle in a romance, but there was a guaranteed happily ever after. I needed one of those right about now.
“It’ll be yours soon enough,” Brittany said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “And it’ll be amazing.”
I could only nod, feeling forlorn.
I’d had a few months to come to terms with the delay of my dreams, Kevin’s behavior, and the size of my bank account. Today, though, it wasn’t any of those things that made me so disappointed. I was sad about an ex-stalker. How insane was that?
15
JACK
“What the hell are you doing with your phone?” Dax asked.
His put-out tone had me glancing away from my screen. “Trying to figure out what to say when I text Hannah.”
He leaned his hip against the desk, crossed his arms, which made him look like Edward Scissorhands with the garden shears he held. “You’re holding a man’s arm down so I can cut his finger off. Is now the right time?”
We were in the back office of Jimmy McFee’s bar. He owed Dax’s client a shit ton of money after betting in an underground high stakes poker game and lost. A lot. Since he hadn’t paid up, Dax was taking payment with his pinky finger.
Today, Dax had been tasked with offering the guy a payment plan that included body parts. I glanced down at the man in question, sitting awkwardly–and very nervously–in his chair. I had his wrist pinned to the desk, apile of invoices and receipts beneath. Sweat dripped down his face as if he was in a sauna. Imminent amputation of a digit did that to a person.
“Take all the fucking time you want,” Jimmy said, curling his fingers on his pinned hand into a fist.
My grip was firm while Dax tauntingly opened and closed the blades of the shears. Neither of us gardened, but yard work wasn’t the only use for the tool.
I was helping because it was pretty hard to cut a guy’s finger off when he was moving around. No one took the time to consider what was involved, but it was a two-person task.
As for Hannah, I wanted to call her instead of text, but she was at work. The library wasn’t a hubbub of activity, but I didn’t want to disturb her while on the job. A text made more sense and I sure as hell wasn’t waiting until after five when the library closed to reach out to her. But what did I say?I’m sorry about last night. I got a call from a mob boss and had to leave? I can’t stop thinking of you?I leaned further onto the desk, pinning Jimmy’s wrist more firmly in place. He grunted in discomfort and probably panic.
I’d be losing my shit if I was soon going to be nicknamed Jimmy Nine Fingers.
“You’re one to talk, Jimmy,” Dax said. “Taking too long is what got you into this mess.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” I snapped. “I don’t want to wait too long to get back to her.” The words were more feral growl than general conversation.
Dax held up his hands in defense, which was ironic since he was holding a pair of shears. “That dinner sounded like getting shot in the foot would be less painful.”
I’d given him a highlight reel of what went down the night before.