Page 35 of Sunburned

“But I am.”

“Please go. For both our sakes.”

“Hold on now,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “It doesn’t seem fair you’re making roughly two thousand dollars an hour without lifting a finger while I risk my life to make half that in a week.”

I shut the door behind me and pulled out my phone to text Tyson and Cody:

911 office now

I turned back to Ian, whispering urgently. “I have to pay for my mom’s cancer treatment.”

“I don’t give a shit what you use the money for,” he returned. “Just that you give me my cut.”

“What?” I gaped at him, shaken. “No.”

“I get a cut weekly, and I keep my mouth shut.”

Life in prison flashed before my eyes as we stared at each other, my panic escalating with every passing second. “Ian, please—”

At that moment, the door flew open, and Tyson and Cody burstinto the room. Tyson was dripping wet, a towel around his waist, and Cody still had a steel spatula in his hand.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Tyson demanded, pulling Ian out of the chair by his shirt collar and pinning him against the mostly empty bookshelves.

Cody kicked the door shut as Ian squirmed.

“I found him snooping on the computer,” I said.

Cody dropped the spatula to the desk as he sat in the chair vacated by Ian and rolled it to the computer, scanning the program open on the screen.

“I want a cut,” Ian growled.

“Fuck you,” Tyson spat in his face, grabbing the spatula Cody had deposited on the desk. He jabbed the sharp end into Ian’s neck.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Ian choked out.

“I’m thinking about it,” Tyson said, pushing the spatula so deep into his neck he drew blood.

“Tyson,” I warned.

“I have video,” Ian threatened, wincing.

“Give me your phone,” Tyson demanded.

“Do what you want, it’s already in the cloud,” Ian spat as Tyson wrenched Ian’s phone from his hand, tossing it to Cody.

“Password,” Cody said.

“No,” Ian said.

Tyson tightened his grip on the spatula, and Ian choked. “Twenty percent,” Ian said.

“Fuck you,” Tyson whispered in his ear, slamming his head into the shelves.

Ian kicked at Tyson as Cody pulled the protective covering off Ian’s phone and whacked it against the corner of the desk, cracking the screen. When he was satisfied, I took it from him and opened the window, tossing it onto the driveway below, where it splintered. A group of people I didn’t know looked up briefly from where they were seated on the tailgate of someone’s pickup truck, then continued their conversation as though nothing had happened.

I slammed the window shut as Ian scrabbled to get hold of Tyson, who was bigger and stronger. “Twenty percent,” Ian repeated. “Or I send Cody’s company the video I shot.”

Tyson slammed his fist into Ian’s face and he groaned.

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