Page 88 of His Last Shot
He squints at the guy branding the bat and flicks his head in my direction.
The big guy steps forward and…
“Oomph!” The bat slams into my stomach, a sharp grunt forcing its way out of me while also taking the air from my lungs. My knees buckle, but my new friends on either side of me hold me up like I weigh next to nothing. On instinct, I bend at the waist as the pain, both searing and blinding, washes over me like a white-hot wave, leaving me breathless.
I cough. Once, twice, three times. “That was a little overdramatic, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says with a smirk. “Let him go.”
Both men shove me forward at their master’s bidding. When they release their grips, I yank my arms away and clutch my stomach, trying hard to hold back the vomit threatening to surface. Swaying like a drunk, I try to stand upright.
Big guy number one, who’s guarding the garage door and holding the bat, reaches into the back waistband of his jeans and pulls out a manilla folder. He hands it to Dexter.
“Remember, this is all your fault. Oh, and Drew is going to Vegas in your place.” With that friendly reminder, he tosses the envelope onto my table. “Open it. And don’t try anything, friend.”
I don’t give a crap about Vegas. Drew can have the time of his life for all I care. But this envelope is taunting me. With hesitancy, I reach for the folder and unclasp the wire brad holding the flap closed. “Oh, so we are friends now, huh?” Shoving my hand inside, my fingers graze the contents, and I slide them out.Don’t try anything? What does that mea—?
My brain short-circuits when my eyes focus on a black-and-white photo of Mallory playing in her backyard. The next picture … Scott and me on the job. I flip to Laura, clocking in at work. Jake getting off the school bus is next.
A rising anger pulses through me, making my hands shake uncontrollably as my head throbs. Dozens of photographs of my family, of me, and of Rachel stare back at me one by one as I frantically shuffle through them.
My flipping holts because now I'm looking at our text messages. I fan through them. Months’ worth of our intimate conversations. Molton hot rage courses through my veins.
My eyes land on the last photo. A grainy picture of Rachel and me in my truck, stargazing. The knowledge that our private moments were being watched, read, every kiss, every hushed word, every touch, fuels the blinding anger inside of me.
The pictures fan out onto the table as I toss them and charge Dexter like a bull to the slaughter. “You slimy, sick son of a—” The words stop on my tongue as big guy number two punches his fist into my already damaged stomach. Once again, the contact and searing pain send me to my knees.
Slamming my palm on the table, a feeble attempt to redirect the pain, I try to stand. “If you lay one hand on Rachel, so help me God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he interrupts with a laugh. “You look pretty helpless right now, Givens.” I stand as he runs his hand down his oversized belly. “Give me some credit. I would donothingto hurt Rachel. I’m not a monster, for God’s sake. Everything that I am doing right now and with my business is to help her and Micah. You aren’t the right man for her. Drew and I will take care of her. I can promise you that.”
“And like I said,” he charges toward me. “You did this!” he points his finger at me. “All you had to do was miss that nine ball. That’s it.”
Finally, I’m able to get my bearings and stand. Even hunched over from the pain, I still tower over him. I clutch my stomach. “Oh, please. We both know that wouldn’t have been the end.”
If he believes a few pictures and a baseball bat to my torso will compel me to do anything for him, he must be out of his mind. Besides, he has made his point with this little sideshow. He’s punishing me for winning, which has caused him to lose money.
Fine. I took it.
But right now, I need these five wack jobs to get out of my house so I can formulate some sort of plan to get Rachel and me away from this guy.
I stare directly into his eyes. “You’ve made your point. Now get off of my property.” I pivot back to the table, and my hand stretches towards the pictures, then stops; a small, shiny object, reflecting the light, rests on the blue felt. With trepidation, I reach for it.
A flash drive.
“What the heck is this?” I study it. A knot of uncertainty tightens in my stomach as I wonder where this is now leading.
“Call it insurance.”
“I’m sorry … what?” I whip back around to face him; my sudden movement stabs my ribs, which I’m sure are broken.
“That drive”—he points to the shiny silver object resting in my palm—“contains falsified documents that implicates you in illegal gambling and tax evasion.”
Okay, this is bad. Really bad.
“And I’m sure you realize that’s not the only copy.”
“So, what? You’re blackmailing me?” This went from a lot to OH, MY GOD in seconds.
