Page 41 of Cowboy Heat
It’s why I can smell him as he speaks.
Smoke and sweat.
It’s distracting, but nothing could pull me away from his question.
“Where is Everett Guidry?”
Despite my situation, I blanch. “You want to know where Guidry is?” Even I can hear the disbelief in my voice.
The man isn’t amused at my parroting.
This hit isn’t a fist but a slap.
It still does what it needs to do. I yell out in pain.
“Where is Everett Guidry?” he repeats.
I shake my head because, well, shit, I don’t know.
I’m angry that I’m being asked at all again.
I’m terrified because I don’t think he’ll like my answer.
Still, I tell it. “I don’t know where Guidry is,” I say. “Just like I told his brother less than an hour ago at the bar whenheasked me.”
The next hit is another slap, but there’s more force to it. I hit my LIVE BOLD NOT ITALIC throw pillow with a whimper.
He must be low on patience.
The man grabs my blouse and sets me sitting up straight again. “I hear Guidry’s name, I hear your name,” he says. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know!” I prepare for another hit the best I can.
I’m crying. I’m bleeding too, I think. I can taste copper.
The man shakes his head. I can’t see any indication of the color of his hair. Even his eyebrows are covered up.
His eyelashes are dark, though.
His eyes are angry.
Finally, he grabs the knife. It’s the size of my forearm and comes out of its hilt gleaming.
“I don’t know,” I cry out. “He might be obsessed with me, but I’m not his. I-I can’t stand him.”
The man turns the knife sideways between us. He inspects it.
My body starts to move on its own, and my breathing turns to panting.
“I don’t know where he is,” I yell out, trying to be louder so he can hear me.
So he can understand me.
So he puts that knife away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he brings its blade down to the top of my left thigh. “Guns aren’t scary. Bullets hurt like a bug bite, and then they don’t.” The blade rests against the fabric of my pants. “But being cut? That’s a sting. It lasts too long. It hurts way more.”
