Page 3 of Golden Touch
Wasting no time, the biker swings a leg over his ride and struts toward the door.
Holy shit. How did he find me?
Tell her I’m really good at my job, he’d said.
But I’m too young to die! I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never had sex on the beach. (The cocktail totally doesn’t count.)
My breathing shallow, I back away from the window and scurry into the corridor where nobody can see me. If he breaks a window in front, I can run out the back.
And go where?
Shit.
I’m light-headed from fear. The truth is that I onlylooklike a badass. Don’t let my tats fool you—I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I ease into the shadows at the rear of the long corridor. This is where I feel the safest—with one door behind me and another ahead. I try to listen for him, but all I can hear is my pulse thudding in my ears.
When the big front door swings open, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. That door waslockedwhen I checked it this morning. But it isn’t anymore. A piercing rectangle of light shines down the corridor as the man steps inside and removes his helmet.
I flatten myself against the wall out of his sightline and stop breathing.
“Hello?” he calls, easing down the corridor while I try not to pee myself with fear.
As I clench every muscle in my body, he pokes his head into the office, sees that it’s empty, then turns around slowly.
This is it. He’s going to drag me back to Razor, and I’ll die before ever seeing Taylor Swift in concert.
But he doesn’t notice me back here. Remarkably, he crosses the corridor and enters the brewhouse like he owns the place. I hear his footsteps echo in the wide-open space. “Hello?” he calls again. “Anybody home?”
Move, I coach myself.Now.
With terror in my veins, I ease toward the back door, fumbling for the knob. I open it as quietly as possible.
Inside my head, everything is loud. How much time do I have before he comes outside to look around? He’ll recognize my car. Razor would have told him the make, model, and plate number. And if I start the engine and take off, he’ll just hop on his bike and follow me.
After easing the door closed behind me, I realize I don’t have many options. This feeling is entirely too familiar—I’m in trouble, and nobody is coming to save me.
Story of my life.
After another ragged breath, I hurry toward the pumphouse. But if I go inside, I’ll be trapped again. So I double back and conceal myself against the brewery’s back wall and pull out my phone.
“What is your emergency?” the 911 operator asks.
“I’m…I’m at the Giltmaker Brewery. An intruder has just entered the building.”
The next ten minutes last forever. I listen to the thud of my heart and wait, shaking, for the police to arrive. There’s a river at the very back of the property. Worst case scenario, I could jump in if he’s chasing me. Not that I’m a great swimmer. But if he catches me, I’m probably dead anyway.
Finally, I hear the sound of tires on the gravel lot. I hold my breath and listen. There’s a loud pounding of fists against wood. “This is the police! We’re coming in!”
More than one voice starts shouting. I brace myself for violence, but the police must subdue this guy pretty quickly, because I hear a man say, “Handcuffs?” in an incredulous voice. “You’re shitting me.”
Only then do I emerge on weak knees, reentering the back door of the brewery just as the cops escort the guy out the front. I wave at the police, and one of them nods to me. “One second, ma’am.”
As soon as the door closes on them, I hurry down the corridor to the front windows to see what’s happening.
The scary dude is irate. Face red, and his cuffed hands curling into fists. He’s arguing while they frisk him.
I notice that he’s unarmed. All they find in his pocket is a wallet. No guns and no duct tape. Huh. Maybe he keeps his weapons in his bike’s saddlebags.
