Page 39 of Golden Touch
“Go to the loading dock and look out the window,” he says briskly. “Wait there. And when you see your car turn the corner, open the bay with the ramp. Got it?”
The ramp. Oh.
“Got it?” he repeats. “I need you to focus.”
“Got it,” I say softly.
His hands fall away, and without another word, he takes the keys and strides toward the exit.
I watch him go, and then I force oxygen into my lungs. Withhis instructions still ringing in my ears, I point my feet towards the loading dock, taking care to stay as far from the windows as humanly possible.
Rotty is still out there, and he has a bead on my location. All he’d have to do is lurk around this place a few days in a row. He’ll spot me for sure.
This is acompletedisaster. I’ll never be able to relax again in Vermont. But I don’t have enough money to leave. And I’d miss Jennie and my brother. Besides, even if I flee, I’ll always be looking over my shoulder.
Near tears, I make it to the loading dock, where I hover at an oblique angle to the window, keeping out of sight as I watch the back lot for my car.
The Subaru doesn’t appear. The minutes tick by, and I’m swamped with dread. Where’s Nash? Did something happen?
The longer I have to think, the worse it gets. Rotty is Razor’s surliest henchman. He has a mean streak and a quick temper. I’ve always been afraid of him—even before I was smart enough to be afraid of Razor.
I’m almost physically ill by the time my old car appears out the window. I lunge for the button to open the door, and then duck out of view as the mechanism begins retracting the door up and out of the way.
My car rolls up the ramp, and as soon as it’s clear, I hit the button to close the door. I watch Nash park the car, wondering if he managed to pull this off without Rotty noticing.
Nash’s eyes are full of unanswered questions, and I realize that if he figures out the truth about me, I’ll have to leave, regardless.
Nobody wants a criminal working for their family business.
Nash closes my car door with more care than it warrants and then stalks over to me. “All right. Let’s hear it. Why do you look like you just drank a poison milkshake?”
I shake my head. It’s a gross image but not a bad metaphor for how I feel. “That guy is not my friend.”
“Got that, darlin’.” He folds his arms and sizes me up. “But who is he?”
My breathing is still shallow. I’m not over the fear I felt when I spotted Rotty in the tasting room, standing only a few yards away from me. He was probably armed. He’d have to neutralize me or threaten me to get me onto his bike.
If he’d seen me, who knows what he would have done. Pulled a gun on me right there in the tasting room? Or—no—he’d probably hide on the property, waiting to catch me alone after work. He could easily subdue me, and then drug me or just toss me into the trunk of a car.
I’d be completely at his mercy. And then Razor’s…
Without thinking, I place the palm of my hand over the scars on my arm—the ones I got the first time that I tried to leave Razor.
Nash frowns. Then he takes a step forward to grasp my wrist for a closer look.
His grip is entirely gentle, but it still causes the air to seize up in my lungs. And I make a noise of terror.
At the sound, Nash drops my hand instantly. But his frown only deepens. “What isthat?” he demands, pointing at the mess of white, clawed marks on my forearm.
“A scar,” I say curtly. “We all have them.”
“Huh,” he says. “Fair. But I’m thinkin’ someone helped you get that one. Was it that guy?” He jerks a thumb toward the door.
“No.” I sigh. What can I say that will end this conversation? “He’s just a friend of my ex. They’ve been, uh, looking for me for a while.”
“Define a while,” Nash growls.
“Um…a year?”
