No Gentle Giant: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “You know your daddy stole millions from my daddy,” she whispers, her face suddenly going creepily empty again. “And I want his money—my money—back.”

  I make a derisive sound.

  “Please. I’ve paid you so much it’s probably covered whatever he stole, and then some.” I’m playing dumb. I can’t let her know I have that gold, but now I’ve got an even better idea where it came from.

  Thanks, Dad.

  Thanks for getting me into this clown show.

  “Do you just get off on this? Shaking people down?” I hiss.

  I’m expecting an insult.

  Not the sudden sharp sting smacking against the back of my head—a backhanded blow so fierce it whips my head to one side, slapping my cheek and temple against the wall hard enough to make me cry out.

  “Shut up—shut up! I’m sick of you throwing pennies, Flissy-wissy-piss-itee, and you fucking know it.” It’s almost more chilling when she finds a new way to mangle my name in her hideous syrupy voice. “I want what Morgan Randall took. What that good-for-nothing sack of chickenshit stole from me, and since you can’t give me back my daddy...”

  Suddenly the knife slips from my throat.

  Now it’s against the small of my back, replacing her elbow.

  One push, and she could sever my spine.

  If I don’t bleed out, I’ll be paralyzed for life.

  I don’t dare move, every inch of me trembling.

  “...since you can’t bring back daddy, I want my fucking money!” she finishes.

  I breathe in shallow gasps, struggling to pull my panicked thoughts together.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper. “H-how did my father take yours away?”

  “Like you don’t know. Like you don’t know that lousy rat killed him!” What’s even worse is the real emotion in her voice. Loss, pain, sorrow, years of rage marinating in this stew of poison vengeance. “Who do you think was with him the night Morgan crashed that plane? Huh, Felicity? Only, my daddy never came back. I don’t even know where your prick of a father hid his body.” Then she lets out a giggle, a manic titter wild with raw evil. “But y’know, I remember where I left his.”

  I go cold from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes.

  Grim truth bitch-slaps me harder than she ever could, nearly knocking me flat.

  Her.

  Of course, it was her.

  Those fingerprints on the car were hers.

  Paisley Lockwood murdered my father in revenge when she was just a kid, because she thinks he killed hers.

  What’s worse is that she may not be wrong.

  I swallow thickly, my throat knotted.

  “...you...what did you do to him?”

  “Exactly what I said I would.” The point of the blade twirls slowly, and I suck in a breath as I feel the first tiny pinprick against my skin, biting like a needle through my dress. “Your father was a loser. Good for nothing druggie. Which is why I hate how damned good he was at keeping his mouth shut. I told him if he didn’t talk, he’d be riding that white pony until his poor ol’ ticker gave out.” The malicious grin I see from the corner of my eye looks like death. “He lasted a long time. I’ll give him that. Old man had a hell of a tolerance. Once a junkie, eh?”

  My nostrils flare.

  I’ve always told myself I don’t miss my dad.

  That I only resented him, hated how he treated us, never really cared for his loss when the man I missed—the man who took me fishing, the man who smiled at me and called me Little Bee with his hand resting on top of my head—died long before they found that body.

  The white-hot fury and sorrow and rage I feel at those words stuns me to my core.

  I’ve been lying to myself all this time.

  And I’ve never hated another human being more than I abhor Paisley Lockwood in this moment, where everything turns blood red.

  My eyes go hot. My chest constricts. My blood boils against her stupid switchblade.

  “You monster,” I gasp out, half a sob, half a snarl, and slowly start to creep one hand to brace against the wall for leverage. “You bitch.”

  “Ah-ah-ahh, Fe-lic-i-tee,” she peals out, nasty and rotten and childish as ever. The knife rakes my skin, a final warning, a kiss of pain. “I’ve been far too generous with you and your shit-swilling, swindling family. But keep on pushing me, girl, and my generosity will run right ou—”

  I don’t know what hits me first.

  The realization that she’s pulling back to do me some serious bodily harm, intending to leave a mark I won’t forget.

  Or the sound of the loud knock at the door, someone rapping hard and firm in a familiar cadence that can only be one person.

  Alaska.

  Oh, shit.

  16

  Gilded Cage (Alaska)

  I hate feeling paranoid.

  It’s taken me years to distinguish gut sense from blind suspicion, but I’ve had a hell of a lot of practice honing that skill.

  It started to sink in on the drive over, and I had a mighty bad feeling something wasn’t quite right inside Felicity’s house.

  That feeling sinks deeper as I knock on her door—and she doesn’t answer.

  I take a slow, assessing look around.

  Her car’s here. I can hear Shrub yipping inside, and the dog sounds upset. The light’s on in the living room.

  I wait several seconds that feel like hours passing and no one comes to the door.

  Ice runs down my spine like cold fingers marching on my skin.

  That instinct buried deep in my gut becomes a lion’s roar.

  Something’s very wrong.

  I start to figure out just what when I squint through the frosted glass of the little inset at the top of the door, and realize she’s home.

  Also, she’s not alone.

  Someone’s got her crowded against the wall. I can’t make out who, but that position sure as shit doesn’t look voluntary.

  There’s a point in SEAL training where your body switches to autopilot. If BUD/S training teaches one thing, it’s never, ever hesitate.

  You learn to assess a situation, determine the best course of action, and react to it in the most appropriate way without actually having to stop to make a conscious choice.

  It’s reflex, and reflex is faster than thought.

  Reflex makes the difference in those fate-mad seconds that hold lives in the balance.

  And it’s reflex that propels me forward as I damned near pound the door down with my fist before deciding to shoulder through it.

  I fling myself forward with as much momentum as I can, a human battering ram with one burning thought in my head.

  Fliss, Fliss, I have to save her.

  The door caves open. I barely stagger inside for a second before I’m moving again.

  The tiny, strange woman pinning Felicity down is already turning, whipping her arm out, a flash of gleaming metal telling me she’s armed.

  Again, reflex comes to the rescue and sends me diving to the floor—and not where she expects me to be when that blade jabs out.

  Instead, I nail her at the knees and ankles, my hip striking the floor as I lash out with my legs, snaring hers in a brutal lock and twisting my calves to flip her over.

  The force slams her against the floor.

  The knife goes spinning away, and for a hot second rational thought comes back with a hint of confusion. She lets out a cry—not pain or anger—but loss, struggling not to get away from me but to reach out across the floor toward the whirling switchblade like it’s the only thing that matters.

  What the hell?

  I don’t even have time to ponder.

  Taking advantage of her distraction, I drag her with our bodies tangled up, then twist free to flip her onto the floor and press my hand down on her skinny throat.

  I don’t like beating up on women, especially little ones like this one, but she had a goddamned knife on my woman.

  The least I can do is
incapacitate her before she does any damage.

  Before it’s too late to hold her for the cops and sort this out like civilized people should.

  Before I get my chance to demand to know who the fuck she is and what’s going on.

  I never get to do any of that.

  Not when Felicity screams.

  “Alaska!”

  The urgent warning in her voice snaps my head up. I’m about to whip around—when a familiar feeling stops me cold, my hand still on the blond woman’s throat.

  The cold mouth of a gun kisses the back of my neck.

  Multiple intruders.

  Ambush.

  Shit.

  I go completely still, staring down at this little nightmare who smiles up at me like a tiny wolf—sharp and full of teeth and very, very carnivorous.

  “Now, handsome,” she purrs. “You want to let me up? Most guys ask a girl’s permission these days, you know.”

  I narrow my eyes, wondering why she’s talking like a cartoon.

  I don’t move a muscle.

  “Don’t need to ask permission to snap your neck,” I growl quietly. “And I promise you I’ll do it before any of your boys can pull the trigger. I might be dead, but you’ll be too, and I have the strangest feeling no one will miss you.”

  Her eyes narrow. She glares at me without fear.

  This one’s got that crazy shine in her eyes, the kind that makes her dangerous.

  “Ohhh, how dramatic! You’re pulling this, stunt man? You’re really willing to risk your life for trash like Felicity Randall?”

  I almost crush her throat instantly.

  No one calls Felicity trash.

  Still, cooler heads prevail. I only tighten my grip, just enough to let her know I’m not fucking bluffing.

  “Your men. Outside. Now. Or else this gets real messy,” I order.

  The woman hisses through her teeth like a snake, then lets out a sulky, petulant sound. She gestures somewhere behind me.

  A few disgruntled mutters rise from the goons—then the sound of retreat, heavy treads stomping through the house.

  I glance up at Felicity, who’s watching over my head numbly, her face pale and stark and eyes so distant.

  “Fliss?” I ask. I can’t risk turning around.

  She nods once, tightly.

  “They’re gone,” she whispers.

  And just like that, the front door of the house slams hard enough to shake the walls.

  Demon Blondie sticks her pink tongue out at me. “There. Happy now?”

  “Nope.” I squeeze her scrawny neck tighter, just enough to watch her face go red, her breaths wheezing a little. “How’s that feel? Hurt as much as the knife you were jabbing at my girl?”

  “Fuck. You,” she spits.

  “No, thanks. Never been interested in real trash,” I throw back, finally relaxing my grasp. “Now. I’m gonna let you up. Unlike you, I don’t hurt people unless it’s absolutely necessary. So we’re making a deal, you and me.”

  I ease off her windpipe so she can speak.

  “Oh, please.” She scoffs—but she’s giving herself away. Even if we’re in a deadlocked staring contest, her irises keep jittering to the side.

  Searching for that knife, I realize.

  Must have sentimental value, or maybe she’s just fantasizing about grabbing it and sticking it between my ribs.

  “What kind of leverage could you possibly have?” she asks.

  “Your life,” I point out softly. “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t care, but I have a feeling you’ve been terrorizing Felicity for a while. It ends now. I want you to get up, walk your ass out of here, and be glad you’re getting out alive. You keep on walking, leave Heart’s Edge, and never come back. I’ve got a few people on the way here who won’t be very happy to see you. They’re sick as fuck of bad luck visiting this town and they won’t take kindly to you bringing more.”

  I’m bluffing.

  She doesn’t need to know that.

  “I’ve got Langley on the line,” Fliss calls, her voice shaking but her jaw firm, her eyes glinting and wet with her phone pressed to her ear. “Do you want the cops taking you in and fingerprinting you, Paye?”

  That girl—Paye, I guess—tilts her head back to glare at Felicity upside down, baring her teeth like some nasty rodent before turning a pouty, mutinous glare on me.

  Even pinned down, she folds her arms over her chest, her frilly dress puffing a little as she kicks her feet sulkily.

  Damn if it isn’t like dealing with a three-year-old with murderous intentions.

  “Fine,” she huffs. “Whatever. Just get off me, you ogre. You stink.”

  I raise both brows slowly.

  My kid doles out better insults.

  Whatever.

  I let it go and lift my hand away gradually, watching her for any sudden moves.

  She sits up, primly fixing her hair and adjusting the front of her dress, before standing with her chin held high, haughty and contemptuous.

  She sweeps us with a look, and then her gaze drops to the floor.

  That switchblade.

  She’s after it before even a split second passes—but I’m faster.

  Lunging to my feet, I catch her by the arms from behind and lift her right off the ground, her legs kicking in the air.

  “Finders, keepers. Play nice,” I grind out, holding fast to my wriggling, squirming burden as I move to the door. “Fliss, get that knife before she gets any cute ideas.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Paye cries, her voice rising shrill and then breaking. “Don’t you dare get your filthy fingers all over it!”

  With the phone still pressed to her ear, Felicity darts over and snatches up the switchblade, then flicks it closed and pockets it before staring at me with a million questions in her eyes.

  I march that little blond murder cat right up to the front door, which Felicity pulls open for me.

  Outside.

  Down the steps, with Paye squalling fit to raise the dead the entire time.

  I think if I even let one pinky loose, this pint-sized freak might turn around and kill me with the sheer force of her hatred.

  This might be comical if she wasn’t so creepy.

  Call it reflex and instinct again.

  Sometimes you can tell when something’s off, and there’s so much wrong with this one.

  At least her goons had a little tactical sense. They’re waiting on the sidewalk with a black car that wasn’t there when I pulled up, and I recognize the same SUV that went tearing out of the parking lot of The Nest that night I found Fliss crying after her ’contractor dispute.’

  That answers a few questions.

  It also raises a hell of a lot more.

  With Fliss trailing behind me, I shove Paye toward the end of the walk, and then push her at her goons.

  “Take her,” I say curtly. “And don’t get any ideas. The cops are listening right now and already on the way. And just in case...” I read off the license plate I can just make out past one guy’s body before folding my arms over my chest. “He’s heard it now. So you could shoot us and run and hope they don’t find you. But they will. If you don’t know what town you’re in and what it’s been through, I suggest you do some reading. This is so not the place to dick around with gunfights, boys.”

  The men don’t change their expressions.

  Typical of hired assholes.

  Still, the way Paye turns back and looks at me, the venom in her eyes hides nothing.

  I have a feeling this is far from over.

  This is just a cease-fire.

  Not the end of the war.

  Without a word, she lifts her head, regal as a monster princess. She waits for one of the men to open the car door for her, then takes his offered hand to lift her up into the back seat, handling her with delicate practice.

  The royal and her retinue, indeed.

  I don’t relax, not till one of them gets behind the wheel, the others flank Paye
in a protective phalanx, and I hear the engine humming.

  Finally, the SUV goes rolling down the street, gliding as dark and silently as an eel.

  The moment the car turns the corner, out of sight, Felicity collapses against my side.

  I barely catch her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders to hold her up.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispers in a broken mantra before raising her voice. I can hear Langley losing his shit on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” she says again, louder this time. “No—no, it’s fine, you don’t need to come, Sheriff. It was a bunch of out-of-town assholes playing a prank. No one’s hurt. I know they need you at the festival.”

  “You sure?” I murmur, keeping my voice low. “You might need the cops on this, Fliss.”

  Not him, she mouths, shaking her head, then speaking into the phone again.

  “Sure, I’ll let you know if they come back. Thanks—I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  Then she hangs up, her entire body sagging against me bonelessly, her arm falling to dangle limply with her phone barely clutched in her fingers.

  “Oh my fucking stars,” she mumbles against my chest, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say anything worse than damn, maybe a quick shit when Eli and I destroyed her leaning tower of mugs. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry you got dragged into this. There are no words.”

  “Relax. I’m just glad I showed up when I did.” I grip her shoulders gently, looking down at her pale face, the stark fear in her eyes and the drying tear tracks on her cheeks. “Get your dog, Fliss.”

  I glance past her. That little puffball bounces in the doorway, yapping and growling like he did something heroic, barking clear into the night.

  “We’re getting out of here,” I tell her.

  “We are?” She blinks, lifting her head and looking up at me blankly. “Why? Why when you know how...how bad it is now...”

  “Because I was right to move you in with me and dead wrong for thinking you should ever come back here alone. You’re not safe anywhere she can find you. No more trips back here without me. Get the dog, get anything else you need for a long-term stay, and let’s move. We need to talk.”

  Pulling everything out of her the hard way is the last thing I want, but her murky business almost got me killed.