No Gentle Giant: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  About as sharp as the blade of the pearl-handled switchblade in her hand, flipping and twirling between her fingers with expert ease until the initials KL on the ornately engraved hilt blur, and the point winks in silver flashes.

  She’s stylish as ever in white leather capris, straw wedge sandals, a pink patterned shirt, and a perky little neck scarf that’d be to die for—if only she didn’t ooze murder from every steaming pore.

  Catch her on the street, and you’d think she was just a cutesy tourist taking a break from her chic city life to explore the wonders of an infamous small town hidden in Montana.

  Catch her right now, though, and you wouldn’t hesitate to believe she’d take that switchblade across someone’s throat in a second.

  Namely, across mine.

  “Hello, Fe-lic-i-tee,” she says, taking a deafening step forward.

  Gag.

  I hate how my name sounds in that lisping baby-girl voice she uses. How she always sucks on it like a piece of candy, turning my name warped and bitter, just as tart as the fear rising in the back of my throat.

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she whispers.

  Never long enough, I want to say—but my tongue stays as petrified as the rest of me.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t speak.

  I just hope I can find it in me to run.

  As long as they stay near the door, there’s a slim chance I can dart through the back hall and out the employee exit.

  But Paisley’s already sauntering toward me, and my rabbiting heart becomes a sinking stone as the three goons with her fan out. They move casually, but take up careful strategic positions on either side of the bar.

  My options? Not good.

  Go left, go right, there’s a goon boxing me in. Try to jump over the bar, and there’s another one, already hovering close enough to the cash register to tell me exactly what he wants.

  Run forward, there’s Paisley, a pint-sized Venus flytrap.

  That pretty smile.

  That glittering knife.

  Nothing but sharp edges everywhere.

  Yeah. I guess it’s not hard to follow my darting eyes, because Paisley lets out a cruel and syrupy giggle that’s straight-up sociopath despite its harsh brightness.

  “Don’t tell me you’re planning to skip out on me already, Fe-lic-i-tee?” she sings. “I haven’t seen you in almost an entire year. Imagine that. Don’t you wanna get caught up? Have a little girl talk, daddy’s girl to daddy’s girl?”

  “Not really,” I manage to choke out, even if the words feel like swallowing a heap of wet coffee grounds. “What do you want?”

  Paisley sways to a halt in front of me.

  Close enough to make me too aware of that blade.

  I can almost feel its bite as it turns and turns and turns, and she’s within arm’s reach.

  Be careful.

  I know just how dangerous these people are.

  Paisley’s father was the man my dad used to work for, deal for, fly for.

  Possibly the man he died for, no matter what was listed on his death certificate.

  I stare into her eerie, childlike smile for a few more hell-seconds—before it vanishes, going completely dead.

  Now she looks like an empty, soulless, porcelain doll. Devoid of all expression.

  A chill washes through me.

  This is her true medusa face.

  And her truth is terrifying.

  That dead, cold regard holds me like a wriggling bunny as the knife stops flipping with a smack of the hilt against her palm. Her slim, delicate finger extends along the blade, holding it almost daintily.

  With her other hand, she reaches into the breast pocket of her shirt and withdraws her phone.

  She doesn’t even have to look at her screen, holding it up to face me as she slides her thumb quickly across the bottom of the touchscreen, swiping photo after photo after photo in a gallery.

  She doesn’t say a word.

  She doesn’t need to.

  Not when those photos scream loud enough to flash-freeze my blood.

  My mother.

  Harper Randall.

  I thought she’d be safer if I moved her to Coeur d’Alene. Happier. And she definitely looks happy, caught unsuspecting while she’s out shopping, picking over flowers in a store, laughing with a group of older women, feeding ducks, sweeping her front porch.

  But safer?

  No.

  Not when those photos make it deadly clear that Paisley could make her into hamburger—or worse—at any moment she chooses.

  Which means she’s definitely here for something I probably can’t deliver.

  There’s a rock lodged in my throat.

  I force back the lump of horror and lift my eyes from the phone to Paisley, glaring at her. I’m too proud to cower, though if it keeps my mom safe, you’d better believe I’ll get down on my knees and beg if that’s what this maniac wants.

  Right now, I’m too angry to do anything but snap, “What are you trying to tell me? What do you want from me now?”

  “Oh, Felicity.” That mocking voice is back, candy-bright and pitying, and she clucks her tongue, lowering her phone—but not the knife. “Really, now, what do I always want? I’ve been playing this game with you for too long. I’ve been too lenient.”

  As she says lenient, she runs the edge of her nail along the switchblade, peeling off a curl of her nail-tip as thin as a hair with absolute precision.

  Like I need to see how sharp it is.

  Trust me, I know.

  “You’ve taken every penny I have,” I say weakly.

  It’s not defiance. It’s the truth.

  Did you think I was always in the red due to bad business practices and rotten luck?

  Ha!

  Unless you count breathing where Paisley “Paye”—as in “Pay Up”—Lockwood can see me as a bad business practice, I’m actually pretty savvy.

  Too bad she’s an ongoing debt I just can’t seem to shake.

  “Every penny?” she echoes. “Interesting.”

  Her eyes crawl over me in an overly familiar way that makes me shudder, taking in every inch of my body.

  Then that blade flicks toward me so fast it’s nearly blinding.

  Just a blur of light splitting the air.

  Sucking in a breath, I flinch back, bracing for howling pain.

  Cold metal dances against my throat.

  The edge, almost nicking.

  Something tickles my skin and, holding my breath, pulse jittering and terrified while my blood turns thin as water, I do it.

  I open one eye.

  That’s when I realize she’s caught the thin silver chain of my pendant on the tip of her blade, lifting it away until the slim azurite crystal—no taller than a dime and bound in place by a silver band—dangles from it.

  I’d picked it up at a little craft shop I’d wandered into during my last trip to Spokane to hand-deliver bags of fresh coffee for the local branch of Sweeter Things, Clarissa Regis’ candy store.

  Just a whim. It was pretty. Plus something about azurite clearing negative energies sold me.

  But it’s not doing anything to banish Paisley like a bad dream as it swings hypnotically from the tip of the knife.

  “How many pennies did this little pretty cost, hmm?” Her eyes go slitted like a cat’s and just as cunning; her mouth turned up at the corners. There’s an unpredictable light in her gaze. “And that shirt. Those nice leather boots. Seems like you’ve been cleaning up nice and tidy and kinda fancy, Felicity. You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “No! I’m...I’m not holding out!” I gasp the words. It feels like if I talk too loudly, the mere twitch of my vocal cords will bring me too close to that blade I can feel roaming the peach fuzz hairs on my skin. “I’ve given you every cent of profit from this café, Paye. Every freaking cent, whenever you asked, and...and I’m doing everything I can to make more!”

  “Drips and drabs. Not even a drop in the
bucket, Fe-lic-i-teeee.” She lets the necklace go then, and it falls to hit the hollow of my throat.

  Its delicate point makes me gasp when my animal brain is sure it’s the knife.

  But the switchblade taps against Paisley’s pink lower lip while she looks at me as sulkily as a little girl getting called out by her big sister.

  “You know exactly how much you owe,” she hisses. “You know what you owe me.”

  “I don’t,” I repeat desperately.

  Because really, that’s the problem.

  I’ve never known. It’s not my debt.

  It’s Dad’s.

  And I’m suddenly afraid that hidden log book might have something to do with this, after all these years of Paisley shaking me down and taking every penny of profit I make as an installment payment on some nebulous sum.

  I’ve always thought she refused to tell me the real amount Dad owed her so she could just keep milking it for the rest of my life, however short she might decide it will be.

  It’d be oh-so-easy to claim I have more left on my debt if I never know the balance—and maybe she’s charging interest. She’d probably do it just to screw with me, when I know the bottom-of-the-barrel scrapings she shakes out of my pockets wouldn’t even buy her a new pair of her designer shoes.

  Why does she bother?

  But now I’m wondering...what if there’s always been more to it?

  What if my father was in deeper than I ever realized?

  And if he really did end up in staggering amounts of debt owed to the Lockwood syndicate, or if...if...

  Oh my God.

  Did my father steal from the Lockwoods?

  Is that why she hasn’t killed me yet?

  Is that why she enjoys this cat and mouse thing so much?

  Because she thinks whatever he stole can be recovered somehow?

  I don’t know how I didn’t figure that out before.

  Sadly, I don’t get a chance to dwell on it.

  Paisley sways back from me with a slow, cunning grin, her eyes glittering with sadistic anticipation, and I know what’s coming next.

  “Such a shame,” she purrs.

  I shake my head quickly.

  “Don’t,” I say, and it’s so humiliating to beg. Then again, I think anyone would with their life and livelihood on the line, seeing a promise of pain and ruin in those shining green eyes. “Listen, Paye, I just got this place back together, and if you really want money from me, you can’t keep trashing my only source of income—”

  Paisley snorts derisively, one corner of her mouth quirking up in a cruel sneer.

  “You think I care about your coffee jar tips, Little Miss Barista? You couldn’t earn what we’re after in ten lifetimes. But since you missed your last two payments and you’re being so stubborn and rude tonight...”

  She flicks her fingers at her men, pretty manicured fingernails flashing in the light. Her goons smile like jackals.

  “Shake it down, boys,” she croons in this exaggerated gang mol accent.

  “No!”

  I fling myself off the stool, race over, and—

  And draw up short as that switchblade stabs toward me so fast I hardly see it move.

  I’ve only got a split second to stagger to a halt with my heart beating right through my chest as it stops under my chin.

  I’ve never seen her without that thing.

  She holds it like a lover, caressing it with her thumb, and keeps me captured with her snake-like eyes.

  Forced to hold still.

  And listen, helplessly, as the wanton destruction begins.

  I don’t know what it says about my life that all I can think is, at least it’s not as bad as last time.

  They tip over some chairs.

  They stab at bags of packed, vacuum-sealed grounds, ripping them open in explosions of brown grains and rich aromas.

  They fling napkins and brochures in the air like confetti.

  One of them rips open the confectionery case and stuffs little petit fours into his mouth until his teeth are all gummed up with cake and he’s grinning crumbs.

  But there’s no broken glass, thank God.

  No blood flying everywhere—especially mine.

  Not when I know what they’re really after.

  And when I hear the rattle and jingle of the cash register, I just close my eyes and wait for it to end.

  They won’t get much. Not when it’s already been closed out for the night, bank bags in the safe and waiting to be dropped off tomorrow.

  Only they won’t make it there, not when those gorilla goons barge into my office next, and I’m just stuck here with Paisley holding me at knife point.

  She watches my face like she’s getting high off the salty smell of every bead of sweat pouring down my brow.

  Holy Hannah.

  From the noise in there, I’m pretty sure they’ve torn the safe clean out of the wall.

  Once again, counting my small blessings.

  Even if my office is a destroyed wreck of drywall, at least it’s not a customer-facing area that will scare people off from the catastrophe.

  A few minutes later, one of the goons comes swaggering out, trailed by the others. He’s practically sulking, his face a comical mask of disappointment.

  I’d laugh, if I wasn’t so horrified by the sight of him carrying my entire wall-safe, covered in sheetrock dust and dented in on all sides with the shapes of crowbars, the door twisted off its hinges and hanging on by a scrap.

  He turns it upside down like a kid shaking a bag of Skittles for the very last piece. “Nothin’ else in here, Miss Lockwood.”

  One of the others has the deposit bags that were inside the safe, and he’s unzipped them to flip around inside with his thick fingers before grimacing. “Maybe two large, if that. That ain’t even dinner.” He gives me a contemptuous look, then spits on the floor and tosses one of the empty bags at my feet. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

  Part of me bristles.

  I’m trying my best, dammit.

  But my sense of self-preservation keeps me stock-still, while Paisley sniffs, turning her head toward them and tossing her chin at the door.

  “Get it in the car,” she says before turning those cutting green eyes back on me. “You’d better have a fire sale, Fe-lic-i-tee.” Have I mentioned how I hate the way she says my name more than a fire ant facial? “Because if you don’t have more for me by my next visit...”

  Oh, no.

  She tips the knife up until the point presses into the soft underside of my chin, smirking while I suck my breath in and hold it, that metal so cold yet quickly warming with my body heat.

  “We’ll just have to go see Mommy Dearest then, won’t we?”

  I don’t dare speak.

  Not when the slightest movement might send that blade skating across my flesh.

  Not when if I open my mouth, I’ll just start sobbing tears of pure, impotent rage.

  So I wait, while Paisley holds my eyes like a promise.

  Until she walks away, with one last hateful look.

  Until the knife fades from my flesh.

  Until the door jingles, too merry and bright, and in a sweep of headlights and the dull roar of an engine, they’re gone.

  And I’m alone.

  Collapsing to my knees with a sob and cursing the day I was ever born a Randall.

  4

  Gold Medal (Alaska)

  I have no idea what’s happened to Felicity, but it’s obvious something’s catastrophically wrong.

  I’m calling out before I know what I’m doing, shoving the door open.

  “Felicity?” I bark out breathlessly. “Are you hurt?”

  She flinches backward, tumbling onto her ass and jerking away, her arms coming up defensively—only to freeze.

  She stares at me, her eyes wet streaks of mascara running down her face in sooty trails.

  “...Alaska?”

  “Yeah. Fuck. Sorry for startling you.” I take a step closer, then drop down
on one knee in front of her.

  Looking her over, I don’t see any injuries, but she looks so frazzled. So broken.

  There could be anything from bruises to fractured bones under her jeans and that trim, fitted plaid blouse making her look so small now.

  “What happened? Did they hurt you?”

  “Nothing but my pride,” she manages. Her voice comes thick.

  She’s normally got a kind of low burr to her sound, this pitch like melted chocolate. Now it’s like she’s been sucking on mud.

  I want to reach out to her, to cradle her face, to bring her comfort before she whispers again.

  “I’m fine.” She looks around, dazed, then shrugs.

  “This isn’t fine,” I throw back, casting a heavy look.

  “It’s nothing.” She bites her lip, then sniffs and rubs her nose. “Sorry, I don’t mean to snap. I just...”

  “It’s a lot. I get it,” I say. “You’re upset. It’s okay. Did they break in?”

  “More like...walked in. We know each other,” she says faintly. I realize she’s not just surveying the damage. She’s avoiding looking at me. “It’s not your problem, dude. Just an argument with a contractor. It got a little out of hand and, well, here we are.”

  My shoulders tense, squaring at my sides.

  Contractor dispute? Sounds like bull.

  I don’t want to call a pretty lady a liar, but hell.

  I’d bet a month’s pay she’s not telling me the truth.

  My mouth opens to question her—then snaps shut again.

  I have no right to demand answers from her.

  Up till yesterday, I wasn’t even on a first-name basis with this gal.

  Even so, I’ll be damned if I want to let it go. I just can’t scare her off either, not when she’s in this state.

  Under these circumstances, playing it cool might be the only option.

  My phone’s in my hand in a flash, thumb hovering over the emergency icon. “You say the word, and I’ll call Langley. They couldn’t have gotten too far if you want ’em hauled in for questions.”

  She lets out a bitter snort.

  “You’re definitely new around here. You think Mayberry’s going to do anything?” Her lips look more like a wrinkle than a true smile.