Page 31 of Picture Perfect

"He acts like it's a choice. How cute," I drawl.

"I don't have the cash on me."

Of course he doesn't.

"I'll have to go get it."

"You've pushed too fucking far, Preston," Saint sneers his name like a curse. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your fucking word for it. We'll need some collateral to ensure you're not stupid enough to walk away with my money a second time."

Saint's grip loosens and a slimy slug falls from his open palm. He juts his chin toward me and sweeps it toward the heap at his feet. Tag. I'm it.

I push off the lockers and snatch up the slug, slamming his back against the cold metal. The sound reverberates through my bones. I press my forearm against his chest, pinning him in place, and hold the sharp tip of my knife just inches away from his pathetic little balls.

They didn’t deserve my snowflake’s attention. I should cut them off just for that and that alone. I press my knife in further, temptation bleeding past sense.

The slug trembles, his eyes darting to the others as if they'll save him before meeting my cold, emotionless gaze. I can almost taste his fear. It’s delicious.

"You're nothing," I whisper menacingly. "No one turns their back on us, Preston."

"You want collateral, Saint?" he snarls, his voice thick with false bravado. "You want something to ensure my business is square? Fine. You can take my fucking car. I'll bring you the money this afternoon."

"No," Saint's tone brooks no argument. "We want the girl."

The slug's eyes go wide, and it's clear he thinks we're joking. But we're not. The girl is ours. He just doesn't know it yet. But he will.

"The girl?" he stutters. "You can't have her. It's mine...she's mine."

I freeze. I think even my pitiful, underused heart stops in my chest. It. He said “it.” Either he views the little princess, the icy little snowflake, as an object, which, honestly, is possible. Or…

Goddamn. She's a virgin.

"It's the girl or your balls, Preston. Once again, an easy choice. I suggest you bring me my money. Because, if you don't, I'll take what you seem to think belongs to you. For good."

Preston fights against my hold, but I press the tip of my blade deeper. His yelp suggests I may have drawn blood. Fuck. Now I'll have to sanitize my favorite knife.

Saint laughs coldly, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Make your decision, Preston. We're not in the mood to play games."

"I swear to fucking god if you touch her..."

"We will do whatever we please. You will bring us the money. Yes or no?"

"Yes," the slug seethes.

"What's his outstanding bill, Chess?"

"Three grand."

"Three grand. You'll bring it to Iggy's this afternoon. Believe me, you do not want to try me again. Release him, Dre."

I press the blade in just a tad further, not enough to gouge but enough to remind him of the consequences of his actions. Then I step back, allowing the sniveling excuse for a man to crumple to the floor.

The room is quiet for a moment as Preston hesitates, his eyes darting between us. His jaw tightens with determination and I widen my stance to prepare for what comes next.

But, the little coward never comes.

"You'll fucking regret this."

"I fucking doubt it."

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