Page 9 of Hold Him Like Gravity

So I tried to think of anything else as I helped Ricky prep the shop for opening. Then, blessedly, it was a line out of the door for hours, making it impossible to think of anything but the work.

It was coming up on closing when things finally died down, giving me time to start really scrubbing down the place.

“I’m gonna take the garbage out to the trash,” Ricky, the only other employee left, told me as he lifted a black bag out of the trash next to the register.

“Okay. I should be done by the time you’re back,” I said as I finished with the last slicer.

“Good. Fucking back is killing me. Got used to not being on my feet all day,” he said as he walked into the back.

The door didn’t close behind him, meaning he’d likely propped it open with a milk crate so I didn’t have to let him back in.

So I’d heard the slam when it happened.

But I’d just assumed, stupidly, that he’d accidentally missed the top of the dumpster and the trash whacked into the side or something.

Until the front door opened, the happy little bells jingling—a feature I was glad Rico had kept after the renovation.

“Sorry. We’re closed. We open tomorrow at ten a.m.,” I called without looking up.

That was my second stupid move.

It wasn’t until I heard footsteps coming from the back, several of them, that my stomach dropped and my head snapped up.

Then there they were.

Two guys.

Tall, solid, all in black.

Including the ski masks on their faces and the gloves on their hands.

“Shit,” I hissed, rushing backward until I remembered the other footsteps.

Turning, two more men were approaching from the back.

“Open the fucking register,” one of them demanded even as I backed myself up against it.

Not because of fear, per se. Though, I’ll admit that adrenaline was surging through my system, making my heart punch against my ribcage and my hands go sweaty. But because near the register is where Ricky kept a bat.

I’d never seen him actually use it, but he claimed that there were a few times he’d needed to ‘knock some skulls.’

The logic of a hold-up at an establishment is to just… do what they want. Open the register. Give them the money. The insurance would take care of it.

That logic didn’t account for the fear ofotherthings that could happen to a woman alone at a shop at night with four masked men.

I didn’t care about the money.

Clearly, Rico had it if he was dropping all kinds of money on renovations and new uniforms.

I wanted to protect myself from getting gang-raped at my own freaking workplace.

“She’s going for something,” one of them said.

And just a second later, pain screamed across my scalp as someone grabbed me by the ponytail, yanking me backward, then tossing me to the side, making me collide hard enough with the counter that it knocked out my breath.

“Just a bat,” one of the others said.

But that didn’t seem to be good enough for the guy who’d grabbed me.

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