Page 3 of House of Cards

There’s a twitch of his mouth when he sends a smooth, sweeping gaze over my home before giving me the same casual scan.

My skinny jeans suddenly feel even tighter than normal. My pastel blue polo shirt tucked in too tight. It really helps with tips, but man do I regret my life choices right now.

“Where’sel ratahiding, huh?”

He might be ex-military, with his scuffed army-issue boots, fade-in buzz cut, and clean-shaven face…but not with thatgunshoved in the front of his jeans, right out in the open.

If Ricky’s friends carry guns, then they’re a hell of a lot more discrete about it than this guy.

When he sees me looking at it, he lays his hand on the grip.

He takes another slow step forward, like I’m a deer he doesn’t want to spook before putting a bullet through my head and tying me down on the hood of his truck. Despite my rising panic, I inch towards the open-plan kitchen, trying to keep the same distance between us.

No time for a phone call. I’ll have to find something to defend myself with.

Knives, forks, cast-iron pans—they’re all in the kitchen. I’m not even sure if the pan can deflect a bullet, but I’m not going down without a fight.

I swear, if I die in this diner with my hair still reeking of fryer oil, I’m leaving a one-star Yelp review for my life. As it stands, I’m definitely not rating it higher than three.

Buzzcut watches me, nonplussed, as I slowly creep towards the kitchen.

“Ricky owes me money,” he says, enunciating each vowel. To my feverish, panicked mind, it sounds like a knife tapping against glass.

“Yeah, uh, paying for things is even rarer for Ricky than showing up.” My voice is all over the place as I try—but fail—to keep my shit together. “So I’m guessing you’re one of his bookies, then? You know, I told him not to gamble. Or at least to stick to the stuff he’s good at. Why the hell he kept going back to the craps table is anyone’s?—“

Buzzcut slips the gun out of his pants and points it at me. “Stop.”

I put my hands up. “Talking or moving?” I ask, not doing either.

His teeth glint as he snarls, “Both.” Judging from the way his hand tightens around his gun’s grip, he doesn’t have a sense of humor.

I reluctantly halt, hands still in the air, but there’s no way I’m shutting up. “Relax, okay? Just tell me how much he owes you, and I’ll see what I can?—“

“Yeah?” Buzzcut cocks an eyebrow, glancing around the diner with an incredulous twist to his mouth. “You got a hundred grand stashed away in here?”

“Wh…?” I scoff. “A hundredgrand? He owes you ahundredgrand?”

Buzzcut beckons with the gun, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Closer,chica. Don’t make me shout.”

Jesus. I’m so fucked.

I shake my head. “I’m good over here, thanks. And I take offense that you think I don’t have that kind of money.”

Okay, new plan.

There’s cash in the safe. Not enough to cover Ricky’s debt—a hundredfuckinggrand?—but hopefully enough to convince this asshole not to shoot me.

Buzzcut sweeps his gun toward the office’s door. “You got it? Show me,mamacita.”

“Okay, okay!”

He comes up right behind me as I head for the door, the air filling with the scent of cigarettes, weed, and Ax body spray.

I take my keys out of my apron, nearly dropping them when I aim for the door lock.

As I fumble with the keys, some sliver of survival instinct kicks in. I slip the largest keys of the bunch between my fingers, and curl my hand into a fist.

I don’t know how Buzzcut picked up on my vibe, but as I turn to slash out at him with my improvised weapon, he catches my wrist and body-slams me into the wall beside the door.

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