Page 34 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy
My eyes slid toward the door.
Still closed.
I slid the bag across the counter, punched the total into the register, and started to tell them the price.
“Think I’m going to check the bread in that bin over there,” the tall one said, circling the counter, coming closer.
My spine jolted. “Please stay on the customer’s side of the room.”
He didn’t stop. Just laughed loud and sharp, like I was the joke.
“Come on,” the shorter one said, following behind. “We only want to see if those orc ovens really make things taste better.”
Their breath hit me first. Beer. Garlic. I tried not to gag.
They came too close and pretended not to notice the line they crossed. The tall one's sleeve dragged across my arm as he reached toward the bread bin, and it hit me like a lightning bolt.
Pain lived in my bones where old breaks would never fully heal. My mouth went dry. I hated how fast old fear rewired everything, as if it still believed anyone bigger was owed control of the room.
“Back up,” I said, my voice low but firm. I planted my feet, determined not to run. Determined not to back down.
The tall one stepped closer to me. Looming. His slick smile rose. “Don't be like that. Give me a smile.”
I shoved. Not hard, but into his stomach to knock him off balance.
He stumbled back with a surprised bark.
The short one’s face hardened, and he surged forward like he’d changed his mind about being funny.
I spun sideways, scooting between them, and bolted into the kitchen like the air back there might be safer. Smaller. Controlled. The kitchen didn’t ask anything of me but focus and heat. No men, no questions, no sudden movements. Just dough and time.
“Come back,” the tall man called out, but his tone wasn’t amused anymore. It sounded off. Mean.
“We just want to see how orcs make things,” he said in a greasy tone, following me with his friend right behind. “You can show us, can’t you?”
“Gentlemen,” I said, trying to control the quaver in my voice. “I’m asking you to leave. This is a private kitchen area?—”
“What’re you going to do about it?” the tall one asked, stepping forward. “Bake us some consequences?”
The other one snorted.
I gripped the edge of the prep table, the only solid thing keeping me upright.
My access to the front was blocked. Brain whirling, I looked for exits, but with them between me and both, there were none.
Adrenaline surged like ice through my veins, and the world narrowed to the cracked flour patterns on the prep table, the tick of the cooler fan. My thoughts slowed, and my hands felt far away, like they belonged to someone else.
The tall one leaned near, grabbing a wooden spoon lying on the counter by my elbow.
“What’s this for?” he said, holding it up. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
The smell on his shirt, cheap detergent, salt, stale sweat, hit me like a punch.
My mind flashed to Melvin in the kitchen. Hefting the biggest knife we owned and waving it in front of my face. “To make a point.” I’d never screamed so loud.
Move. Move. Move.
The tall man’s hand clamped around my arm, and I cried out in terror.
