Page 18 of Cash

Brick put on some pajamas, a pair of hot pink slippers, and settled down to watch The Romance of Tiger and Rose. It was late, but his mother would never let him live it down if he didn’t at least watch the first episode.

The first turned into the fourth, and Brick was completely sucked in. Just as the scriptwriter was trying to get the attention of her formerly betrothed by reciting poetry with her current husband watching, the same husband who had already tried to kill her twice—or was it thrice now?—Brick heard something on his front porch.

His immediate thought was that it must be a opossum or a raccoon, but then the doorknob rattled.

That made Brick sit right up and stare at the door.

All the lights were off, and the only illumination inside the house was coming from the television. Outside, however, the streetlights created all sorts of twisted shadows creeping over the windows from the big tree in the yard...

And the silhouette of a man standing at his front door.

Oh fuck.

Brick owned a gun. It was a thirty-eight snub nose revolver that his parents had insisted he take for protection to use in this very sort of situation.

Except there were a few teensy tiny issues with it.

The first was that he had a trigger lock on it since there was no safety and he’d become paranoid about it going off randomly in the middle of night.

The second was that the same paranoia that had prompted him to buy a trigger lock was also responsible for removing all the bullets to make extra certain it couldn’t possibly fire.

Lastly, and perhaps the most pertinent problem, was that he had no idea where the gun, the bullets for the gun, or the key for the trigger lock on the gun were.

Splendid.

The doorknob rattled again, and Brick heard something click. The door opened, stopped only by the flimsy little chain at the top.

Run.

Run, you stupid idiot, run!

Brick scrambled to his feet and then bolted up the stairs just as the chain snapped, broken by the door being forced open. He could hear someone barging into his home and the crash of glass breaking from somewhere—the kitchen? The back door?—and he grabbed the railing to propel his ascent.

His foot had just lifted to take another step when a hand clamped around his ankle and pulled.

Brick went to one knee, but he didn’t let go of the railing. He turned, twisting onto his back and finding himself staring up at a large man in a ski mask.

Ski Mask had a hold of his ankle and was trying to pull Brick down the stairs. “Come the fuck on! Get your ass down here!”

“Fuck you!” Brick kicked as hard as he could, wishing he had steel-toes on instead of slippers. He managed to catch Ski Mask’s wrist with his heel, and it was enough to break away for a moment. He flipped back around, trying to race up the stairs again.

Now there was another man with a bandana covering his face, and two pairs of hands grabbed Brick’s legs, pulling them right out from under him. Brick was unable to catch himself and fell face-first against the steps. He tasted blood, and he grunted in pain as he was dragged down onto the floor.

“You big fucker, come here!” Ski Mask and the second man heaved Brick up to his feet and then slammed him against the wall beside the stairs.

“Fuck!” Brick cursed as several framed pictures shattered behind him. Surges of adrenaline were firing up and making his muscles feel tingly and light. He had no idea why these men had broken into his home, but he was not going down without a fight.

His shoulders were pinned against the wall and something was stabbing into his lower back and hurt like hell, but he was able to get his right arm free. He swung as hard as he could and socked Ski Mask in the face.

Ski Mask lurched back with a pained snarl, and Brick pushed Bandana away by driving his elbow into the side of his head. He could do this. He was gonna beat the shit out of these guys, call the cops and—

Click.

Ski Mask had recovered and was pointing a gun in Brick’s face. “You’re gonna pay for that, bitch.”

A gun in his face was a pretty convincing argument for Brick to stand down, but there was a fire raging inside him that refused to be snuffed out so easily. He was scared, yes, but he was also furious that anyone would dare bust up into his home and attack him. He gritted his teeth and bit back defiantly, “Fuckin’ eat me, asshole.”

Brick didn’t know what was going to happen next. Maybe the gun would fire. Maybe it would get cracked across his face like people always did in the movies and he’d just fall over in a heap. He was trying to use these few precious seconds to prepare himself for any and every possible insane scenario.

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