Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(68)

He ends the call and looks at me, a feral grin on his mouth. “Your husband’s a little agitated.”

“You bastard. He’s going to kill you.”

“He has to get here first. And even if he does, I seriously doubt it’ll be in time.” He gestures with the muzzle of the gun. “Get out of the car.”

I slide across the seat toward the door. He follows suit, keeping the gun trained on me the whole time. I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m going to get a chance to run, but I watch him anyway, looking for any waver to the muzzle of the gun, any lapse in Sal’s attention. There’s nothing. Not even a half second I could take advantage of.

As soon as we’re both free of the car he grabs my arm again, steering me toward the bakery. His fingers hold me hard, digging in deep. He slides the gun under his jacket, but it’s still pointed at me, just hidden so anyone watching won’t be able to see it. I can still almost feel it, a burning spot against my rib cage.

The bakery looks different, and it takes me a second to realize why; the lockbox is off the door and the FOR SALE sign in the window has a SOLD sign over it now. It’s not even mine anymore. Not that it ever was. That fact has finally hit home with me.

“You’re going to burn the place down after you sold it?” I ask him. “Don’t you think the new owners will take exception?” I doubt he cares, but maybe the question will distract him for a second or two.

“Like I give a flying fuck. They’ll get insurance money.” I almost trip as he drags me up over the curb in front of the storefront. So much for distracting him. It seems like a futile effort at this point. I might as well accept it; there’s nothing I can do. Not one damn thing.

The thought gives me a strange sense of calm. I keep watching, keeping an eye out for anything I can take advantage of, and even though there’s nothing, I know now that this isn’t my fault. Unlike other messes I’ve gotten myself into, this time I really did everything I could. Maybe I’ve learned something. Too bad it’s far too late.

Sal opens the door and pushes me inside. I scan the room, again looking for any advantage I might be able to grab. With the gun pointed at me, I’m not sure I can move fast enough to press an advantage anyway. But maybe it’d be better to go down fast, from a bullet, than to let him burn me.

“Go to the back,” Sal orders sharply, and I go. The place is darker and dingier than it was when I was last there, but I can still smell the hint of baking bread, of flour and yeast. I swallow hard, a lump of tears backlogging in my throat. This is the last of my dream. It’ll be all over after this, whether I make it through it or not. All the years, time, emotion I tied up in this bakery—gone. Everything I’ve been through—pointless.

Suddenly I realize how wrong I’ve been this whole time. I sacrificed myself for this dream, and I never should have. I shouldn’t have trusted Sal. Probably shouldn’t have trusted Nick. And I should have trusted myself, but I didn’t. The building doesn’t matter—I could have put my business together another way and never gotten tangled up with Sal in the first place. The clarity is sobering, but so is the realization that it’s come to me far, far too late.

I sense that Sal’s attention has wavered, and I turn to see him scanning the room, looking for something. I follow his lead, trying to find a weapon, and see that there’s a cast-iron skillet still sitting on the stove.

I move without thinking. The split second seems to drag out to minutes, hours. My hand closes around the handle of the skillet and I pick it up, swing it toward the gun that’s still trained on me. It goes off with a roar, but the muzzle is pointed at the ceiling now, and the bullet flies harmlessly into the tiles.

“You bitch!” Sal says, and closes on me. I draw the skillet back for another swing, this time at his head, but his hand closes on my wrist. His other hand, still holding the gun, flies at my head. The butt of the gun strikes my temple, and everything goes black.

#

When I wake up I’m on the ground. I’m in a seated position, my back against the wall. My head aches, and I smell smoke. My hands are bound behind me, and when I try to get my feet under me, I discover my feet are taped together at the ankles.

“Not much longer now.” Sal’s voice floats to me as my brain reorients around the ache and the dizziness left over from his hitting me with the gun. He glances at his watch. “I’m surprised your dear husband isn’t here yet. Maybe he doesn’t care as much as I thought he did.”

I don’t say anything. Nick probably doesn’t care about me at all, but I figured he’d at least come to save the baby. Maybe I was wrong.