Page 40 of Cowboy Heat

I’m surprised when he gives one quick nod. “Say anything wrong, and I’ll cut your mouth.”

A fresh wave of cold goes through me.

I nod in return, and he swipes the answer bar to the side. The man puts it on speaker. The side of my brain not freaking out takes a millisecond to think that he must be wearing those gloves that have the smartphone touch thing in the tips.

“Hey, Beau.” My voice is solid. Nothing wrong. All normal over here. I should be given an acting award for it.

“Hey, Kissy.” Beau’s voice is deep too, but not like the man’s. It’s different. It makes me feel different.

It makes me feel confident enough.

“Sorry if you called earlier,” I say, taking a stab in the dark that he was the missed call. “I wasn’t near my phone.”

“That’s okay. I wanted to let you know I’m—”

I cut Beau off mid-sentence. “Hey, can I actually call you back?” I ask. I’m scrambling for any kind of excuse in my head to get him off the phone. To get him away.

To get him to send help.

It’s why I take a risk; I make a mistake.

“Mom surprised me by dropping in when I got home. We’re about to snuggle up on the couch and watch TV. Could I call you later?” My mind is officially joining the race with my heartbeat.

The second I say “Mom,” I realize how monumentally dumb it was.

If the masked man knows me—and surely he does, given he’s here—then he’ll know about the flood. He’ll know about my parents. He’ll know Mom has been gone for years, and as much as I’d love to snuggle up with her on the couch, that isn’t happening.

Then there’s Beau.

What if he wasn’t truly paying attention to my tale of woe about my parents’ passing? What if he doesn’t remember what I said?

What if hedoesand asks me what the heck I mean?

All of these questions and fears hit me harder than the man’s fist before.

My breath catches, and seconds feel like hours as I wait for Beau to respond.

Yet there’s no hesitation on his end. “Yeah, yeah. No problem,” he says. “My thing can wait. You can call me tomorrow when you’re up. It’s getting late anyway, and I think I’m going to hit the hay. Talk to you later, okay?”

I nod.

My heart hurts.

Beau doesn’t understand.

“Sounds good.” I want to say more but I don’t know what. Beau is at Blue Lolita, and the man’s knife is on the coffee table in front of me.

“Goodnight, Kissy.”

He ends the call, and I’m left with a terrifying reality.

The man puts my phone on the table next to his knife.

I now get to see what his plans are for me.

He angles his body down so he’s sitting opposite me, putting too much faith in the small table beneath him and its ability to hold his weight.

I want to shrink away from the new proximity, but with my wrists zip-tied together and my legs duct taped tight, the move feels like I’m giving up even more of my mobility.