Hold Him Like Gravity (Lombardi Family #4)

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Kick

“Listen, I’m back to work today,” I told Evander as he ate his breakfast and I sipped my coffee. I opted to skip a sad breakfast of freezer burnt off-brand waffles, deciding the free shift meal would be worth the hunger pangs leading up to it. “So you can’t be out on the fire escape shrieking at any hour of the day, okay? I will be back at eight. You can come in then.”

Evander flicked his tail in, I pretended, agreement before I went about gathering my things to head out.

By the time I was ready, Evander was already at the window, watching something on the ground below. A rat, I imagined.

“Careful out there, bud,” I said as I slid open the window. “Some of those rats are twice your size,” I added as he rushed out and down.

It felt odd to be back to a normal schedule after a week of, well, complete and utter sloth. I meant to get to know the area, get some chores done, do all the stuff I didn’t get a chance to when I was working.

I ended up eating junk in front of the TV and sleeping.

I was choosing not to beat myself up too much about it, though, since I’d been through a lot the past year. I deserved a little break.

I’m not proud to admit that anticipation was sizzling across my nerve endings as I rounded the corner of Lombardi Premium Meats. It had very little to do with being excited to get back to work, to spend time with my coworkers, or even to see the renovations. And everything to do with the man who’d been starring in my sweaty dreams. Despite some serious usage of my new vibrator that had only seemed to manage to increase my sex drive, not abate it.

The meat shop had been… kind of dated before the renovations. Lots of cement, old, mismatched display cases and snack shelves.

So walking into work was like stepping into a whole new store.

The walls and ceiling were redone in shiny white tile squares with dark grout that would be so much easier to clean than the previous painted walls. I could probably get a wall mop and make the task just take a couple of minutes.

The floors that had been cement, worn, and stained from generations of feet walking over it was replaced by faux wood tile flooring. Up near the counter, though, the wood tiles were broken up with warm cream tiles, giving it a kind of modern-vintage diamond look.

The display cases that had been those big, unsightly ones with rounded fronts under the glass were all replaced by neat straight black cases with pristine glass.

Even the meat slicers were shiny and new.

The cash register straight out of the nineties with all the writing on the buttons blurry from use was gone, replaced with a 1920’s style brass cash register, but it had a nice touchscreen set in the front to make life for all of us behind the counter easier.

Even the boards for the menu and specials were new. Gone were the blackboards the guys made me write on because they claimed I had the best penmanship. In their place were digital screens that could, I imagine, be much more easily updated.

“Whatcha think, ma?” Ricky, my manager, a walking, talking HR nightmare, but in the sweetest way possible, asked as the bell announced my presence, making him look up from where he was stocking the sausages into the case.

“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “New uniforms?” I asked, spotting his black t-shirt with the company logo on the front.

“Yep. Better than those white chef coat things we had to wear before. They’re in a box in the back. No one’s gonna be fighting over your baby sizes,” he said, shooting me a smirk.

Ricky had probably been a real ladies’ man in his day. But now, he was a married guy with four teenagers and a wife who was constantly on his ass about losing a few pounds because his blood pressure was out of control.

He called me every kind of pet name that would have him out on his ass in any other company and asked far too many personal questions of all his subordinates.

But we all adored him.

So did the customers.

“Is everything else still the same?” I asked, waving down at my black jeans and sneakers.

“Yeah. Wear what you got. They mostly just see us from the waist up anyway.”

I didn’t expect for the back to be very different.

But instead of walking straight into the butchering room with the drain in the floor, I was diverted to a small room running alongside it. You could still see in that room, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling acrylic walls it was now enclosed in, but this allowed for there to be a tiny little employee room.

The same tile wood floor and white tile walls followed me back there. Sitting on a stainless steel prep station was a box full of t-shirts. I found my size and snatched them all up since, Ricky was right, no one else would fit in them.

Turning, I saw that we all had gotten little lockers to store our stuff in.

“Nice,” I said, seeing my name on one of the labels.

“You approve?” a voice asked, making my spine do that shiver thing again.

Even as I heard him, I smelled that cigar and woodsmoke scent I associated with him.

Did I take a deep breath? Yes, yes, I did.

But then I turned, shooting him what I hoped was a friendly smile. “It’s amazing,” I told him, meaning it. “It’s going to be much easier to clean this way,” I added, shoving my purse and my extra tees into my little square locker.

Then I reached down to pull off my current shirt.

Did Rico’s eyes widen? Or was that just wishful thinking?

I wasn’t stripping in front of my boss. No matter how much I may have wanted to do just that. I had a tank top on under my shirt. But it did show off a satisfying amount of skin. And I got to watch Rico’s gaze slip there, see his eyes go heavy-lidded for a second before he caught himself and looked away.

“These are nice t-shirts too,” I said as I slipped it on, reaching down to shove the hem into the waistband of my pants.

“Figured it made more sense to spend on quality shit that will last than have to keep re-buying the cheap ones.”

“I stole all of them in my size,” I told him.

“Got ‘em all for you,” he said, shrugging it off.

He looked like he was about to say something when the door to my side opened, bringing in that blue-haired, dainty little woman I’d seen around more than a few times.

“We need to talk,” she told Rico, making him nod and move in her direction to the hall around the butchering room to, I figured, his office.

Jealousy, hot and intense, surged through my belly and up my chest before I even knew it existed as I imagined Rico with that woman. Saff, I think I heard someone call her once.

Was that his type?

I hated the way I immediately started comparing our faces, our bodies. Saff was short. I was not that short. She had thick thighs. Mine were, you know, average. She was kind of flatter on top. I’d always kind of taken some pride in my boobs. But we both had feminine faces and dyed hair. She…

“God, stop,” I grumbled at myself as I slammed my locker shut.

If that was who he liked, that was who he liked. There was no reason to compare two attractive women based on someone else’s preferences.

So I tried to think of anything else as I helped Ricky prep the shop for opening. Then, blessedly, it was a line out of the door for hours, making it impossible to think of anything but the work.

It was coming up on closing when things finally died down, giving me time to start really scrubbing down the place.

“I’m gonna take the garbage out to the trash,” Ricky, the only other employee left, told me as he lifted a black bag out of the trash next to the register.

“Okay. I should be done by the time you’re back,” I said as I finished with the last slicer.

“Good. Fucking back is killing me. Got used to not being on my feet all day,” he said as he walked into the back.

The door didn’t close behind him, meaning he’d likely propped it open with a milk crate so I didn’t have to let him back in.

So I’d heard the slam when it happened.

But I’d just assumed, stupidly, that he’d accidentally missed the top of the dumpster and the trash whacked into the side or something.

Until the front door opened, the happy little bells jingling—a feature I was glad Rico had kept after the renovation.

“Sorry. We’re closed. We open tomorrow at ten a.m.,” I called without looking up.

That was my second stupid move.

It wasn’t until I heard footsteps coming from the back, several of them, that my stomach dropped and my head snapped up.

Then there they were.

Two guys.

Tall, solid, all in black.

Including the ski masks on their faces and the gloves on their hands.

“Shit,” I hissed, rushing backward until I remembered the other footsteps.

Turning, two more men were approaching from the back.

“Open the fucking register,” one of them demanded even as I backed myself up against it.

Not because of fear, per se. Though, I’ll admit that adrenaline was surging through my system, making my heart punch against my ribcage and my hands go sweaty. But because near the register is where Ricky kept a bat.

I’d never seen him actually use it, but he claimed that there were a few times he’d needed to ‘knock some skulls.’

The logic of a hold-up at an establishment is to just… do what they want. Open the register. Give them the money. The insurance would take care of it.

That logic didn’t account for the fear of other things that could happen to a woman alone at a shop at night with four masked men.

I didn’t care about the money.

Clearly, Rico had it if he was dropping all kinds of money on renovations and new uniforms.

I wanted to protect myself from getting gang-raped at my own freaking workplace.

“She’s going for something,” one of them said.

And just a second later, pain screamed across my scalp as someone grabbed me by the ponytail, yanking me backward, then tossing me to the side, making me collide hard enough with the counter that it knocked out my breath.

“Just a bat,” one of the others said.

But that didn’t seem to be good enough for the guy who’d grabbed me.

He reached for me again, this time around the throat, hauling me closer by it as my chest started to hurt and my face got fuzzy.

“Stupid fucking bitch. Open the goddamn register and maybe I won’t bruise that pretty face of yours.”

Okay.

Alright.

Maybe I should just open the register, give them the money, and try to run out the back door while they were distracted by grabbing the cash.

Decision made, I gave him a nod, and he released my neck, but grabbed my shoulder instead, shoving me forward so hard that I lost my footing, falling forward too quickly even to brace myself, making me clip my lip on the corner of the cash register before falling to the floor.

“Christ,” the man snarled, grabbing me by the back of my shirt and dragging me back to my feet as blood flooded my mouth from my split lip.

I ran my tongue instinctively against my teeth, testing them for looseness. Finding none, I tried to ignore the pain and drip of blood as I reached toward the register, tapping at the screen with shaky fingers, messing up my employee passcode once before getting it right, making the cash drawer slide open with a festive little ching .

“Empty this shit,” the man behind me said, grabbing me by the neck again, and pulling me away from the register. “Where’s the safe?” he snarled in my ear.

“Um, under here,” I said, pointing down, only to realize that the new refrigerated display case didn’t feature a spot for the safe. “It was there,” I said, hating the wobble in my voice.

“Show me the office,” he demanded, grabbing me by the back of my collar, keeping me close to him as he turned to his buddies. “We’re going into the office. Don’t interrupt us,” he said, the words and the tone making dread flood my belly, had bile rising up my throat. “I’ll letcha know when it’s your turn,” he added, making a sobbing sound form at the base of my throat, but I choked it back.

It was going to be okay.

I had a chance to fight one of these guys off, then rush out the back door before his buddies came to see what was going on. This was my only chance to get away.

So I sucked in a steadying breath and forced my legs to carry me down the alley, around the acrylic-enclosed room, then around into the office.

It had been slightly redone. New floor. Fresh paint. The stained ceiling tile was replaced. But, otherwise, it was the same as before.

I did spot the safe under the desk, though.

Before I could point it out, the door was kicked closed behind my attacker, his hand was going to my hip as he walked me forward toward the desk.

Before I could guess his intentions, his hand went to the center of my back, forcing me to bend over the desk.

He moved in behind me, his intentions clear, pressing against my ass, and making my stomach clench hard.

“You know, I don’t mind if you scream,” he said, his one hand holding my neck against the desk while the other went to the waistband of my jeans.

I was suddenly thankful I wore jeans, not yoga pants like usual, to work. Because despite pulling, he couldn’t make the pants budge as he yanked at them.

I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, and before I could even think it through, my hand was shooting out and closing around the pen.

My attacker got frustrated enough to release his hold of my neck, wanting his second hand to try to pull down my pants.

But before he could reach for me again, I whipped around, raising my hand to plunge the pen right into his eye like all the personal protection experts said to do.

I remember that those same experts claimed the biggest problem women faced when trying to fend off an attacker was actually doing damage to them, like there was some innate part of us that didn’t want to hurt anyone.

I was, apparently, an anomaly.

I didn’t hesitate.

My stomach didn’t twist at the idea of what I was about to do.

A lifetime of being a small girl in a big, bad city had taught me that no one would ever show me any mercy. So I damn sure wasn’t going to show any toward someone who was trying to harm me.

But before I could aim true, my attacker brought his arm up, deflecting the blow, while raising his other hand, and backhanding me across the cheek so hard that my body flew to the side then crashed down onto the ground.

I managed to brace my fall with my knees and palms, but the pain still shot up through my shoulders and hips.

It was quickly wiped away, though, when the man’s boot-clad shoe landed a kick to my lower stomach, sending me sprawling onto my back, knocking my air out once again.

But he was coming, angry that I’d tried to fight back.

He’d make me pay for it, I knew, if I didn’t get away from him.

I brought my legs up into my chest, then threw them out with everything in me.

They landed with a satisfying amount of force.

But too low.

Landing mid-thigh.

Only managing to piss him off, not actually hurt him.

Damnit.

I drew them back to kick out again, but he reached for them, grabbing each ankle in vice grips, then pressing them back into my chest as he lowered down, as he leaned over me.

“I like a little fight,” he said, those piercing blue eyes glaring at me from the holes in his ski mask.

Yanking my legs down, he pinned each with his thighs.

The pain shot through me but the fear momentarily numbed me to it as his hands went to my button and zipper.

“No!” I yelled, punching, clawing, wriggling.

“ Yes ,” he said as I felt his fingers on my belly after he got my zipper down.

“No!” I screamed louder, trying to move. But he was so much bigger than me.

“Hey,” another voice said as a body appeared behind my attacker. “Hey, we got to go.”

“When I’m done,” my attacker said as he yanked my pants down slightly. But with the way he had my thighs pinned, he couldn’t get them down more.

“No, now,” the other guy said, reaching out to grab my attacker’s shoulder, the move causing his sleeve to slide up.

And making my blood go cold as I saw the tattoo on his inner arm.

“There’s a silent alarm. She tripped it,” the other guy said, lying through his teeth. There was no silent alarm. At least not that I knew of. And I damn sure didn’t trip anything.

“Fucking bitch,” my attacker snarled, reaching down in his rage to land a punch to my cheek.

Tears flooded my eyes involuntarily as the pain ricocheted across my whole face.

“Ruining my fucking fun,” he added.

“Let’s go ,” the other guy demanded, half dragging his buddy across the room until they were out of the office.

I lay there for a long moment, too in shock to move, even to close and lock the door, as the footsteps retreated.

The bells chimed in the front as they, I imagined, made their way out.

Still, I couldn’t seem to make myself move.

To check on Ricky.

To call the police.

To do anything.

But no more than five minutes later, I heard the bells again.

Then a familiar voice, sounding different with a hint of panic to it.

“Kick!” Rico called. “Kick!” he called again, voice getting closer.

Then, there he was.

And I somehow knew it was all going to be okay.