Swifty has had enough. “That’s it, get the ball gag,” he orders.
I continue singing, commanding my voice not to tremble at the mention of a ball gag. What the fuck, dudes? Don’t these guys, like, invest in cowboy bandanas? Would that not suffice to shut me up?
“Swifty, I didn’t bring the ball gag. You were supposed to bring the ball gag.”
I’d really love for them to stop talking about ball gags now.
Swifty finally hauls off and backhands me before continuing to argue with his partner in crime.
Pain erupts across my cheek, and I think I feel my brain rattle inside my skull for half a second.
“Dude,” I moan.
Swifty gets right up close to my face and points with one thick, dirt-encrusted finger. “Nobody. Sings. Tay-Tay. Off-key.”
I’m about to complain that I’m deeply hurt and offended by that critique when the service door to the garage is suddenly rattled by a massive wind gust outside and is thrown completely off its hinges.
Swifty and Coyote spin around at the ear-splitting sound of buckling and crashing metal and glass, and I look on to see that the source of this incident is not the wind at all.
Standing there like a fucking Sasquatch silhouette set against a hazy pink and orange sunset is Crosby. With two katanas strapped to his back, Ninja Turtle style.
My heart nearly explodes.
“Crosby, watch out!”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Crosby produces a set of nunchucks.
I watch open-mouthed as the man bleats out the most terrifying battle cry I’ve ever heard—granted, more of a screech—and charges at Swifty and Coyote.
What the hell am I watching? He told me…he told me he doesn’t remember any of his taekwondo from childhood.
And yet, here he is.
I watch the subsequent events play out as if in slow motion. Crosby doesn’t even seem to see me at first; his eyes are filled with nothing but a predatory ferocity as he swings his weapon from one hand to the other.
What I once thought was the stupidest weapon ever invented by boys now makes perfect sense. The chained batons make a wild-sounding whooshing in the air, and it’s genuinely terrifying. They also create a sort of force field. Nobody can get close to him without getting pummeled, and he doesn’t even have to aim at anyone.
As soon as Swifty draws his weapon, Crosby roars and lunges forward, swinging the nunchucks like a madman.
By luck, magic, or skill, Crosby knocks the handgun right out of Swifty’s grip and breaks Swifty’s hand in the process. The snap and crunch of bones turn my stomach yet rouse my spirit.
The bigger of the two, Coyote is slower on the draw but meaner. He lurches forward with the knife, aimed right at Crosby’s middle, just as Crosby’s wild swinging leaves his midsection unprotected.
I cry out and close my eyes. A loud clang is followed by a thud and a groan. Something has lodged itself in the arm of the chair.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the knife’s blade, stuck in the wood, having taken a piece of my blouse with it. I suck in a breath, realizing how close I’ve just come to getting stabbed.
I look at the ground, and there is Swifty, unconscious, with a great big goose egg forming on his bald head.
As for Coyote, Crosby has him pinned to the floor, one katana unsheathed and resting malevolently on his neck.
“Babe?” I say, unable to control the wobble in my voice.
Crosby finally looks at me—really looks at me.
“Kitten.” His breath is heaving, and he looks and sounds like he just ran a marathon.
As sirens blare in the distance, I have to laugh. “I thought you said you never got involved with guys who kidnap women.”