“What did I tell you, T? You don’t say my fucking name to any fucking one,” Duncan barked.
“Pfft. She’s my sister,” she said, flipping open a pizza box and pulling out a slice. “If I can’t tell her, who can I tell?”
Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose. A move I’d seen my father and Knox make. I wondered if all Witt women had this effect on men.
“This ain’t ladies’ night out, woman,” Duncan reminded her. “This is business.”
“It’s business after you pay up. You lost. I won. Cough up the cash.”
I didn’t think it was the best idea to taunt the man holding the gun, but Tina did what Tina always did—whatever she wanted to do regardless of the consequences.
“Put it on my tab,” the man said, continuing to study me. He brought the barrel of the gun up to scratch his temple.
“I don’t think that’s a safe way to handle a firearm,” I interjected.
He studied me for several seconds then his face broke into a mean grin. “That’s funny. You’re funny.”
Great. Now he was pointing the gun at me like it was a finger.
“Fuck your tab, Dunc. Gimmie the cash,” Tina insisted.
“Where’s Waylay?” I demanded.
“Oh, yeah. Where’s the kid?” Tina asked, glancing around.
Duncan’s grin got wider and meaner. With his boot, he gave the chair next to him a kick. It rolled across the floor, the seat slowly spinning to face us.
“Mmmph mmm!”
Waylay, wearing pajamas and sneakers, was gagged and tied to the chair. She looked mutinous, her expression mirroring her mother’s. Waylon was sitting in her lap. His tail thumped when he spotted me.
I forgot all about being scared and almost felt sorry for the red-headed moron. If Tina or I didn’t kill him for tying up Waylay, Knox would for stealing his dog.
“Why is she tied up?” Tina demanded.
Duncan shrugged and used the barrel of the gun to scratch an itch between his shoulder blades. “Little bitch called me a dickweasel and tried to kick me in the balls. Fuckin’ bit me too,” he said, holding up his forearm to show off the bandage.
“Well, were you bein’ a dickweasel?” my sister asked, crossing her arms.
Waylay, eyes narrowed, nodded vehemently.
“Me?” He pointed the gun at his chest, all innocence. “I just told her not to eat another piece of pizza, else she’d get fat, and no one likes fat chicks.”
Tina stomped over and drilled a finger into his chest. “You don’t tell my kid about getting fat. That shit goes to a girl’s head. Body dysmorphia and shit like that.”
I was impressed.
“Bitches are so sensitive,” Duncan said to me as if he could expect my agreement.
“Give me my money and untie her,” Tina demanded.
I couldn’t help but notice the order of her priorities and tabled my newfound respect for my sister.
Exasperated, I started toward Waylay. Waylon scrambled off her lap and tried to approach but was stopped by his leash.
“Uh-uh. One more step, and we’re gonna have a problem, Not Tina.” The warning was accompanied by the racking of a gun as Duncan came to his feet.
I glared at him. “My name is Naomi.”
“Don’t care if your name is Queen Latifah. I need you to stand right where you are.” He gestured with the gun. “Now, Waylay—whatever the fuck kind of name that is—where’s the fucking flash drive? You got ten seconds to tell me, or I’m gonna shoot your aunt right between the eyes.”
The cigarette in Tina’s mouth fell to the floor as she gaped at him. “The fuck? That wasn’t part of the plan, you asshole!”
“You shut your mouth, or I’ll drop you next to your sister. Hey! What’s sadder than a dead twin? Two dead twins!” Duncan howled at his own feeble humor.
“You dirty double-crosser,” Tina snarled.
He stopped laughing. “Now hold on there, T. I ain’t double-crossed you yet. I meant what I said. We can take the drive, sell it and start building something real. Something that’s got nothing to do with my fuckin’ dad or the fuckin’ family business!” His arms flailed, the barrel of the gun pointing everywhere at once.
“Could you please gesticulate without the gun?” I suggested.
“Christ. Again with the daddy issues,” Tina scoffed at Duncan. “My daddy is a big-time crime lord. It’s so hard to live up to his example. Boo-friggin-hoo.”