“Yes. I had an estimator come in before I took over holdings on the building. It should be sufficient to get us up and running again.”
He nodded. “That’s good.”
Hope blazed to life.
I shifted to the edge of the chair. “You can see we have the profit and loss estimates on page thirteen. With the reputation of the diner, I was told I could expect profits to exceed the loss within a year. It will give me plenty for the upkeep of the diner, a modest salary for myself, and the ability to pay the loan each month.”
Okay, maybe it was a bit of a stretch. I’d be riding a fine line. But I was willing to put in the extra work.
Studying that page, he rubbed his chin. “Estimates are estimates, Ms. Dayne. There’s no guarantee customers will be rushing back to the diner.”
That hope fizzled a little, but I pulled it together, prepared for this type of resistance. “I wouldn’t consider my situation atypical. Most small businesses begin with a loan, just the same as I’m seeking from this bank. And most start-ups don’t already have a name behind them. We have a built-in customer base, and with the hotel going in across the street, there will be hundreds of hungry people in front of my restaurant every single day.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and I smiled back eagerly. He flipped the folder closed and rocked back in his seat, threading his fingers together. “I’ll tell you what . . .”
“Yes?” I edged forward more just as he leaned over his desk, unable to stop myself from mimicking his posture, those dreams I’d once held now dangling right out in front of me like a carrot.
His voice lowered as he leaned even closer. “We discuss this over dinner and you can show me just how badly you want this loan.”
Something sinister had infiltrated those words.
Something dark and vulgar.
The hairs at my nape prickled in a sickening kind of awareness.
“Excuse me?” I asked, barely able to speak.
“You look like a smart woman, Ms. Dayne. I think you’re playing coy again.”
Every sleazy memory of him came rushing back, the arrogant man who didn’t know how to take no for an answer and thought women should bow at his feet. But this was his job. Was he really going there?
“I think you need to demonstrate just how good you are.” Every word was packed with innuendo. “Show me why I should recommend this loan for approval.”
He cocked his head. The man with all the power. My dreams held hostage in his filthy paws.
Nausea turned my insides.
“So you’re saying I have to go out with you in order for you to recommend my application be approved?”
He glanced over my shoulder toward the closed door before his seedy gaze returned to me. “Call it a business exchange.”
“You can’t . . . that isn’t legal.” I was floundering, looking behind me to the closed door. Praying by some miracle someone was standing there and could vouch for this insanity.
Because he was out of his mind.
“I’m merely asking for a meeting, Ms. Dayne.” His intentions were so much more than a meeting.
And I wondered how many meetings this vile man had held over his client’s heads. No doubt, I wasn’t the first.
Stunned, I climbed to my feet. Memories of Aaron ripped through my head. The manipulation. I would never allow it again. “You are unbelievable. I would rather work every hour for the rest of my life to save the money to reopen my grandmother’s restaurant than degrade myself with you.”
He rocked back in that massive chair that was almost as big as his head. “All I asked for was proof of how much you wanted this loan, Ms. Dayne. I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”
I sneered. “And you are nothing but a liar. For the record, I want that loan more than anything. I’d just rather die than let you touch me.”
Wrenching open the door, I flew out into the hall. Fury rose to the top of the tangle of emotions he had me in, my instincts kicking in.
Timothy Roth had messed with the wrong girl.
I was going right around this obstacle. Deviating course. Going straight to the top and reporting him.
I would see to it that Timothy Roth would never manipulate another woman sitting in his office again.
It was late Friday afternoon when there was a knock at my door. A shiver of nerves rocked through me, but I forced them down, refusing the insecurities that kept trying to creep back into my consciousness.
I crossed the living room and peered into the peephole, frowning when I could only make out the arm of a man wearing a dress shirt.
Warily, I unlocked the door and cracked it open, a crest of unease washing over me.
Unease that hadn’t been in vain.
I should have listened to my gut.
Just like my gramma had always told me.
I tried to slam the door shut when I saw the angry, twisted features of the man looming on the other side.
It was the same second I hit a wall of fear.
Or maybe I toppled headfirst into a vat of it.
Because it swallowed me. Saturating every inch. Every cell. Every fiber.
Screaming, I turned my back to the door and planted my feet against the floor. I pushed back as hard as I could.
“I already called the police. They’re on their way.”
Lies. Lies I prayed would break through his derangement. Because I’d been right. Timothy Roth was insane. Just in an entirely different way than I’d ever imagined.
Blood sloshed in my ears and terror slogged through my veins.
A steady thwump, thwump, thwump.
Liquid metal.
Heavy.
Too much.
Panic and fear.
No. No. No.
The threat did nothing to deter him. The door banged open an inch before I was bearing down again. With all my might. With all the fight I had in me. The latch so close to catching.
His voice seeped like venom through the crack he made. “You fucking bitch. You fucking bitch whore. I’ll kill you for what you did. I know it was you. You ruined my life, you stupid bitch, and you are going to pay.”
Fingers were in the frame, forcing it open.
Adrenaline and anguish. I screamed with them as I shifted a fraction. I rammed into the door with my shoulder.
I gave it everything I had.
The pain of it nearly split me in two.
But sometimes wills and physical strength were two different things.
Because he kicked the door, sending it crashing against the interior wall.
I flew to the floor.
Tim pushed his way inside, a menace that cast a shadow on my grandmother’s house as he stepped toward me. I slid back across the floor, the bare skin of my thigh chaffing against the carpet.
Sobbing.
Hating that I couldn’t stop the terror from taking hold.
Hating the words that fumbled from my mouth.
That I pled.
That I begged.
“Please. No. Oh, God, please, I’ll do anything.”
Anything.
Because it was the brutal truth of the horrible matter.
I wouldn’t rather die than let Timothy Roth touch me.
20
Rex
I was going to lose my fuckin’ head. I stormed through my kitchen, raking my fingers through my hair like it might stand the chance of calming me down.
Frankie was having her usual Friday night sleepover at my mom’s, and I was supposed to be heading out to meet up with Kale to grab a bite to eat, after which no doubt we’d end up at the bar so we could hang out with Ollie for a few hours.
But there I was.
Fuming.
I had no claim. No right to think of that girl as mine. That didn’t mean my heart and body and mind weren’t screaming it when the piece of shit who’d been giving her a hard time at Olive’s a few weeks back pulled into her driveway. When he stumbled out of his shiny silver Mercedes and staggered up the inclined bank toward the deck steps.
What the hell was she thinking? Messing around with that scumbag?
My brain spun with a shit-ton of possibilities I didn’t want to entertain.
Had she gone back to the bar on a night I hadn’t been there and run into this douche and decided to give it a go? Had she given him her number that night? Had something been going on all along?
No. I knew better than that. There was no chance she’d been fucking around with him before I’d been a complete bastard and pushed her away.