“Where’s the other one?” I demand. He sets my bag next to my desk and leans against my closet, arms crossed. “The other what?” “The other—” Shit, I don’t know what to call it. Is it a stack, a strap, a roll? “The other m-money.” “Ah,” he says sympathetically, “the offer on the hand job expired. You took too long to make up your mind, so now, if you need cash, you’ll have to earn it on your knees.”
Terrifying
