What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [88]
“Um, hi,” said Lola, offering a perfunctory wave. “Want some lemonade?”
“Shit!” The man jumped back.
At this point, it would not be unusual to be informed that the man in question “jumped a foot into the air.” In fact, however, most people who don’t play professional sports can’t jump anything like twelve inches off the ground. This particular redneck was no exception. He did jump, but he only cleared and inch or two, and most of his panic response was directed to his arms, which flailed about, waving his shotgun this way and that. He eventually got himself under control, and clutched the shotgun to his chest. This would have been a great move had he come armed with only, say, a teddy bear, but issn’t the sort of thing that is generally regarded as proper shotgun-attack protocol.
Lola’s smile was pleasant and comforting. She raised her eyebrows, as though she were awaiting an answer.
The man smiled back and let out a sigh of relief, he let the shotgun dangle by his side. “Well, yeah,” he said. “That’d be right nice.”
For a second, Lola’s jaw hung open as she stared at the man with the shotgun who had said that, yes, he would, in fact, like some lemonade. She quickly wiped the surprise off her face, replacing it with the same pleasant smile. But then nothing happened. And after a few seconds more, nothing continued to happen. Tension crept into her smile, and the muscles in her cheeks bulged as she clenched her jaw.
Liam, meanwhile, just sat and watched from behind his houseplant, causing nothing to happen. It was only a quick, sharp look from Lola that roused him to action.
His first two steps toward the man were fluid – almost languid – and completely silent. And then, just as quietly, he pounced. He snatched the gun, tossed it onto one of the couches, and grabbed the man’s wrist, which he twisted and pinned to the middle of the man’s back. Then he shoved the man forward, toppling him over the coffee table, and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt, pulling it back tight against his throat. Liam knelt on the small of the man’s back, bearing down with the full weight of his body.
Liam looked up at Lola. She scowled. If they had been in a relationship, it would have been clear to everyone in the room that Liam was unlikely to get any that evening, and quite possibly the next. But they weren’t, and so Liam just shrugged and dug his knee into the man’s back some more. The man made a pathetic mewing sound.
Liam leaned in and spoke into the man’s ear. “I’m going to let go of you. When I do, you will not try to escape. You will stand and do as I say. Understood?”
The man whimpered and nodded his head, inasmuch as it was possible to do so with his face wedged in between a coffee-table book and the nastier bits of a small statue that some artist had carved as a tribute to the virility of well-hung and ripped youths everywhere.
Lola scoffed. “They teach Jedi mind tricks in the CIA?”
Liam looked up. His eyes were deadly serious. “Go check on the others. Take the gun.”
“I have one already,” she said.
“Um, okay.” Liam shrugged. “Use yours instead.”
“I’m taking this one too,” she said.
Liam let out an exasperated burst of breath. “Whatever.”
“Fine,” said Lola. She picked up the shotgun and cracked it open to check if it was actually loaded, and stalked off to find the others.
Liam watched her leave, and then turned his attention to the redneck he’d pinned to the table.
“Ready?”
The man nodded, and then added, “Ow. Ow. Ow.” The position of his arm relative to his body would have made Gumby uncomfortable.
Liam stood and stepped back. The man got up, shook his arm out a bit, and then glanced around casually as if he were just a visitor checking out the décor.
“Okay. Walk.” The man turned and nodded. Liam