I kept the baseball bat loose in my grip, watching both men for tells. Tattoo Neck favored his left leg. Old injury, probably. Scarred Knuckles kept flexing his right hand. Overconfident in his power.
"Look, kid," Tattoo Neck said, stepping into my apartment. "We don't want to hurt you. Mrs. Bennett just wants to have a conversation."
"She knows where I live. She can call."
"You don't take calls from Mrs. Bennett. You answer them."
Scarred Knuckles moved to flank me. Basic intimidation tactic. Corner the target, make him feel trapped.
"Here's how this works," I said calmly. "You gentlemen are going to turn around and walk out of my apartment."
They both laughed.
"Or what?" Scarred Knuckles asked. "You'll hit us with your little bat?"
"Something like that."
I swung the bat in a tight arc, catching Scarred Knuckles across the knee. He dropped like a stone, howling.
Tattoo Neck reached for something inside his jacket. I reversed the bat and drove the handle into his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping.
"First mistake was underestimating me," I told them. "Second was breaking into my home."
Scarred Knuckles tried to get up. I tapped his shoulder with the bat. Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to keep him down.
"Tell Mrs. Bennett that Noah Lancaster doesn't come when called anymore."
I stepped over both men and walked out of my ruined apartment.
Time to disappear.
---
Three hours later, I was checking into a motel on the outskirts of Queens. Twenty-eight dollars a night, cash only, no questions asked. The desk clerk barely looked up from his magazine when I signed the register with a fake name.
Room 147 smelled like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The bed sagged in the middle, and the television only got basic cable. Perfect.
I lay down and stared at the water-stained ceiling. Tomorrow night, the Bennetts would celebrate Old Mrs. Bennett's eightieth birthday. The entire family would gather at their favorite restaurant, probably the Marriott downtown. They'd drink expensive wine and tell stories about their grandfather's business empire.
And they'd wait for me to show up so they could humiliate me one final time.
Except I wouldn't be there.
My phone buzzed. Text message from an unknown number: *Change of plans. You're working tomorrow night. Special delivery. Don't disappoint us.*
I stared at the message. The number wasn't one I recognized, but the tone was familiar. Threatening. Entitled.
Another message arrived: *Marriott Hotel. 7 PM sharp. Ask for the Bennett party.*
My blood went cold.
They'd found another way to get to me.
I dialed the number for Ubereats dispatch. A bored voice answered on the third ring.
"Yeah?"
"This is Noah Lancaster, driver ID 4427. I need to know who requested a special delivery for tomorrow night."
"Hold on." I heard typing. "Says here it was requested by Owen Murphy, general manager. High-priority delivery to the Marriott Hotel downtown."
Owen Murphy. I'd never heard the name before, but clearly he'd heard mine.
"What's the delivery?"
"Birthday cake. Needs to be there by seven sharp. No delays."
A birthday cake for the Bennett party. How convenient.
"I can't make that delivery. I'm sick."
"Can't help you there, pal. Murphy specifically requested you for this job. Says you know the family."
Of course he did.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you're fired. Murphy was very clear about that."
I hung up the phone and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor in pieces.
They'd trapped me. Either show up for their ambush or lose my job. And without my job, I had no income. No way to pay rent. No way to eat.
The Bennetts had played this perfectly.
I picked up the broken pieces of my phone and tried to put them back together. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.
One new message: *See you tomorrow night. Don't keep us waiting.*
---
The next evening, I stood outside the Marriott Hotel holding a white cake box. Through the glass doors, I could see the lobby filled with well-dressed people. The Bennett family and their friends, gathered to celebrate Old Mrs. Bennett's milestone birthday.
And to witness my final humiliation.
A banner hung across the lobby: "Happy 80th Birthday, Grace Bennett." Gold balloons floated near the ceiling. A string quartet played classical music in the corner.
This was definitely a trap.
I could turn around right now. Walk away. Let them fire me from a job that barely paid enough to survive.
But then what? Start over somewhere else? Run for the rest of my life?
No. I was done running.
I pulled out my phone and called Ubereats dispatch.
"This is Noah Lancaster. I'm at the Marriott Hotel with the Bennett delivery, but I'm not going inside."
"What do you mean you're not going inside?"
"I mean I'm standing on the sidewalk. If they want their cake, they can come get it."
"You can't do that! Murphy specifically said—"
"Murphy can specifically kiss my ass."
I hung up and waited.
Five minutes later, the hotel doors opened. Owen Murphy emerged first, a thin man in an expensive suit with nervous eyes and sweaty palms. Behind him came the Bennett family.
Old Mrs. Bennett herself, leaning on a silver cane but moving with purpose. Victor Bennett, her oldest son, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Margaret Bennett, Victor's wife, wearing enough jewelry to fund a small country.
And bringing up the rear, limping slightly from our encounter the night before, Liam Bennett.
"Well, well," Owen Murphy said, approaching me with a fake smile. "You must be Noah Lancaster."
"And you must be the asshole who set this up."
His smile faltered. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
Old Mrs. Bennett stepped forward. Even at eighty, she commanded attention. Her silver hair was perfectly styled, her dress probably cost more than my car, and her eyes held the kind of cold intelligence that had built empires.
"Noah," she said in a voice like aged whiskey. "How nice to finally meet you properly."
"Is it?"
"Oh yes. We have so much to discuss."
She gestured toward the hotel entrance. "Shall we go inside? I've reserved a private dining room."
"I'm comfortable right here."
"I'm sure you are. But I'm not."
The string quartet's music drifted through the glass doors. Other hotel guests were starting to stare at our little gathering on the sidewalk.
"You see," Mrs. Bennett continued, "I've heard such interesting stories about you."
"Have you?"
"Oh yes. Stories about late-night phone calls. Secret meetings. Credit card charges at expensive hotels."
She was fishing. Trying to get me to confirm or deny Chloe's affairs.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." Her smile was razor-sharp. "But perhaps we could discuss it inside? Where we have more privacy?"
"I said I'm comfortable here."
Owen Murphy stepped closer. "Look, Lancaster, you're creating a scene. Just deliver the cake and—"
"Shut up," I told him.
His face went red. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Shut up and stay out of this."
Victor Bennett finally spoke up. "Now see here, young man. You can't talk to Mr. Murphy that way. He's trying to help you."
"Help me? He set up this whole charade to embarrass me."
"That's ridiculous," Margaret Bennett chimed in. "We simply wanted to celebrate Mother's birthday with a proper cake."
"Then why did you specifically request me to deliver it?"
The family exchanged glances. Owen Murphy's face went from red to pale.
"Because," Old Mrs. Bennett said slowly, "we wanted to give you one last chance."
"Chance for what?"
"To do the right thing."
She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her expensive perfume.
"You see, Noah, I know exactly what kind of man you are. I know about your gambling debts. Your drinking. Your complete inability to provide for my granddaughter."
"Do you?"
"I also know about Chloe's... indiscretions."
There it was. The real reason for this public confrontation.
"And what do you know about those?"
"I know that she's made mistakes. But I also know that marriage requires forgiveness."
"Does it?"
"Yes. And I'm prepared to make you a very generous offer."
She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope.
"Fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Enough to pay off your debts and start fresh somewhere else."
"In exchange for what?"
"A quiet divorce. No scandal. No lawyers. No public airing of dirty laundry."
I looked at the envelope in her manicured hands. Fifty thousand dollars. More money than I'd ever seen at one time.
"And if I refuse?"
Her smile turned predatory.
"Then things become very unpleasant for you, Mr. Lancaster."