Page 18 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

The man is still slamming his hips against her, still slamming her head against the ground, but she just smiles at me.

“It’s hysterical that you hate wanting me, August.” Another beguiling smile. “It’s hysterical because I’m your unicorn. I’m what you were looking for. It was always me. Nothing worked before because it was always me. And now all you can do is stand there.”

My body is tingling with need to grab this faceless mother fucker by the throat and snap his neck, but I still can’t move.

“All you can do is stand there,” she murmurs, her irises so white they appear translucent, “because you’re not enough for me either.”

The faceless man suddenly disappears like a wisp of smoke, leaving Scarlett’s body splayed out on the concrete, bloody and battered.

Only then am I able to move, and I slowly approach her. The short, red curls continue to spill into a deepening pool of blood around her, and I kneel down next to her. I cradle her pale, cold, corpse-like face in my hands. My thumbs and fingers streak her porcelain skin with blood, and I want to tell her I’m sorry, but that’s not what comes out of my mouth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Scarlett?”

“I’m your unicorn. But you’re not enough. You’ll never be enough, August.”

The words barely make it past her lips when their true meaning registers in my foggy brain, but then her long lashes flutter closed, and she goes silent, still, and limp against the concrete.

“Scarlett.”

The pool of blood expands around us, and I simply let go of her face. Backing away, I stare at what I let happen to her. A pang rattles my chest, but I continue retreating.

“I hope it’s worth it, Scarlett.”

What the fuck have I done?

No part of her moves, not even her lips, when her voice echoes through what seems like a chasm in the earth.

“Completely.”

My entire body jolts, and I’m suddenly sitting upright in my bed, which is pristine and empty, and the room is basked in darkness and pale moonlight. The sheets are tangled and damp with sweat.

I drop my head below my shoulders and scrub my hands over my face and through my hair. Bringing them to my line of sight, I honestly expect to see blood, but they’re clean.

“What the fuck…” I mumble, collapsing backward.

I stare at the ceiling until the light of dawn pours in through the windows.

* * *

“Are you feeling okay?”

I blink and glance sideways at Liza, who’s standing with Brennan a few feet from me at the edge of a tent at the Cajun Zydeco Festival, where a number of Frenchmen Street’s artists are slated to perform.

I offer an easy nod and a pleasant expression that belies how utterly exhausted I am. “Sure am. Why?”

Her brows draw together. “You look kinda tired.”

“Oh.” I shrug off her concern and peer at the overcast sky. “Well, the storm did keep me up a bit last night.”

Actually, more of the demented-as-fuck nightmares about me watching a faceless, psycho, shadow man fuck Scarlett todeathkept me up again last night. But nobody, least of allLizaandBrennan, needs to know about that, lest anyone realize that I am probably some kind of secret sociopath.

“Ah.” She offers a sage nod, and Brennan rubs her back before chiming in.

“Yeah, it was loud as hell last night.” He chuckles. “Get ready for hurricane season.”

I match his easy chuckle. “I’ve definitely been getting ready. I even have a few sandbags in waiting for the inevitable flooding I’ve been warned about.”

“It’s normally okay in the Quarter,” Liza adds. “It’s a bit higher elevation than other areas. You’ll be okay. Just put out your sandbags and stay home.” She snickers. “Get drunk and pass out. We call it a hurricane party.”

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