Page 22 of Bad Blood
I straighten my dress and stand as tall as my five-foot-six frame in five-inch heels will allow.
“Why am I here?”
It’s a question we both know the answer to it, but when there's a sticky moment, I tend to run my mouth off, and it’s usually a sprint toward trouble.
“Why doyouthink you’re here?” he says slowly.
His voice is like the darkest richest chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted, only to find it stuffed with Carolina Reaper chilis after the first chew. He has an accent too, and it’s one I’m trying very hard not to place in case it lets the fear back in.
“Because you’re impressed with my blackjack skills?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he tilts his head to cover every inch of my body with those terrifying dark eyes.
If hate had a name, he owns the copyright. I’ve never seen so much antipathy in a man’s expression.
In turn, I can feel my own force shield of hostility coming into play. Yes, I screwed up, but he doesn't have to do the whole Miami Vice interrogation thing on me. I'd rather take my chances with the cops.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,sir,” I say, taking a couple of steps toward him. “But isn’t it customary to sitbehindyour desk in an office environment, instead of against it?”
His lips don’t even twitch. “It all depends on the type of business. Paperwork necessitates chairs. Reprimanding a thief requires something a little moreinventive.”
My stomach drops. I know a threat when I hear it.
“What’s your name?”
“Mickey Mouse,” I blurt out. “But only on the weekends. What’s yours?”
“Don’t play stupid games with me. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
He scoffs. “Maldita mentirosa.Show me some ID.”
“I amnota fucking liar”As far as he knows.“And that might be tricky,” I say, glaring at him. “Considering your security just walked off with my purse.”
“Stealing is a contagious disease,muñeca.”
“But easily explainable if you’re innocent in the first place,” I lie, bristling at his contempt.Doll?I’m not his damn doll. I’m half Colombian, which means I’m fluent in Spanish and bullshit names from men who refuse to tell me theirs.
“We’ll see about that.” He pushes off from his desk and walks toward the door, blasting me as he passes with a scent-rush of spice, cedarwood, and sinister, and an overriding sense that there’s a subtext here I’m still not grasping. “RJ,” I hear him bellow into the hallway. “Get me her purse.”
There’s a flash of silver as it’s handed over to him, and then the door slams shut again.
Seconds tick as he makes his way back to me, dangling my purse between his fingers like it’s something repellent.
Firing his scornful gaze into mine, he upends the entire contents onto the floor. The sound of plastic clattering across the black marble tiles is the noise of my last hope crashing and burning.
“You bastard!”
“¡Silencio!”
Once done, he tosses the empty purse away, and circles back to stand behind me. I flinch as a couple of casino chips hit my toes and go rolling off into death spirals.
“Eyes to the front,” he snaps, when I try turning to face him.
“Are you some kind of weird—?”
“Don’t test me,muñeca!”
