Page 36 of Executing Malice
Honestly, this is the thing I am not going to miss once I start my life with Leila. Parking so far from the house and hiding. I’ll feel better once I can park my bike in the driveway next to her Fiesta and not worry about it.
I exhale and jostle my bag higher on my shoulder.
Eight more days.
It’s mildly irritating that I’m beginning to like Jefferson. Coming from the shabbier side of downtown Toronto, it’s as close to paradise as someone like me will ever be allowed. I don’t think I’d mind if Leila wanted to stay. We could find a small apartment or get our own place. I’m not wholly set on the idea of living in her parent’s house. They’ll eventually return fromtraveling, and I don’t want to share Leila. They had her for eight years already. It’s my turn.
But, I suppose, if Leila wanted to stay there, I’d be willing to discuss it.
Reaching my bike, I sling off my backpack and swap it in the sidesaddle for my helmet. Leila should just be getting up and ready. Most likely, she’ll be in the shower. It gives me a few minutes to grab breakfast and return to my usual place.
I do wonder if Leila will attempt to hide again. I feel bad I didn’t play her game the way she wanted, but I was too busy getting the slaughterhouse sterilized and our dinner ready. It had been a full day of preparation. But I think she enjoyed the outcome.
If not, I’m fully prepared to make it up to her.
With thoughts of yesterday still fresh in my mind, my brain clicks back to the sight I’d walked in on. When I went to find Leila, I hadn’t expected to see her puncturing holes in some random Yukon. I meant to ask her about it, but ... priorities. Whatever her reasons were, the owner had it coming. Leila has always been rational and levelheaded, except when her buttons are pushed.
Granted, it doesn’t take much. She gives a warning before handling it her way, which usually ends with the other person regretting their choices, or calling the cops.
I chuckle to myself as I hop over a log.
Leila is vengeful. Sadistic to the core and violent. All the things that mirror my soul.
She completes me. Fills that void inside so I don’t feel like I’m alone with these inclinations. She accepted me, nourished that hunger we both seem to have for pain and destruction.
Her rage was the very reason Everett could never touch her. It was her wrath, her thirst for blood that scared my brother — my brutal and twisted monster of a brother — into stay away from her. He tried. Every chance he got to have her and each time, he left bloody.
Until the night Leila slipped out of my bed, crawled into his. I didn’t find out until the next day and only because Mom found Everett tied and gagged in his bed, sheets soaked in blood. His chest carved open with a fork.
I know Everett never got over that. But he never tried to touch her again.
Amused by the memory, I straddle my bike and kick up the stand. I rev the engine once before pushing off.
Jefferson in the fall is a surreal experience. I’ve never been intoHallmarkmovies, but the dedication this town seems to show for its seasons is unmatched. Even the air is dusted with the sweet scent of cinnamon and — God help me — pumpkin spice. I never liked that shit in the city, but it fits here.
Maybe I’ll get Leila one of those fancy spice drinks the baker girl makes.
Maisie.
If I’m going to live with these people, I need to start remembering their names. But I’ve seen women stroll out of her bakery with steaming cups of apple cider and cinnamon that make my mouth water. I think Leila would like one. And one of those carrot muffins I saw in the window a few days back.
The bell chimes over the doors of Mama May’s Diner as I step through. I drag my helmet off and tuck it under my arm. I don’t get nearly as many side-eyes as I did in the beginning. There’s the Stepford wives committee in the far right corner with their sixty’s hairdos and crimson smiles who still eye me with mixtures of interest and suspicion. I’m careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Last thing I need is for one of them to skip over and strike up a conversation.
Mavis ... no. Mandy? Shoot. What the hell is her name? The waitress with the bright orange ringlets curled tight against her scalp and a face as doughy as Maise’s pies twists small, stubby hands in a towel and blinks at me.
“Well, if it isn’t our man of mystery.” She pops out one hip and spears the other with her fist. “Usual?”
Mable.
Her name stares at me from the plastic tag pinned to her ample bosom.
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, digging into my back pocket for my wallet.
I can feel Mable trying to peer in, probably to catch sight of some ID or just being nosy. Joke’s on her. I don’t carry my ID in my wallet. Only thing in the leathery folds is cash.
I pass her the proper amount, plus tip. She accepts it but doesn’t stuff it into the till.
“You know,” she begins, loud enough that I know I’m not going to like it, “we don’t get many newcomers around these parts, especially anyone who isn’t really doing anything.”
