Page 42 of Executing Malice
The steadiness surprises me.
I don’t know this man, but I hate him. He scares me, but I’m not scared. He pisses me off.
Disgusts me.
While his face is handsome in that rich asshole way douche bags in movies are, I find nothing appealing.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother him. I find I get better results when I handle the matter myself.”
I hate that I want to lash out and punch him in the nose. It’s so unlike me, I don’t understand the taste for violence.
“Well, good luck with that.”
His head cocks to one side, unleashing a chunk of wispy brown over those dead eyes.
“I don’t believe in luck. If it existed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“What conversation are we having exactly?” I bite out.
The right corner of his mouth quirks. “You owe me new tires.”
I snort. “You can’t prove it was me. With your charming personality, I doubt I’m the only person you’ve pissed off.” I tighten my grip on my pen in case I need to ram it into his eyesocket or restrain myself. I haven’t decided. “You should leave now.”
His gaze has settled on my hand. On my weapon. His mouth pulls wider, exposing canines.
“I was stabbed with a pencil once,” he remarks casually. His left arm lifts to touch his right shoulder just beneath his collar bone. “Here. Hurt like a bitch. Damn thing snapped, too.”
My brain flashes to the broken pencil I found on my car a few weeks back. Obviously, one has nothing to do with the other, but I find myself swallowing thickly.
“Let me guess, you didn’t deserve it,” I taunt.
He laughs, and I have to admit, he’s actually pretty good looking ... if it wasn’t for the eyes. They give him away.
“Oh, I did. But...” Heavy lids lift and I’m fixed on those vacuums of endless nothing, “I made sure they learned their lesson. I’m not someone who takes lightly to ... bad behavior.”
I take a long, slow breath. “Funny. We have that in common. Now, if you’re not here to—”
“I could go to the sheriff, if that’s what you want,” he cuts me off. “I could talk to your ... brother. Reed, isn’t it?” I say nothing and he continues lazily, “What do you think he’ll say?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Contrary to popular belief, Reed and I don’t share a brain. I have no idea what he would say to your flimsy claim. But I’m sure he’ll be very interested when I show him the giant ding you left on my car. See,” I will myself to myfeet and square off with the prick watching me, “there’s something called proof. I have it. You don’t. You have assumptions and bad breath. Two things you can take right out of here and shove up your ass.”
Something in his gaze sharpens. A predatory gleam like he’s won something. It’s triumphant and amused.
“Thank you for not disappointing me.”
Without giving me a chance to process, he crosses the bank and pushes through the doors. I watch him melt into the afternoon crowd. Not a soul even glances at him as he passes amongst them.
I don’t move until he’s out of sight. Far enough that he won’t notice when I sprint to the door and peer through the glass.
First, in the direction he’d headed to make sure he’s really gone. Then the opposite way towards my biker’s usual spot.
And blink when I find the curb empty.
The bike is there as it always is. A sleek, black beast under the warm sunlight.
I even sweep the streets. Scan every passing face in case I missed him.
He’s not there.
