Page 64 of Executing Malice
“I’ll be back. Going to wash my hands.”
I don’t know what the plan is when I cross the glossy floor, or when I push through the bathroom door. Slowly. Quietly. With the greatest ease possible. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs begin to ache.
Felicity is in the middle cubical. I hear the toilet paper roll thumping and her angry slaps for more tissue. But my gaze is on the lock, watching it for the second she turns the latch.
I still don’t have a plan. My brain isn’t even working when I step up on the other side and slam it back hard. I hear the satisfied thud of Felicity’s face bouncing off the metal, the beautiful crunch of cartilage, followed by her wail of pain.
I have only a second to smirk before she’s coming out, clutching a bloody nose.
“Oh my God, Felicity!” I gasp with all the horror I should be feeling. “I am so sorry.”
“You broke my nose!” she sobs, pinching the bridge and trying to tilt her head back, but her sweater is already stained with crimson just the way I’d been fantasizing minutes before. It’s running in a shiny river over her lips and down her chin. It’s all over her hands.
I shouldn’t be satisfied, but I am.
“I am so sorry,” I say again, making to shove past her for tissue. I yank a wad free and stuff it into her bloody hand. “I was on my phone. I didn’t see you coming out. God, I am so sorry. Can I do anything?”
“No! I’m supposed to be the Queen of the Corn Maze next weekend. How am I supposed to be beautiful with a broken nose?”
I bite back the urge to tell her makeup.
“Let me grab Jasper,” I offer, but stay and watch as she rushes to the sink and tries to wash her face.
I watch her while her head is down, crimson streaks running between her fingers. They drizzle in speckles across the sink only to swirl away in a pink smear.
I doubt it’s broken. I didn’t hit her that hard. But she’ll have swelling. Maybe a matching pair of black eyes. Maybe she could be a zombie queen. I don’t tell her that. That’s her problem to solve. She’s not even listening to me anyway.
With a last lingering survey of my handiwork, I leave the bathroom. I brush my hands down my skirt, adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder and wander back to where Jasper is waiting. It takes a lot of work to smother the delighted gleam I know is lighting up my eyes.
There’s guilt, too. Women shouldn’t attack women over a man. I like to think I’m a girl’s girl at my core, but like don’t touch my shit. It’s rude. The girl code goes both ways and Felicity can eat my ass after a dinner of laxatives.
Jasper, with our sandwiches in hand, meets my gaze and offers a smile that immediately amps the guilt in my chest. Poor guy didn’t ask for this. It’s not his fault his sister pissed me off. Hell, it’s not his fault biker man is on my shit list. He’s just getting the bad end of everything.
I offer him what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Jasper.” I motion over my shoulder in the direction of the bathrooms. “There was an accident. I think Felicity needs you.”
His smile dims even as his gaze jumps over my head to the closed door in the car corner. Maybe it’s my twisted imagination, but I think I can hear the faint wisp of Felicity weeping. Shouldn’t give me pleasure, but it does.
With both of our sandwiches, Jasper leaves me to hurry to his sister.
Maisie and I exchange glances and I offer her a faint shrug.
“I’m sorry for the mess, Mais.”
Her brown eyes widen. “Mess?”
I give her a quick rundown — setting my alibi in case Felicity decides to run her mouth.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Maisie says, watching Jasper talk through the bathroom door to his sister.
I nod, not at all sorry. “Can you let Jasper know I’m sorry again and I need to head back?”
Maisie agrees and says nothing as I leave.
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I’m not proud of my actions.
