Page 12 of Lords of Misrule
I knock gently on the car window, but it still startles her, and she sits up suddenly, looking worse for wear when she sees it’s me. She shakes her head.
“Fuck off.” I can read the words more than hear them through the door.
I motion for her to roll the window down, and she shakes her head. I lean my forearms against the top of the car and get close, hoping she can hear me through the glass at this distance.
“I saw what happened. Let me in.” Her eyes shift to the floor like she’s embarrassed. So I do the thing I hate to do. A little bile rises in my throat before I choke it back. “Please.”
There’s a long pause, almost long enough to make me turn around before I hear the locks click, and she glances up at me. I round the car and open the passenger door, sliding in. She’s silent at first, pulling down the visor to try to wipe away her tears and fix her makeup. I don’t rush her. The last thing I need is to make her any more agitated than she is.
“What did you see?” she asks at last.
“Enough.”
When she lifts her arm to fix her hair, I see the handprint still there. Red with scratches where that fucker’s nails dug into her.
“Who was that?” I’m ready to murder him for marking her.
“No one.”
“It’s obvious the two of you know each other pretty damn well. A boyfriend? An ex? Maybe not happy you’re fucking the professor…”
“None of the above. He doesn’t even know about the professor.”
“Does the professor know about him?”
“No. Of course not. You think he’d date me if he knew I had problems like that?”
“Does someone know? Someone who can help you if he comes back?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m well aware. But if he comes back—”
“Not if, when. And when he does, I’ll take care of it myself like I always do. I don’t need your help. He left, didn’t he?” It’s false bravado on her part because I watch her eyes scan the parking lot like she’s double-checking to make sure he’s really gone.
“What does he want?”
She sighs, shaking her head like she doesn’t want to answer.
“So you can use it against me?” She huffs, a stuttered breath follows when she tries to take in a deep one. “I don’t think so.”
We haven’t had a good start. Not that I really have a good start with anyone, but she’s been a particular failure of mine on more than one occasion. So it’s not exactly a surprise that she won’t trust me.
“I need Mitch’s paintings to cover a debt. I have a side business running bets on our hockey games. I owe good people money and a couple of dangerous ones too. If I don’t get it soon… my accounts are in trouble, and then I’m in trouble. Mitch owes me probably at least what they’re worth. He’s been betting and losing and refusing to pay up. He thought he could fuck me over and get away with it. I need him to be wrong on that last bet.” I tell the truth, hoping it’s enough to get her to trust me. Or at least enough for her to open up and tell me what’s going on and who this guy is. Her lips part and she looks at me, studying me like she’s trying to figure out my angle in this.
“I was going to propose we work together. You obviously need them for something, and so do I. If we work together, maybe we make it happen. Maybe we don’t. But probably better odds if we work together instead of against each other.”
“Who says I need you?”
“The fact that you haven’t taken them yet.”
“I’m not planning to steal them.” She shakes her head.
“Then what? Marry him and inherit them when he dies mysteriously on the honeymoon?”
She laughs. “That would be a good plan if he wasn’t a prick.”
“Then what?” It’s my turn to study her. Wondering why she’s continuing to go to this man’s bed when she very obviously doesn’t want to. Took care of him while he was sick and put up with whatever his bitchy fucking demands were. Then I realize again what I was so obviously missing. “Blackmail?”
