Page 11 of ILY
I swallow heavily. “A menace. I know I sound like a nutcase, but heneedsto be taken out. I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried reasoning with him, bargaining, bribing. I tried to grab him and stick him in a cage, but when I did that, he went full-on attack mode. I have a scar to prove it.” I lift up my shirt, and there’s a pink, now-healed gash right above my hip bone from his nasty little claws. “I don’t know what else to do.”
He stares at me for a long time. “Where is he?”
“My farm. I mean, he doesn’t live on my farm. He just makes himself comfortable on it and ruins all my freshly planted vegetables and fruit. He’s currently destroying my new strawberry plants, and I don’t think my zucchini is going to survive the season.”
He cocks his head, his brows furrowing. “Have you tried going to the cops?”
I pull a face. I’m not a huge fan of cops. I’ve had too many clients abused by law enforcement for them to be my go-to. Besides, if I went to the police station to report a freaking groundhog, they’d laugh my ass right out the front doors.
“They won’t help. Trust me. They’d think I’ve lost my mind, which isn’t far off, I think.”
He takes a breath. “You seem like a good guy, Leaf.”
I jolt. Once again, I realize he knows my name. But…hell, I’ve been calling him Echo. Maybe he just borrowed it from my shit-for-brains screen name. It’s not like a lot of people are named Leaf these days.
Or any that I know of.
Maybe I should ask.
But…the way he’s looking at me, maybe I shouldn’t.
“How do you spell your name, by the way?” he asks as though he can read my mind.
I frown at him. “How do you know that’s my name?” He huffs a small laugh, and I roll my eyes. “Fine. It is my name, and it’s spelled like the things on a tree.”
“Shit,” he murmurs as though somehow the spelling of my name matters. “Unlike your screen name.”
“Yeah. I was trying to be sneaky or…whatever.” I fiddle with a loose thread on my jeans. “So…did you change your mind about the TNT?”
His gaze flickers back over to the bag of money. It’s a lot, I know. He doesn’t exactly look like the kind of guy who needs it, but maybe he’s the kind of guy who wants it.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he eventually says. His hands fidget, like he’s trying not to sign when he speaks.
I debate about using ASL and going voice-off, but it’s been a priority of mine to let the Deaf person take the lead in how they want to communicate. He knows I sign and hasn’t switched, so I take that to mean he wants to just use his voice.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like he thinks the look on my face is devastation. He seems like he means that too. “I don’t think killing someone is going to solve your problems.”
“No, but Michael isn’t just someone. He’s—” My words get cut off when a phone starts buzzing loudly in his pocket.
He jolts and stands up. “Will you wait here, please?”
I shrug and gesture toward the door. It’s not like I was going anywhere at the moment anyway. I seem to have lost the motivation to go home.
Echo nods, then walks out and shuts the door. Well, as far as he can anyway. They really do need to blow this place to bits.
This time though, I’m too curious. I crawl onto my hands and knees and scoot toward the window. The blinds are thick—probably the only expensive thing in this shitty room, and I gently pry one aside.
Echo’s back is to me, and he’s clearly got a FaceTime going. He’s signing, but the angle he’s at, I can’t catch anything he’s saying, and his screen is too small for me to see who’s on it.
I sigh and turn around, slinking back to my spot on the floor. God, this is starting to feel like a huge mistake. He’s great eye candy, and I really like the way he speaks—almost like he cares, which is probably how he always does business.
But if he’s not going to sell to me and he’s not going to fuck me, then what are we even doing?
What the fuck amIdoing? I’m in the room with a criminal.
Though, I guess I’m a criminal too. Two peas in a pod.
The door opens a second later, and he presses his fist to his chest and rubs it in a circle. ‘Sorry.’
