Page 78 of Riot Rules
“Whatever you’re planning in that pretty head of yours…don’t. It won’t end well.” The guy gives me a disparaging sideways look.
I snarl. “Yeah. Cool. I’ll work on developing Stockholm Syndrome, then. You and me can go live in a bunker somewhere. I’ll blow you every morning. You can call me cupcake. I’ll call you sugar. I’ll forget that you kidnapped me at gunpoint and accept my new reality. We’ll buy a house and adopt a couple of ki—”
PAIN!
It’s swift and it’s decisive. I bend over, clutching my hand to my chest, startled to find that there’s ascalpelprotruding out of the back of it.
“Got quite the ugly mouth on you, don’t you,” the guy says. His voice is calm. Bored. He stares out of the windshield, eyes on the road as we speed down the mountain. His gaze flickers over to the shining steel implement buried in my flesh. “Lemme know when you’re done with that. I borrowed it from a friend.”
Shaking, horrified, I pull the scalpel out of my hand, dropping it, and it clatters down into the footwell between my feet. The neat little incision in my skin, tucked between bone and tendon, is barely a centimeter long, but it goes deep. The blade was sharp. So sharp that the wound doesn’t even bleed at first. But when it does, itgushes…
“Here.” The guy swings expertly through a bend, controlling the vehicle with one fucking hand as he offers me a towel.What thefuck?I snatch it from him, wrapping it around my hand, hissing. “What the fuck is WRONG with you?”
“You’re familiar with Pavlov’s dog,” he says.
“WHAT?!”
“Pavlov worked with canines. Wanted to ascertain how easily they could be trained. He had this bell, and every time he rang the bell, he fed his dog. He repeated this action over and over again, until eventually he’d ring the bell and the dog would start to salivate. He’d conditioned it to know that when that bell rung—”
“I KNOW ABOUT PAVLOV’S DOG, ASSHOLE!”
The guy doesn’t respond to my fury. “Then you understand what I’m driving at. Now, this might be very presumptuous of me, and forgive me if I’m wrong,” he says, holding up a finger, “but Iassumeyou’re smarter than a dog. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to make this association without me having to repeat myself two of three times. When I tell you to shut your fucking mouth, you fucking shut it, or there will be consequences that you do not like.”
He’s fucking insane. He has made his point, though. I tuck my hand into my armpit, wincing against the pain. And I keep my mouth shut.
We fly past Riot House, the building hidden amongst the trees, and the place is in complete darkness. The guy laughs as I watch the turnoff to the house disappear in the Vanquish’s rearview mirror. “Sorry, friend. Not time to go home yet. Don’t worry, though. This won’t take long.”
I bite my tongue. At the bottom of the mountain, the guy turns into the town of Mountain Lakes, driving politely like he’s some kind of law-abiding fucking citizen. I’m stunned when he pulls into the parking lot of Cosgrove’s, Wren’s bar.
The guy parks and gets out, then comes around the car and opens the passenger door for me, raising his eyebrows. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he tells me.
I get out, still pinning my hand to the side of my body with my arm. The guy nods toward the building.
“It’s closed.” Even with the injury to my hand and the promise of even more pain, I can’t help myself. It goes against my very being to make this easy for him.
The guy tuts. Rolls his eyes like I’m a misbehaving child who won’t do as he’s told. “The door’s open. The bartender’s gone home for the night. No one’s going to disturb us, and I need a fucking drink.” His head rocks to one side. “I understand that you’re quite an accomplished piano player, Dashiell. I made sure to miss all of the important tendons just now, but I’m not always so precise, y’know. Get inside before I do some serious damage.”
I go. Inside Cosgrove’s, the lights are off apart from the dim orange glow of the lamp by the till. The jukebox is on, quietly playing Johnny Cash’s ‘Burning Ring of Fire.’ The guy pats a hand on the stool at the end of the bar, indicating that I should sit down. Meanwhile, he heads behind the bar and grabs a couple of glasses from the shelf by the fridges. He sets them both down and takes a bottle of whiskey—Lagavulin—from the top shelf, uncaps it and begins to pour.
“You have questions,” the bastard states. “You want to know all kinds of things, but I’ll start with the most important information first. My name is Alderman. At least, that’s the name you might have heard me referred to by. Ring any bells?”
I shake my head, and the piece of shit smirks. “I’m happy to hear that. Means she’s obeyingsomeof my rules. Drink. It’ll help with the pain.”
I throw back the whiskey, glaring at him, hoping that he understands how much shit he’s going to be in once I do some research and dig up some dirt onhim. His smile widens. He shakes his head. “God, you’re an open book, aren’t you, kid. I admire the piss and vinegar. Last person to look at me like that lost a fucking eye.”
“Get on with it,” I snap.
The smile slips off his face. “I’d watch that tone if I were you.” He downs his shot without batting an eyelid. “Now. Introductions are over. You’re Lord Dashiell Lovett the Fourth. I’m Alderman.”
“Alderman who?”
“Alderman, your worst fucking nightmare, that’s who.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I’m guessing it’s nothing good.“Iam personally responsible for the wellbeing of the girl whose bedroom you just snuck out of,” he informs me.
Oh…
…fuck.
He grins at me. “Yeah. That’s right. Carina Mendoza is my ward. I take the responsibility of her careveryseriously.” He pours another shot for himself and then slides the bottle of whiskey across the bar at me, silently suggesting that I can now serve my fucking self. “Carrie’s very important to me. She’s a good girl. Smart. Kind. Loyal. That’s why I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard about me. She hasn’t told you much about her past, has she? Where she’s from? Her family? No real details about where she came from before she arrived here?”
