Page 38 of Painted Scars
She probes my silence.
Don’t do it. Leave. Cool down. Ride home. Melt glass and blow a new creation into existence. Stop before this gets out of hand.
Another buzz.
Kate: Want to talk? Can’t sleep?
Hell. She’s rattled from earlier tonight, and that won’t fade in the dark. Maybe I should suggest another wine. Let her crash out. But she’s got to face her dickhead boss tomorrow and needs comforting. Friends do that, right?
I give in to her.
Me: What do you want to talk about?
Kate: Anything. Flirt? Plan more equine dumps? Discuss how to dispose of my neighbor’s body.
I bark out a hushed laugh, which sounds dry and rusty from disuse. Leave it to her to drag it out of me. Flirty. Forward. Fierce. She’s a triple threat to my composure.
I let my guard down for the first time in a long while. Because that’s what friends do.
Me: Put the equine dumps and murder on hold. I’ve committed enough crimes for the day.
Her cute little snort cracks something in me—the part that wants to give her everything.
Kate: Want to walk me to work tomorrow? Give me a ride? Smash my boss’ window again?
The wink face emoji might be my downfall.
Me: If I agree, will you promise to sleep?
Kate: 100%
Me: Liar
Shit. I just winked back.
I rub at the warmth spreading through my ribs.
Kate: You’ve been a meticulous stalker if you know that.
Me: What rational woman finds that acceptable?
Kate: Don’t be a moral stalker now. I need red flags
Am I red flag material? I assess my actions this far.
1. Touch her and die threats to her boss– check.
2. Vigilante out for revenge against well-resourced foes– fucking check.
3. Villain who takes down monsters when no one else will– check.
4. Stalker who jerks off on her roof– don’t want to admit it, but check.
Facts are in. Yeah, I am. The angel on my shoulder snorts in disgust. I flick him off and glare at nothing.
Kate: Okay, fine. I’m going to sleep. But only because I’m a good girl who wants that ride. Will you sing me a lullaby?
I’m weak.
