Page 58 of Painted Scars
“To… to a hospital,” he stammers. “She’s passed out.”
Awareness slams into me. He roofied her.
I slam him harder into the door and pin him to the frame. “Wallet. Now.”
He hesitates. Big mistake. “Who the fuck are you?” His chest puffs. “You can’t go through my?—”
I knock the wind out of him, tempted to break him. I pat him down. Wallet in the back pocket. Mine now.
I memorize his driver’s license number and read his details aloud, voice cold and menacing. “Tom Smith. 5 Carryover Way, Shadow Lake.”
He pales. “Hey, man, that’s?—”
I grab him by the throat and crush any more words. “Shut the fuck up.”
I dial Grayson, while this creep struggles against my grip.
“Yeah?” Grayson grunts like he’s rearranging his servers.
“Need a background check. Name: Tom Smith.” I reel off his address.
“I’m busy. I’ll get back to you.” He cuts me off.
Busy with Charlie, Kate’s friend. He hasn’t stopped staring at her photos since I charged him to investigate her. He better remember why we’re here. Work, not play. That’s Katar’s department, and I only allow it to control his urges.
Kate groans softly behind me, a breath caught in her throat.
“Get off me or my dad will sue you into—” I don’t let the creep get in another word.
“Daddy get you out of your last fuck-up too?” I snarl.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom chokes.
My phone lights up with a ping. Message from my nerdy sidekick. Two prior accusations of sexual assault. Teen girls. Charges dropped, Daddy’s money paying for the top lawyers.
My jaw locks. I can always pick them. My gut calls it. Badge might be gone, but cop instincts don’t fade. Predators give off a scent, and this one reeked before I even touched him. I shove this asshole into the car with enough force to make his chiropractor rich.
Katar arrives, silent as fog, with a blade already in hand.
“Look after your unicorn,” he says, his voice calmly horrifying and promising retribution that starts with a smile and ends with bleach. “I’ll take care of him.”
He licks the flat of his blade like he’s tasting dessert.
“Be my guest,” I mutter, letting Tom go and punching him in the face. His cheekbone cracks, and he drops like a worthless sack of shit.
I move to the door and bundle Kate into my arms. Her head lolls on my arms, her breath shallow, eyes closed. I lift her head and press the inside of my wrist to her forehead. Clammy and burning. Too much alcohol, not enough water, and overheating amid all the bodies.
“Don’t lose your charge,” I tell Katar as he presses his boot to Tom’s neck and chokes him unconscious.
“Kitten won’t get far.” Of course, he’s nicknamed her.
We’re all getting too attached. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Katar bends down to take his prey’s keys, then leaves him on the ground, bleeding. He strides beside me while I carry Kate to my bike, holding the frame steady, allowing me to prop her infront of me. Not ideal for riding, but fewer chances of her falling off. My enforcer melts back into the night like a living shadow.
I squeeze Kate’s waist gently and take off. Back streets only, to avoid alerting the police. Duck as much CCTV as possible by following every detour Grayson mapped out for our evening of surveillance. No one’s pulling me over. We reach her house without incident. Her body flops in my arms as I transfer her to the porch, leaning her in a chair while I get the spare key from under her potted plant.
PJ3 is barking like he’s ready to tear my throat out. Where was he the other night when I snuck in her window?
