Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(12)

“Ah, Firecracker.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve been dating for over a year… you’d think my own brother would remember her name by now.”

“Please,” I say. “I barely remember your name, Pretty Boy. Names mean nothing to me. They’re irrelevant. They don’t define a person. They just label them. And well, if I’m going to label people, I’m going to label them in a way that defines them to me. Like… Firecracker.”

“And how exactly does Firecracker define her?”

“She’s loud,” I say as feet stomp across the floor above my head, heading for the stairs. “She’s kind of bangin’.”

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he moves away from the window, stepping toward me. “Are you hitting on my girlfriend?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “She’s not my type.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Leo says. “Thought your type was breathing.”

“Ha-ha. I’ll have you know I’ve got standards.”

“Like?”

“Like a woman that doesn’t expect me to have a conversation.”

He laughs again, like he finds that genuinely funny. “Oh, the horror of having to talk to a female like she’s actually a person and not just a warm body.”

“Are you mocking me, Pretty Boy?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’ve shot people for less attitude.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “Sounds like something someone allergic to feelings would do.”

“I’m not allergic to feelings. I’ve got them.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, and right now I’m feeling pretty f*cking annoyed by this conversation, so I’d rather we didn’t have it.”

“Oh, so it’s not females you avoid talking to... it’s really feelings you don’t want to talk about. Got it.”

He’s pushing my buttons.

Leo might be the only person around who isn’t afraid to do that. He looks me in the face without hesitation, never balking at what he sees, and he calls me on my shit, like a parent lecturing a child… which is kind of funny, you know, since I raised that little son of a bitch.

I’m supposed to be the mature one, the role model, but instead I think he might be the only thing stopping me from blowing up the whole goddamn world and everyone in it.

You see, I learned long ago that the most valuable thing you have is your reputation. It gets you things money can’t buy, opening up doors that are usually sealed tight. Don’t listen to that ‘f*ck what people think’ Sesame Street bullshit they spoon-fed you as a kid. You should care what people say about you.

Rumor and gossip... it matters. Because while you might be proud of your character, while you might be the kind of person who doesn’t yield, it doesn’t mean a damn thing if the jackass coming up behind you believes you’re getting out of his way, because he’s just going to run you over.

If my stepfather taught me anything, it was that the key to survival is mimicry. You be what you need to be for somebody. Wear the skin of a rattlesnake even if there’s not a single drop of venom inside of you, because if you make them believe, they won’t come close enough to get bit. They won’t get close enough to see that maybe it’s a disguise; maybe you’re not as dangerous as they think. And if they do get that close, well, then you’ve got a choice: you either surrender or you become the thing they fear most.

I don’t surrender.

But not everyone needs the same thing, and that’s the trick. You can’t just be all one thing. If you’ve gotta be a monster, you be a f*cking shapeshifter.

And my brother? He’s not a predator, so I don’t have to be one with him. What Leo needs is someone to depend on, someone to believe in, someone who will protect him, so that’s what I am. I’m his family. I’m his friend. I’m a harmless gopher snake without a rattle in my tail.

Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.

I’m also apparently someone who likes animal metaphors when I need some damn sleep.

So blah blah blah, whatever whatever, the point here is f*ck feelings, they get you nowhere.

“I’m going to bed. If you want someone to talk to, Pretty Boy, your girlfriend will be interrupting in about three seconds. Talk to her.”

“About what?”

The bubbly voice chimes in right at the three-second mark as Leo’s girlfriend waltzes in. Melody Carmichael. Leo calls her Mel. Of course I know her name. I made a point to learn it when I realized he was serious about her. Young, blonde, and good-looking, sure, but the girl has a mouth on her. Sometimes she talks so much I wonder how she’s breathing, how she’s not suffocating on all the words she insists on speaking.

And she cries. Jesus f*ck, the girl cries. She sat right here on my couch and sobbed two nights ago while watching some movie about a man dying. Leo consoled her, holding her, while I stood in the doorway, wishing it were me that was dead. Me, just so I wouldn’t have to listen to her blubbering for one more second.