Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(15)

“You’ve had the chance to sleep, though,” I point out, gaze drifting back to his boxers. “At least I’m thinking you were sleeping, unless the missus has a little people fetish you haven’t mentioned.”

He seems to just now realize what he’s wearing, because he makes a feeble attempt to cover up. “Sorry, boss. Yeah, we were sleeping. Actually, just dozed off a bit ago… figured I’d get right on it after catching a few hours of sleep, but if you need me now—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” I say. “Take your little Keeblers there and go on back to bed.”

He hesitantly goes back inside, too tired and cold to insist otherwise. I guess if I want this done before I grow old and die, I’m going to have to do it myself.

Heading back to my car, I again crank up the heat before pulling out my phone, going right down the line, calling every damn number in it.

You know a brunette with a red S tattooed on her wrist?

No. Nope. Not ringing a bell, sorry.

Same conversation, again and again and again.

The day is long, so goddamn long, and I spend every waking second of it trying to track down the little thief. Nobody in my circles will acknowledge knowing her, at least. It’s dusk already, as I sit in my car not far from the bar, just feet from where she robbed me, when my phone rings.

Seven.

“Gambini,” I say as I answer it.

“I’ve got nothing, boss,” he says. “I’ve tried every connection I’ve got and the description is just too vague. I even got up with Amello, since he runs his games out of that neighborhood, and he said she didn’t sound like any girl he’s ever come across.”

“Figures,” I mutter. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. I’ll keep digging, see what I can stir up.”

“You do that.”

Hanging up, I slip my phone into my pocket before strolling into Whistle Binkie, taking a seat right at the bar, encountering the same bartender from last night. Once again, he eyes me with alarm.

“Rum,” I tell him. “Just give me the bottle.”

He obliges, shoving a half-empty cheap bottle onto the bar in front of me. I’m not even going to pretend tonight, ripping the spout right out and tipping it back.

There aren’t many other people here at this hour. I look around curiously, thinking maybe she might show up again, but I’m not that lucky. I gaze at the empty stool, where she sat less than twenty-four hours ago, staring at it for a moment before something strikes me.

“Hey, you wouldn’t by chance remember a woman that was in here last night, would you?” I ask the bartender. “Young, brunette, red dress, sat right there...”

The bartender’s attention shifts to the stool I point at before he looks at me again. “Morgan, you mean?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe, if the Morgan you’re talking about has a tattoo on her wrist.”

“Cursive S,” the bartender says.

Son of a bitch. “That’s the one.”

“I’ve always wondered what it stood for,” he says. “She comes in sometimes, sits by herself, orders something cheap, flirts a bit then jets back out. I asked her once, you know, about the tattoo.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She said it stood for ‘stay out of my f*cking business’.”

Okay, that makes me laugh. It probably shouldn’t. She’s got a mouth on her, that’s for sure. “So, Morgan, you say?”

“Yep.”

Morgan. I don’t like it.

“Tell me something, Bar Boy. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find this Morgan, would you?”

He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to answer that. Ding, ding, ding... there it is. I pull out my wallet, figuring cash always loosens lips, and tense when I open it.

Shit. Still empty.

Almost forgot she robbed me.

Once again, I laugh, even though I shouldn’t find it funny. I don’t even have anything on me to pay for the liquor I’m drinking. Unbelievable.

The woman is starting to be a thorn in my side, but I have to admit, as frustrating as it’s been, I haven’t had a dull moment in the past twenty-four hours.

I shove my wallet back away, standing up from the bar. “Tell me where to find her.”

“I only know where she works,” he says. “Will that help?”





Chapter Six





“Morgan... oh God, Morgan, baby... you’re so tight.”

His voice is nasally. So damn nasally. He sounds like a character off of South Park. Everything dries up at the mere sound of it, all desire withering away, dying an unfortunate death.

Why does he always have to talk?

Grimacing, I shove my face into the black leather couch cushion, unable to stop the cry that escapes my throat. Ugh, it hurts, like being f*cked with a knife, pain stabbing at my insides. He probably doesn’t hear the sound I make, though.

The music is too loud.

“You love that, don’t you?” he asks, his hands grasping my hips as he thrusts, leaning over and shouting so I’ll hear him. “Love the way my cock feels?”

“You know I do,” I grind out, nearly choking on the lie. I hope he makes this fast.