Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(19)

“I don’t—” I almost say I don’t whore myself out, period, but that’s a lie, technically. I’ve done it before out of desperation. Besides, life f*cks me every single day, and I just bend over and take it. I whore myself out to life in an attempt to keep breathing. “I don’t know what else I can give you. So either f*ck me or kill me, because I’ve got nothing left to offer beyond that.”

He stares at me as I drop down on the edge of the messy bed. He’s contemplating it. I know he is. I know his type. He’s debating whether or not that will be adequate payment, if I’m even worth the thousand dollars I stole from him.

“You don’t look like a junkie, so I’m assuming it’s not drugs,” he says. “Although, that would explain the prostitution.”

I grimace. “I’m not a prostitute.”

“You just offered to f*ck me for money.”

“Well, yeah, technically, but…”

I don’t finish that because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to, if it’ll even make sense to him. Unlikely.

“Beg for your life,” he says after a moment.

I shake my head.

“Beg me,” he demands. “Get on your knees.”

I shake my head again.

Reaching beneath his coat, inside his shirt, he whips out a black gun, pointing it at me, pressing the muzzle against my forehead. “Beg.”

“No.”

The word sounds weak, but I know he hears it. I cut my eyes at him, everything inside of me taut, like a string close to snapping from being pulled in different directions, already threadbare.

He stares at me, his expression blank, his finger on the trigger.

Slowly, something in him shifts, the corner of his mouth twitching, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging his lips. The sight of it makes my heart pause for the second time tonight, losing rhythm for just a moment. I don’t know what to make of it. Why the hell is he smiling?

“You’re going to pay back every penny,” he says, “plus interest. An extra hundred for every day it takes you. You got me?”

“Yes.”

He lowers the gun, tucking it away, before snatching the money out of my hand. He turns then, like he plans to just leave, but my voice calls out, stopping him. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I don’t even know who you are. How am I supposed to pay you if I can’t find you?”

He shrugs. “Figure it out, Scarlet.”



“Figure it out, Scarlet,” I grumble mockingly as I shove the door away from the cinderblock at Mystic, back here for the second time tonight.

At work. On my day off. Again. Bullshit.

I keep to myself, not bothering with anyone, until I reach the office and tap on the door, hoping George is around. I hear shuffling inside, breathing a sigh of relief until it opens and I come face-to-face with somebody who isn’t who I want to see. Ugh.

Slick Rick, the * named Ricardo, the one who clearly hasn’t yet succeeded in sending a message to the guy they call Scar.

“You need something, cupcake?” he asks, eyes scanning me. I’m wearing the equivalent of pajamas, yet he still gawks at me like I’m indecent or something.

“I need to see the boss,” I say, pushing past him into the office.

I don’t make it far before he grabs my arm to stop me.

“He’s busy,” he says. “Come back later.”

I yank away from him. “I can wait.”

George is sitting at his desk, on the phone. His raised voice echoes through the room, so enraged it keeps me from approaching. Instead, I linger by the entrance as Ricardo shuts the door and takes a seat, rubbing his hands along the thighs of his black slacks, like his palms might be sweaty. Not good.

“What the f*ck do you mean they said nothing?” George yells. “How do you get robbed when they say nothing? Huh? What, they walk in and you just hand over the money, they don’t even have to ask?”

He pauses long enough to take a deep breath, long enough for whoever’s on the line to try to explain, but it does nothing to calm George down.

“I don’t care!” he yells. “There’s no excuse! Do something about it! Nobody steals from me!”

He doesn’t bother hanging up, instead slamming his phone down on the desk, over and over and over, shattering the screen. I don’t even think he notices me here, tunnel vision sending his attention straight to Ricardo. “Why hasn’t that thieving son of a bitch been dealt with?”

“I’m working on it,” Ricardo says. “I called him, trying to get another meeting, and his lackey said he was busy.”

“Busy robbing me!”

I’m almost inclined to chime in, to ask if they’re talking about Scar… because if so, he was actually busy stalking me to my apartment, but I remain silent instead. Not my problem.

“I’ll try again,” Ricardo says, “right now.”

Ricardo gets up, slipping out of the office. George’s gaze trails him but stalls on me. Shit. “You need something, Morgan?”

“I, uh... was just trying to see about maybe picking up some more work this week?”

That’s not what I wanted.

I wanted to get some information about Scar, but I’m pretty sure that’s a topic I shouldn’t bring up at the moment.