Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(21)
“Why?”
“That is not a question we ask. It does not matter. But we are here now, you and I, and she is not, so we must learn to live without her... together.”
The little girl shook her head.
“You will obey me,” he said.
She shook her head again.
He didn’t like that answer.
Reaching into the pantry, he grabbed her arm, yanking her out of it and throwing her across the room. She skidded along the kitchen floor, dropping her bread, stunned, and started to cower, knocking a stool out of the way as she pressed back against the bar.
The Tin Man moved toward her.
“You will obey me,” he said again, the anger returning to his voice. “You can either cooperate and be happy here, or I can make every moment torture for you. Understand?”
She nodded slowly.
“Use your words,” he demanded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He crouched down, reaching for her, ignoring the fact that she flinched. He grasped her chin, his touch firm as he pulled her face toward him, mere inches of space between them. It made her heart race and her body shake and not in a good way.
“Yes, Papa,” he said, “or Daddy, if you prefer. Your choice, but choose one, because you will call me as I am.”
She said nothing, trying to hold her breath, wishing he would let go, but he waited... and waited... and waited, staring at her.
He didn’t even blink.
“Yes...?” he prompted. “Use your words.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
His expression softened as he pressed his lips to her forehead, kissing the spot her mother had last kissed, taking it for himself. Tears filled the little girl’s eyes, but she held them back, knowing crying would make it worse.
“Good little kitten,” he said, standing back up, turning away without another look. “Go clean yourself up. I have something to do. I want you bathed by the time I return, and I want that nightgown burned. If you still stink when I get back, I will hose you off in the backyard.”
The little girl may not have known much, but she knew enough to believe him. He meant those words.
Chapter Eight
Picking up the cheap square coaster from the bar, I set it on its corner and attempt to spin it, watching as it wobbles and falls right over. A cliché in a kilt grins up at me from it, discolored, parts flaked off from a splash of rum destroying the pulp board.
Whistle Binkie.
It’s Scottish, obviously, but who the hell knows what it means? Probably something as horribly stereotypical as the rest of the place. As f*cking formulaic as my life is becoming. I think about asking the bartender, figuring if anyone knows, it would be him, but that would mean interrupting the babbling blonde sitting to my left, and that’s not happening, considering I’m supposed to be listening to whatever she’s going on about—puppies or kittens or rainbows, I don’t know.
Besides, I don’t really give a shit. I’m just trying to distract myself until Blondie’s good and lit and willing to bend over for me in the bathroom.
Which, judging from the slurred giggling that reaches my ears as a hand slides along my thigh, is probably soon…
I shift toward her, just enough to see her, but not enough to give her a full-on view of my scar. She knows it’s there, of course—she saw it when I walked in after ten o’clock tonight, and she’s spent the past two hours just barely stopping herself from asking me how I got it. Women like a bad boy with a tragic backstory. Maybe it’s the thrill of it, the excitement of being with someone dangerous, or maybe it’s biological, something rooted deep within them, those mothering genes that makes women want to nurture those the world turns its back on.
You see, men and women, we’re wired differently. Women look at me and think, ‘poor baby, he just needs some love’, whereas men? Men take one look at my face and think, ‘stay away from that motherf*cker’. But go ahead and tell a woman that. Tell her I’m dangerous. Tell her to stay away.
It’ll just make her want me more.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” I say when Blondie stops chattering long enough for me to chime in. It’s not a lie. She is beautiful, but all women are in their own way, aren’t they?
Well, all of them except for my mother, but I don’t know if woman is the word I would use to describe her. She was more of a raging bitch.
Blondie’s cheeks tinge pink, a grin on her gloss-coated lips. Her posture loosens more as she leans into me, giving me a whiff of her strong, flowery perfume.
My nose twitches.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks, her voice dropping low, the syllables lazily tumbling from her tongue. “Your, uh… scar.” She waves her finger in the direction of my face. “How did that happen?”
I start to answer, concocting a bullshit sob story to avoid spilling my truth to someone I don’t know, someone I’ll never know beyond what her * feels like, when the stool on the other side of me jerks out, the wooden legs scratching against the floor.
The noise is irritating.
I cringe.
Something slaps down on the bar in front of me, on top of the coaster, covering the little Scottish man.
“He pissed off the wrong woman, I’m guessing,” a sugary voice interrupts, so close it’s like she’s speaking right in my ear. “He’s got the kind of face you can’t help but want to f*ck up.”