Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(22)

Blondie’s eyes widen, like she’s horrified someone would say something so cruel, like she’s offended, but all I feel is a slight stirring, a battle inside of me between amusement and annoyance.

I’m not sure which sensation is going to win that war.

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong,” I say, glancing at the bar, a thick stack of cash greeting me. “It was a man, though.”

She scoffs. “Some floozy’s husband, then.”

I pick the money up, shifting away from Blondie to relax back against the stool. My eyes flit to the right, to the exasperated brunette, her eyes not so doe-like anymore. They’re narrowed, aimed at me, her arms folded across her chest.

Scarlet.

Her guarded stance only entertains me more, a smirk tugging my lips as I sort through the cash, counting it. It’s been almost a week since I confronted her, which means the interest racked up quickly. A few hundreds, some twenties, and a shitload of ones… more ones than I’ve ever held at one time before.

“It’s all there,” she says, her voice turning as defensive as her presence.

I ignore that and keep counting, absently running through numbers as my gaze trails her. Her flimsy coat covers most of what she’s wearing, leaving only black fishnets visible. Black high heels peek out of a bag hanging from her shoulder, instead of being on her feet where they belong. Thick, dark makeup surrounds her eyes as a golden glow radiates from her cheeks. Some of it is smudged, like she’s been wearing it for a while, but her deep red lipstick looks fresh.

She shifts position when my gaze lingers on her mouth, like she’s uncomfortable with my attention, her skin shimmering under the dim bar lights, flecks of glitter coating her.

I turn back to the money, saying nothing until I finish counting. “There’s only thirteen hundred here.”

“I already gave you three hundred,” she says. “That makes sixteen hundred… the thousand I took, plus an extra six hundred, since it took me six days.”

“Seven days,” I say, glancing at my watch. “You missed midnight by about twenty minutes.”

She blanches, jaw going slack. “That’s bullshit. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a week! You haven’t answered any of my calls!”

Huh. “You called me?”

“Yes!”

I pull my phone from my pocket, opening my call list.

Missed call.

Missed call.

Missed call.

All blocked numbers.

“See?” she says. “Look at all those missed calls!”

“Number’s blocked,” I say, putting the phone away.

“So?”

“So, I don’t take calls from cowards.”

She blinks rapidly. “Coward? I left you voicemails!”

“I don’t listen to those. And before you even say it, I don’t text, either.”

“That’s just stupid,” she says. “You’ve been nowhere. I’ve looked. And people know who you are, sure, but nobody knows you. They don’t know where to find you. All they have is this stupid phone number that you never seem to answer. How is that my fault?”

“Tough break,” I say as I pull my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans. I shove the wad of cash in, barely able to fold it before putting it away. “You should get better friends.”

“That is… wow.” She laughs, not a stitch of humor to the sound. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I must be the worst person in the world to have stumbled upon you.”

I don’t respond to that, watching her posture change, outrage washing away all restraint. She yanks her coat open, a little black dress greeting me beneath. She pats herself down, reaching into her bra and yanking out a stack of bills. More singles. She counts them, flicking through the money so heatedly I’m expecting her to rip a few.

Shaking her head, she tosses the cash on the bar in front of me. “Twenty-nine dollars. Oh, and…” She reaches into the bag on her shoulder, pulling out a small zippered pouch. She holds it upside down above the bar, a few coins spilling out of it. She scowls. “Like, sixty-six cents.”

“Look at that,” I say, snatching up the money—even the change—and shoving it in my pocket, not bothering to put it in my wallet this time. “Only seventy dollars and thirty-four cents to go.”

She storms away, nearly knocking over the stool as she goes, charging through the bar and disappearing outside into the cold night. I turn in my seat again, facing Blondie, not surprised to see she’s watching me warily, no doubt trying to make sense of that exchange in her drunken state.

“Where were we?” I brush a curl from Blondie’s face, my fingertips grazing her warm cheek, making the blush return. “Oh, right… my scar.”

I launch into a story about a doomed afternoon in Central Park with my family, how we witnessed a mob hit and became collateral damage in the process. Leave no witnesses behind. I survived, vowing vengeance on those that attacked us. I’ve got her eating out of the palm of my hand, more hero than villain in her mind, as I place a hand on her knee and slowly run it up her thigh. I’m about to take it further when the door bursts open. Coldness sweeps through the bar, footsteps loud as they stomp my way, even though the woman is in her bare feet for some reason. She’s f*cking crazy.