Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(24)

She pulls away. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I told you to.”

She scoffs, dramatically rolling her eyes. It strikes me as wrong. Childish. The woman has a spark in her, a fire running wild, but that kind of immaturity seems beneath someone with brass balls of her caliber. Sure, I don’t know her, so maybe she really is just a brat. I’ve met my fair share of those since coming to New York. Hell, I’ve f*cked my fair share of them. But my intuition tells me something different.

Besides, I’ve seen her innocent act. She plays people like they’re a piano and she’s Chopin, pounding away at their keys, and the ignorant fools don’t even hear her music. I hear it, though. It’s pretty goddamn loud to my ears, the kind of music that resonates with the deepest, darkest parts of the soul… or whatever bit of it you might have left. Her own little Funeral March. Dun, dun, da-dun…

“Sit down,” I say again, this time shoving the stool toward the bar, damn near pinning her with it. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Do I look like someone who can afford a drink?”

My eyes scan her when she asks that, knowing she doesn’t have a penny to her name at the moment. It’s curious, though, why she does what she does if she’s not rolling in money...

“Sit down,” I say for the third time, “before I make you.”

“I’d seriously like to see you try,” she says, but despite those words, she slips up onto the stool beside me, not putting up nearly as much of a fight as I expected. While I tend to appreciate people surrendering, it’s a pity, because I probably would’ve enjoyed making her.

I lean her way, my mouth near her ear. “Good girl.”

“I’m not sitting here because you told me to,” she says angrily. “I’ve just had a really shitty night, yeah, a really shitty life, so I could use a drink. But don’t think this means I’m staying here for you, or because of you, or that I’m interested in having a threesome with you and Goldilocks over there, because that’s not happening.”

“Not a fan of threesomes?”

“Not a fan of you.”

“Ah, that’s crazy,” I say, snatching up the empty shot glass the bartender gave me earlier tonight. I pour some rum into it before shoving it Scarlet’s way. “Everyone likes me.”

She picks it up. “Nobody likes you.”

I grin as I turn back to Blondie. Even she doesn’t seem to be fond of me at the moment, annoyance crossing her face as she glares in Scarlet’s general direction. “You like me, don’t you, beautiful?”

Her sky-blue eyes turn my way, no longer cloudy from the alcohol haze. No, that window of opportunity has passed. Her expression is guarded, like maybe she’s seeing me for the first time, self-preservation rearing its ugly head. You see, while women like bad boys, they don’t really like them. They want a bad boy in reputation, not one in execution. They don’t want to see it. They don’t want to be reminded we’re not good people, that it’s not a role we’re playing.

It happens time and time again.

You shoot one scumbag in front of a pretty little blonde and suddenly you go from being James Dean to Charlie Manson.

Women don’t like Charlie Manson.

Well, those with any sense don’t...

Blondie shoves her stool back and mutters, “I need to use the restroom,” before walking off, grabbing her coat and carrying her purse along with her. She’s not coming back. That much is obvious.

“Huh.” I turn back around. “Guess nobody does like me.”

“Told you,” Scarlet says.

“Ah, well, that was for the best,” I say as Scarlet brings the shot to her lips. “I probably would’ve shoved her head in the toilet when I f*cked her in the bathroom. Might’ve drowned her by accident.”

Those words come from my lips when Scarlet tries to swallow the liquor, catching her off guard, it seems, because she chokes. Rum spews out as she coughs, her eyes watering. Her face would be bright red if it weren’t for all the makeup. She grabs her chest, trying to take a deep breath, as the bartender rushes over. “Morgan? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she wheezes, not sounding fine at all, which makes the guy panic. He’s three seconds away from jumping over the bar, from attempting CPR, and I’m not the only one who sees it. Scarlet holds up her hands in front of her, shaking her head. “Really, seriously, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong hole.”

Grabbing a rag, he wipes down the bar in front of her, still making a fuss. “Are you sure? Can I do anything?”

“The woman said she’s fine,” I chime in, slapping her on the back a few times. “Run along now, Bar Boy.”

He doesn’t argue, frowning as he walks off, offering only a brief look back at her. Scarlet catches her breath and scrubs her hands over her face as she mutters, “I’m starting to understand what everyone says about you.”

“And what, pray tell, do they say? Don’t leave me in suspense here.”

“That there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Oh, well, I could’ve told you that. There’s a lot wrong with me.”

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “For one, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting my dick wet tonight, thanks to you, which I’d say is certainly a problem, don’t you think?”