Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(25)

“Tragic,” she says, looking at me, her makeup smudged even more now. It almost looks like bruises under her bloodshot eyes. Tragic. Her voice was tinged with bitterness, sarcasm, clearly a defense mechanism, because those eyes that regard me silently scream tragedy, the kind that isn’t to be made light of. The kind of tragedy that breaks bodies and steals souls. The kind that twists decent people into sociopathic *s.

The kind that turns beautiful women into ghosts.

Someone once told me that evil can sense itself inside of others, our hearts beating in a different rhythm than most, playing a morbid song that only other evil knows. And while I’m not saying she’s evil, and I’m not sure I’d call myself it, either, I know I’ve got demons, and those demons are sniffing all around her right now, recognizing something within her, something not-very-good.

“Who broke you?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Who desecrated something meant to be so pure?

She regards me, not reacting to that question, not denying it in the least or pretending to still be in one piece, as she sits beside me, thinking it over. Eventually, she turns away, grabbing my bottle of rum and helping herself to a double shot, which she swallows without hesitation. She shudders, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, her expression damn near erotic.

She likes it, I realize.

She enjoys the burn.

Can’t say I’m surprised.

You burn a little witch at the stake and she’ll laugh in your face.

That shouldn’t turn me on, I know, but f*ck if it doesn’t.

She’d smile, without a doubt. I know it now. If I wrapped my hands around her throat, if I strangled the life right out of her, she’d look me in the eyes and smile. It almost makes me want to do it. Almost makes me want to kill her, just to get the chance to watch her die. Most people go out on their knees, whimpering, begging, pissing their pants and snot-sobbing, like they’ve got no control over their bodies, leaky f*cking faucets of disgrace. It’s repulsive. But she’s got a backbone, one I’d get a hell of a lot of pleasure out of bending.

“Who says I’m broken?” she asks, opening up her eyes again, her expression calm, like the fire smothered whatever emotions she might’ve been contending with.

“I do,” I say. “I can tell just by looking at you.”

“And what, you think you can fix me?” she asks, turning in her stool to face me, shifting her body closer, so close I can smell the liquor on her warm breath as she whispers, “Think you can make me whole again? Save me from the world? Save me from myself? Fill me up, maybe f*ck the feeling back into me, like the big, strong, man you are? Make me a real woman, instead of a broken little girl?”

There’s a sickening sweetness to her voice that sends a chill down my spine. If I never heard a thinly veiled ‘f*ck you’ before, that was certainly one for the books. I move closer to her, uncomfortably so, cocking my head slightly as I lean in, watching as her body tenses. She thinks I’m about to kiss her, my mouth just inches from hers, before I stop, my voice gritty as I say, “On the contrary, Scarlet, I don’t think you need to be fixed at all.”

“No?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

She stares at me again, not moving.

This woman, she does a lot of staring.

I don’t like it.

Her gaze claws at my skin, like she’s trying to peel away layers and find what might exist beneath whatever she sees when she looks at me. I’m used to the horrified looks. I tolerate the pity f*cks. Men, they lower their eyes, they never look at my face for too long, but her? This little thief, barely five and a half feet of battered flesh and bone, stares me right in the eyes like she has not a fear in the world.

But it’s an act, I know, because everyone is afraid of something. Everyone. Even the most courageous man in the world fears cowardice. Hell, even I have fears, but I’m not telling you what they are, so don’t even ask me.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, “but I bet I can guess.”

She arches an eyebrow. It looks a lot like a challenge.

“I’m guessing it was a man,” I say, “a man who swore he would save you from the world but one that ended up destroying your world instead.”

Her cheek twitches.

That’s all the confirmation I need.

Without responding, she shoves her stool back, away from the bar, and stands up. She pauses there, between us, looking me in the face again. “Sixty-six cents.”

“What?”

“You owe me sixty-six cents,” she says, matter-of-fact.

I turn around in my stool, watching as she walks away, leaving me with those words. Sixty-six cents. The corners of my lips twitch, amusement finally winning the battle, wiping away all annoyance for the moment. She heads for the door just as it opens, a blast of cold air rushing through the bar, carried inside with a group of loud guys. White, every single one of them, the blond-haired, blue-eyed frat boy variety, three-sheets to the wind. Scarlet slams right into one of the guys so hard she nearly knocks him on his ass.

BAM.

He staggers as she grabs ahold of him, like she’s attempting to keep the guy upright. Her hand slips into his pocket, yanking out a wallet, as she says, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

He gets his wits about him and drunkenly grins at her like she’s the prettiest thing in the world, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, it’s okay, babe! Don’t tell me you’re leaving? Come on, let me buy you a drink!”