Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(34)

I follow her.

She’s in the kitchen, searching through the fridge. There’s not much in it—a jug of milk, a few takeout containers, some orange juice, and part of an old chocolate bar. It’s kind of pathetic. Scowling, Scarlet grabs the chocolate and gnaws on it before sipping orange juice straight from the carton. It’s some generic bullshit store brand juice, no pulp, watery. Smells sickeningly sweet. I know. I investigated before she got home. “How can you drink that?”

She shuts the fridge door and leans back against the counter, regarding me as she holds the carton. “This coming from a guy who drinks rum straight from the bottle?”

“Rum has its benefits. There’s no benefit to what you’re drinking. There’s not even any pulp in it.”

“What are you, the orange juice police?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, Mister Minute Maid, this juice here only costs a dollar at the bodega on the corner. I’d certainly call that a benefit.”

“Why don’t you have more money?” I ask, glancing around the gutted apartment. It’s barely livable, just the bare necessities. “You in debt to a loan shark or something? Is that the problem? The Aristotle * stealing everything from you?”

She glares at me, biting off a hard corner of the plain chocolate bar and chewing slowly. “Why are you still here?”

I shrug, knowing I’m striking a nerve. “I’m just saying... you’re gorgeous. Selling *, you ought to be able to afford more than this. Fucking you should cost a pretty penny. God knows that *’s probably worth it.”

Her glare softens to just a stare. She’s quiet, like she’s getting her thoughts in order, before she says, “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s whatever you make it, Scarlet,” I say. “I don’t pay to play, but my guys do, and you’re higher caliber than the women they usually slide on into. So you living like this makes no sense.”

“Yeah, well, it’s really none of your business, is it?”

“No.”

“There you go, then,” she says, waving her juice at me before taking another swig. “Unless you’re planning to lick it or stick it, Lorenzo, keep your nose out of my business.”

A smile touches my lips. Touché.

Opening the fridge again, she shoves the carton back in, tossing what’s left of the chocolate bar in a nearby trashcan. She strolls toward me, her eyes scanning my face. I grab her before she can walk out of the kitchen, pulling her to me, catching her off guard. She gasps softly, the sound rushing through me as I cup her chin, pulling her face up.

No hesitation, I press my lips to hers, kissing her hard. It’s only a few seconds before I push her back away, breaking the kiss already. She inhales sharply, eyes wide as she regards me, like she isn’t sure what the f*ck to think about what just happened.

I lick my lips. “It tastes cheap.”

She blinks, face contorting, like I’ve offended her. “What?”

“The orange juice,” I say. “I can taste it on your lips.”

“Oh, I, uh... oh.”

I sweep my thumb along her mouth as her lips part, like she wants me to kiss her again, even though we both know I’m not going to. “I prefer it with more of a bite. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” she whispers.

I pull my hand away and turn around. She says nothing as I leave.

Maybe that means she wants me gone, after all.

Or maybe she just knows she’ll see me again eventually.



There’s this place over in Brooklyn, a club called Limerence. On paper it’s just another strip club, but in reality, it’s the one of the biggest whorehouses around. A couple hundred bucks can get you the best half-hour of your life with a gorgeous bendy brunette who can take even the biggest sinner straight to heaven with just the flick of her tongue.

Or so I’ve heard...

The guys occasionally swing through when they’re not otherwise occupied, splurging on the strongest liquor and the sweetest women money can buy. I’ve never been, since paying for * isn’t my thing, and I’m certainly not there right now.

No, this place is the opposite of Limerence.

Mediocre building in a low-rate area near the river, skirting the slums, full of hoodlums with just a few bucks, shoving lone dollar bills in G-strings as they negotiate for a quick, cheap f*ck.

Mystic.

Nothing mystical about the shithole.

As it turns out, George Amello owns the place. Who would’ve thought? That makes him Scarlet’s boss, which is funny, you know, considering he told Seven he’d never heard of the woman.

“Can I help you?”

I turn toward the sound of that voice, to the guy standing right inside the main entrance at Mystic. Six feet tall, arms as thick as thighs, a dark bald head shining under the flickering colorful lights. He’s scowling the kind of way that makes me think he doesn’t know what it’s like to smile—that all business, panties in a f*cking twist kind of scowl. He probably thinks he’s intimidating, but a knee in his shriveled nuts could easily take him down.

“I’m here to see your boss,” I tell him, flicking my wrist, waving him away. “Run along and get him for me. Make it quick.”