Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(68)

“Scarlet.”

He lets out a low whistle. “What does he want with her?”

“Didn’t say, but he’s offering one hell of a reward to whoever hands her over.”

He drives away from the club, merging into traffic. Not a word is spoken, but I can see him fidgeting, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

He’s wondering if I’m going to take the offer.

He doesn’t ask, though.

Maybe he’s afraid of hearing my answer.

Maybe, deep down, he already knows.





Chapter Eighteen





I don’t have cable. Hell, there isn’t even a television in this rundown apartment. No Wi-Fi. No computer.

I’ve got a cell phone, of course, one of those cheap prepaid burner ones, loaded with minutes in case of an emergency, but I usually forget to charge it, so a lot of good that does.

I used to have a stereo, but not anymore. Music surrounded me too many nights as it was and reminded me that I became this woman, the one who danced until her feet had blisters, the one who wore skimpy lingerie to work.

The woman I never wanted to be.

A woman I might never get away from.

I miss it all sometimes. I miss the noise. Movies. Music. Laughter. Fun. I miss dancing for the hell of it and playing games. The only time I run anymore is when I’m being chased.

Just once, I want to throw caution to the wind again, go where my heart leads me instead of always worrying, worrying, worrying. I want to laugh, and shout, and sing at the top of my lungs, dance in the moonlight and actually feel happy about it for once. Yeah, right. I want to hear birds chirping instead of men catcalling. I want to hear music playing that makes me smile instead of—

A doorknob turning.

Shit.

My head snaps up, eyes going straight to the apartment door. Even in the darkness, I can see it slowly opening.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I move as silently as possible, running on my tiptoes, grateful the wooden floor doesn’t squeak as I dart into the kitchen. Snatching a knife from the drawer, I slide into the small space beside the fridge, pressed up against the wall, my heart frantically racing. I try to hold my breath, straining my ears, listening for footsteps, or movement, or something. Maybe heavy breathing?

I hear nothing.

It’s silent, and still, the air frigid in the apartment, so cold my teeth chatter as I shiver. Or maybe that’s from fear, dumbass. I stay in place, hiding, waiting, but nothing’s happening.

Minutes tick away.

Maybe I’m going insane.

It’s dark. I could’ve imagined it, right?

Maybe I did.

I give it a few more minutes, the apartment remaining quiet, before I take a deep breath. Face your fears…

I peek around the fridge and step out, barely making it three steps through the kitchen when a shadow moves in the darkness, a figure stepping into the doorway. Fuck. It’s like being punched in the chest, the air leaving my lungs, my vision blurring for half a second as I grip the handle of the knife tightly, ready to fight.

I raise my arm, but before I can lunge, bright light hits me, and I wince. What the f*ck? It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up, for my eyes to make out the sight of Lorenzo, his hand on the light switch right inside on the kitchen wall.

The * turned the light on.

He raises an eyebrow, not saying a word, as he casually leans against the doorframe, clutching a bottle of liquor, taking a drink, his eyes on my hand.

On the knife.

Shit.

Instinctively, I release my grip, letting it clatter to the floor by my bare feet. My hands are trembling. I clench them into fists, but it doesn’t little to calm me down. “Jesus Christ, Lorenzo, you scared me!”

He meets my gaze, taking another drink, before waving the bottle toward the knife. “Thought I told you not to pull another knife on me.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” I say. “You didn’t exactly announce yourself.”

He says nothing, drinking some more, watching me as he does. His gaze crawls across my skin, giving me goose bumps. I shiver again, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m fully clothed, wearing pajamas—old gray sweats and a black t-shirt, my hair still wet from a shower, knotted on top of my head in a messy bun. I’m wearing not a stitch of makeup, my skin bare except for the lotion I always wear.

Shoving away from the doorframe, Lorenzo strolls through the kitchen, approaching. The closer he gets, the more my heart races, my stomach doing somersaults. He’s not drunk, I don’t think, the bottle in his hand only a quarter of the way gone, but there’s something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it. “What’s wrong with you?”

He stops right in front of me. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Even the way he says that feels wrong, but I can’t exactly explain it. I don’t know what it is. Besides, he just answered my question with a question, which is a giant red flag.

I don’t answer him, since he didn’t answer me. After a moment, he raises a hand, to touch me, but I take a step back, putting space between us. His brow furrows, and I try to go around him, to get out of the kitchen, but he grabs my arm, pulling me back toward him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he says. “Answer my question.”