Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(84)

“Are you hungry, kitten? You must be starving. I have been so busy today I have not fed you.”

He didn’t wait for her response before standing back up and grabbing her hand. She looked at his inked fingers in surprise as he pulled her along.

He’d never held her hand before.

“What do you like?” he asked, looking down at her. “You do not like my food, so tonight I will treat you to yours.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “Take a pick.”

“Peanut butter and grape jelly!”

He laughed. “I do not think we will find that here.”

She ended up with hot dogs, eating two whole ones by herself, and he even bought her a chocolate ice cream cone before they returned to the car to make the trip back to the palace. She smiled as they drove along, watching out the window, sitting in the front seat of his car, where she wasn’t supposed to sit.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said quietly when they parked.

It had been a good day. She felt happy. Maybe the Tin Man wasn’t so bad. Maybe she should think of him as something else, maybe something like Daddy.

Just Daddy.

He cupped her chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment, before whispering, “If only you were not so much like the suka.”





Chapter Twenty-Three





Three injured. Three dead.

That’s what all the news reports said.

Six people caught bullets that night at Mystic—half of them died, while the other half lived.

The neurotic * that exists inside of me loves the symmetry of it. Three has always been my favorite number. Three books in a trilogy. Three sheets to the wind. They say the third time is the charm. Three strikes and you’re out. Rock, paper, scissors... Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice... the good, the bad, and the ugly... need I go on?

Hell, there are three good Star Wars movies. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which ones I’m talking about.

They say deaths come in threes, too.

I don’t know who they are, but they’re on the mark in this case. Three dead because a madman burst into a club, hunting for Scarlet.

That’s one hell of a burden to carry.

“Sorrowful.”

Scarlet turns to me when I say that word.

“That’s how you look,” I tell her, grabbing her wrist, my fingers pressing into the ‘S’ tattoo. “Sorrowful.”

She glances down at where I’m touching her, giving a small half-smile, before looking back at the club in front of us. “That’s not what it stands for.”

“I’m starting to think it doesn’t stand for a damn thing,” I say. “Sucker. Me. For f*cking thinking it had any meaning. Maybe you just like the letter S.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it’s not even an S at all,” I say, examining it. “Maybe you got f*cked up one night and woke up the next morning and there it was, and even you don’t know what it stands for.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you’re just being salty as hell.”

She pulls her arm from my grasp. “Or maybe it doesn’t involve you, so it shouldn’t concern you. You ever think about that?”

“Smart ass.”

She laughs, the sorrowful look fading. “Shut up.”

“Make me, slut.”

She gasps, shoving me so hard I stumble a step. “You *.”

“What? It starts with an ‘s’.”

“Such a shithead,” she says. “Can’t you just... be nice for once? People died here, Lorenzo. I’m trying to, you know...”

“Be sorrowful?”

“Be respectful.”

“Oh.” I make a face, waving that off. “Fuck them.”

“What?”

“Fuck them,” I say again. “You think a single one of them would’ve mourned you, Scarlet? You think they’d be respectful if you died?”

She’s quiet, staring at the club, not answering that.

“So f*ck them,” I say for the third time. “You have to be careful who you give pieces of yourself to, because even a little bit here and there adds up to a hell of a lot eventually, and it’s not worth it, losing yourself to them, giving yourself to people who don’t give a f*ck about you. You keep pouring yourself into other people and you’ll just wind up empty.”

She sighs. “You’re—“

“An *, I know.”

She cuts her eyes at me. “I was going to say you’re right.”

I cock an eyebrow at her. “I’m what?”

“You’re right.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. She’s learning.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Maybe later,” I say, stepping away from the curb to approach the club. “Other things to do first.”

“Wait, what? Where are you going?”

“Inside.”

“Why?”

“Figured I’d send my condolences to Georgie Porgie while I’m here.”

“How do you even know he’s here?”

“I don’t,” I say, glancing back at her. “You coming?”