Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(88)

Scarlet.

I don’t acknowledge her, and she stands there, quietly waiting, and waiting, and waiting, until her patience grows thin. Groaning, she shoves away from the doorframe and takes a single step closer, right over the threshold.

Grabbing the gun, I cock it, aiming it her direction, my finger on the trigger, ready to pull it when she takes an immediate step back.

“Whoa, buddy,” she says, raising her hands defensively. “Testy today.”

“You stole my car.”

“I borrowed it,” she says, pulling the keys from her pocket and holding them up. “It’s right outside.”

I look at her, raising my eyebrows, voice dead serious as I repeat myself. “You stole my car.”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t. You told me to do whatever I wanted. Those were your exact words. Do whatever you want to do, Scarlet.”

“I didn’t mean take my car!”

“Yeah, well, you really didn’t specify, did you? ‘Do whatever you want to do’ means I could do whatever I wanted to do.”

“And what, you wanted to steal my car?”

“I wanted to drive it,” she says, “so I borrowed it.”

My fingertips are tingling, my heart pounding hard. The adrenaline, as it merges with the anger, is one hell of a rush. It almost makes me sick to my stomach, the way it takes over my insides.

God, I want to shoot this woman...

“So you borrowed it,” I say, repeating her words.

“Got you on a technicality, huh?” she says as she leans against the doorframe, like she’s not worried at all.

“You think I won’t kill you? Do you honestly think I won’t pull this trigger, technicality or not?”

“I think you might,” she says.

“That doesn’t scare you?”

“Should it?”

She sounds genuine, asking that, like she really wants to know if she should be scared. I want to say yes, it should terrify her, because it terrifies damn near everybody else, but I don’t know... would I be scared? I don’t think so. The fear of dying left me long ago, the first time death knocked at my door. I don’t know exactly what she’s been through, but being as the head of the Russian mob is currently hunting her, I’m thinking shooting her in the face would be merciful compared to what he might want her for.

But mercy killings aren’t really my thing.

“Where’d you go?” I ask, lowering the gun, setting it back down on the table.

“Home,” she says.

“Home?”

“Yes.”

I motion for her to come in, and she strolls closer as I say, “I wasn’t aware you had one of those.”

She pauses in front of me. “Doesn’t everybody?”

She’s not making much sense at the moment.

She seems almost... dazed.

I grasp her chin, tilting her head as I pull her face closer to me. Her eyes are bloodshot, glassy. “Are you high?”

She laughs bitterly at my question. “No.”

“There’s something off about you.”

Scarlet clutches my wrist, trying to pry my hand away. “I’ve had a rough day, so excuse me for not being my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed self, Lorenzo.”

I let go when she averts her gaze.

She’s been crying, I realize. She sucked it the f*ck up before walking in here, but there’s no doubt she was crying.

I look at my puzzle, grabbing a piece, trying it in a few places. “Where’s home, Scarlet? With the Russian *?”

She laughs bitterly again as she takes a step over, helping herself to my chair. Tilting her head back, she scrubs her hands over her face. “No, not with him.”

“Good,” I say, “because if I find out you took my car for a rendezvous with that jackass, I will shoot you, technicality or not.”

“You think I’d…? That I would really… with him?” She blinks rapidly, staring at me, looking like she might try to cry again, this time in front of me. “That’s just... wow. You don’t understand. You just don’t get it. If you did, you wouldn’t think... ugh!”

She throws her hands up, shaking her head. Okay, she didn’t cry, but I definitely offended her.

“So, tell me about home.”

“Do you really give a shit?”

“Maybe.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

I continue working on my puzzle.

“It’s a white house with a bright red door and wooden floors. It’s small, I guess, but it’s two stories tall, two bedrooms, one bathroom, you know, with everything else that comes in a house. It has a lot of little spaces, cabinets and closets and cubby holes.”

“And that’s home?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because home is where the heart is, I guess,” she says.

“And what, your heart’s here? I need some elaboration. You’re weirding me the f*ck out with this.”

She laughs at that. “No, but it’s not there, either. Not anymore. It’s just... it’s hard to explain. I wish it was still there, and seeing the place, well, it just reminds me that it’s gone.”

“So why go there?”