Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(99)

“Well it’s a good thing that’s not what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Those words knock the breath from my lungs.

I gasp.

“Wait, you can’t!” I shout as he walks out, running after him. “Please, Lorenzo. You can’t just kill him!”

He’s got his phone to his ear, calling somebody, as he reaches the front door of the house, looking back at me. That wounded look flashes in his face, like I again offended him, as he grinds out, “Don’t tell me you care what happens to the bastard.”

“No, but—”

“But,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s always a but, isn’t there?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t. The guy terrifies you, and for the love of f*ck, I don’t know why. What’s he got on you, huh? What is it about him that has you wound so tight that you’re standing in my hallway, half naked, shaking, not wanting me to go blow his brains out so you’ll stop? I mean, do you like this? Is that it? Are you having the time of your life pissing your pants over this *? Because if that’s the case, carry on, baby. Don’t let me stop this game you’re playing.”

I can feel tears welling in my eyes, my voice cracking as I say, “It’s not like that.”

He senses it, I think, because his expression hardens, that anger rushing back into him. “So you’re just a *, huh? Maybe that’s what your Scarlet Letter stands for. Just a f*cking scaredy-cat. But I’m not putting up with that shit. It makes no sense.”

Lorenzo walks out, slamming the front door behind him, and I close my eyes, trying to keep tears from falling.

Face your fears and wipe your tears.

“Sasha,” I whisper, even though he’s gone, wrapping a hand around my wrist tightly, my palm covering the tattoo. “It’s all for Sasha.”





Chapter Twenty-Five





The dice clattered along the kitchen bar top, coming to a stop in the center of it. The little girl stood up on the stool, practically climbing on top of the bar, crawling across it.

“One... two... three...”

She pointed, counting the dots, as a loud huff sounded out across from her, so close she could smell the stale stench of breath. Vodka. She scrunched her nose up at the Cowardly Lion. Yuck.

He stared at her impatiently. “Well? What is it?”

“I’m counting them,” she said, looking back at the dice.

“Hurry it up,” he said. “I don’t have all day.”

The little girl was pretty sure he did have all day, since all he ever seemed to do most days was hang around there, but she didn’t say that, counting the dots.

Six on one; five on the other.

“Six and five,” she said.

“Which is...?”

She hesitated, counting the dots all together. “Eleven.”

“Eleven,” he agreed, snatching up the dice to roll them again, looking at her pointedly. “Well? What is it?”

Around and around, again and again, he kept rolling and she kept counting. Learning.

Footsteps headed their way, the Tin Man strolling into the kitchen, his brow furrowing as he glared at her sprawled out across the bar. “What are you doing?”

“Counting,” she said.

“I’m teaching her how to add,” the Cowardly Lion chimed in, taking a drink from his bottle. “She’s terrible at it.”

The little girl groaned, sitting back on the stool. “It’s no fun!”

“Life isn’t fun,” the Cowardly Lion said, pointing his bottle at her. “You don’t want to be dumb, do you, little girl?”

“I’m not dumb,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “My mommy—”

“Mommy or dummy?” he asked, laughing that mean way he sometimes did. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

“Enough,” the Tin Man said as he approached, snatching the little girl off the stool and setting her on her feet. “Run along, kitten.”

She stomped off, heading upstairs, and plopped down at the desk in the bedroom, crayons and paper scattered all around in front of her. Her chest felt all tight, like her heart was sad tonight.

Six months. Half a year.

The little girl didn’t know how many weeks that was, much less how many days. But she did know it was the end of December, which meant Christmas was coming.

Grabbing a fresh piece of paper, she started drawing, as the first bit of winter snow fell outside her window. She drew until the sun set over the city, until darkness crept in.

When she finished her first picture, she moved on to another, not stopping until that one was done, too.

“Perfect,” she said, holding them up, grinning, before snatching up Buster from the corner of the desk and making her way back downstairs. It was getting late, really late, and all the winged monkeys were gone.

She wondered if the Tin Man was sleeping, with how quiet it was, but flickering light filtered out from the den. The doors were cracked open, so she slipped between them.

The Tin Man sat in his chair near the fire, holding a bottle of vodka, his suit all rumpled.