Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(39)

That cocktail morphs into a vicious storm, though, when her gaze finally lands, a small smile breaking out along her pretty face.

A man exits the art gallery beside Dahlia’s Diner, pausing to lock up before spinning around and heading over to her. He swings his keys around an index finger, whistling as he strides in her direction, and suddenly I’m unsure if the rosy tinge to her cheeks is from the cold temperature outside, or the dark-haired fucker invading her personal space.

Her mouth moves, mumbling something I’m too angry to register, and then he’s stepping in and pulling her into his embrace. His bronzed skin is such a deep contrast to hers, and I hate seeing the two pressed together.

Curling my hands over the edge of the wooden table, I tighten my grip, allowing the pressure to build until the surface creaks.

Thoughts of murder pulse along my spine, scratching at the bone, and I bite down against the urge to bolt out there and beat him bloody for touching what belongs to me.

But I can’t ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for, and that would certainly not go over well when I report back to Liam. He thinks this trip is my attempt at finding inspiration and completing my album for Symposium, and I don’t really want to have to explain a body count this early on.

My father, the only other person who knows I’m here—and the only one who knows why—wouldn’t mind if I got my hands dirty. In fact, he’d probably encourage it.

God knows he’s no saint.

Still, there’s only one corpse I want to deal with, and she has no fucking clue I’m here.

The waitress returns, a white ceramic mug sitting in the middle of her tray, and she sets it down in front of me. Reaching into the pocket of her little black apron, she tosses two extra Lipton tea bags on the table, then steps back, hugging the tray to her chest.

She’s a pretty girl—those gemlike green eyes set in a delicate, lightly freckled face, and the way she stares a bit too long makes me think she’s eager to please.

Glancing at the betrayal across the street, I consider taking the waitress up on her unspoken offer. Let my mind run with the idea of taking her to the bathroom in the back and unloading all my stress on her.

In the vision, though, it’s not her face I see.

It’s Riley.

And though it might feel good in the moment, it wouldn’t after.

Besides, that’s not why I’m here. If my dick gets wet, it’ll be at my sweet little angel’s discretion, and not a moment sooner.

“Sorry about the wait,” the waitress says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Would you like a complimentary oatmeal raisin cookie, for your trouble?”

Wincing internally, I shake my head. “No trouble at all,” I say, leaning in to read her name tag, “Jade. Keep the cookie.”

Fishing into my coat pocket, I slide out from the booth and drop three hundred-dollar bills on the table, scooping the mug into my hands.

“Keep the change, too.”

I leave her standing there, stunned into silence, and head out the glass front door. An overhead bell signals my departure, and the man across the street glances my way.

His beard irritates me. It’s too long—if he buried his face between Riley’s glorious thighs, she’d be left with an uncomfortable itch.

Nothing like the sweet burn my stubble created at the tattoo shop.

Dick throbbing, I stuff a hand in my pocket to adjust, not dropping the man’s eyes once they reach mine. He makes a face, and I pull a peppermint candy out, popping it from the wrapper into my tea.

It immediately begins dissolving, and I bring it to my mouth slowly, smiling around the rim of the mug as the first scalding drops touch my lips.

The man leans down, saying something in Riley’s ear, and then he finally looks away.

My heartbeat races as he slips his hand in hers, tugging her the opposite direction, leading her farther from me.

I sip my drink, soaking in that peppermint flavor as it singes my tongue, promising silently that I’ll see her soon.





19





As I rinse a head of lettuce beneath the faucet in my kitchen sink, I try not to let my irritation bleed through my actions.

Caleb Pruitt lies on the floor in front of my dishwasher, a screwdriver in his mouth, humming Christmas tunes while replacing a hose. Despite my reassurance that I’d call a plumber in the morning, Lunar Cove’s golden boy refused to pass up the opportunity to help out.

I shouldn’t bitch—he’s about the only friend I’ve made in town, aside from Jade at the local diner.

Not to mention, him fixing the appliance keeps unnecessary strangers from coming to my home.

We met at the art gallery on the boardwalk; one night, after spending nearly a year here without leaving the house, my loneliness got the best of me and I decided to go out.

He’d been standing beside a clay sculpture of Atlas, carrying the globe on his shoulders, and I’d been so mesmerized by the sleek design and the impossibly smooth edges that I’d nearly knocked it over trying to get closer.

Turns out, Caleb owns the art gallery. The Pruitts are Lunar Cove royalty, with each of the three sons in charge of various businesses around town.

From that night on, Caleb planted himself in my life, always willing to lend a hand, even when I say I don’t need it.

That should probably worry me, but then I remember how boring it is here without a friend, and I ignore it. Hoping he gets the hint that my feelings are strictly platonic.