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“Farrow.”
The strain in my own voice surprised me.
Junior’s hand froze midair.
Octi whipped her head around, blinking at me, surprised. “What?”
“Are you squeamish?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I slid my knife out and tossed it right into Brett Junior’s outstretched hand.
“What the fuck?” Brett gawked at his missing fingertip. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?”
Good question.
What the fuck, indeed.
No worries. Nothing to see here.
Just protecting my antidote.
Surely, protection of private property laws will hold up in a court of law.
“Nooo.” He shed fat tears onto his injured hand, holding it up to the light. “Not Palmela Handerson.”
What a shame that my aim never failed me.
I’d hit bullseye. The tip of his middle and index finger. Not enough to cause real damage other than some missing tissue and nerves.
Pity.
A little to the right, and I wouldn’t have to hear him screech.
“What the fuck, bro?” He clutched his wrist, keeling over and firing out an anguished cry. “You fucking sliced me, man. Sliced me!”
I did, and I wish I could do it again.
Junior patted the floor, trying to find his discarded fingertips. They’d splattered onto the tiles like confetti.
Even now, blood gushed from the jagged cavity they’d left behind.
This marked the first time I’d tossed a knife at a target outside the practice range. The first time that I’d hit anything with this particular knife—Dad’s gift to me—ever.
Even though I knew the paperwork was going to be a hassle, I did not regret it.
“What the fuck.” Brett Junior progressed to screaming, stomping in place, staring at the fountain of blood spurting from his fingers.
Guess he decided not to look for his missing organs, after all.
“The fuck is—you fucked with the wrong person. I told you not to get anywhere near her. She’s mine.”
“It was just a friendly squeeze.”
“What a coincidence.” I strolled forward, collectedthe knife, and waved it before him, pinching the handle. “Just a friendly squeeze. Now your right hand won’t be of much use, even to jerk off to the thought of her.”
