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I rest my boot on his bicep, applying pressure and relishing in the sound of his strained grunt. His face turns a deep shade of crimson as he fights to keep any more noises from escaping him. I let out a sharp whistle Ma would be proud of, and two of the sheriff’s most trusted deputies look over their shoulders at me. They’re halfway down the road, no doubt heading this way before the sheriff waved them off.
“I need some help with this one,” I call out, jerking my thumb toward the guy still beneath my boot.
The deputies jog up the road, their footsteps in an eerie unison for a few seconds there. They stop on the other side of Richard, their expressions drawn and determined. I recognize them in the way you recognize most of Rosewood’s residents. And while they’re not as trustworthy as a Reaper, I don’t want to fucking wait for someone to wander up here or pull someone from the clubhouse.
They didn’t raid it or rob us, but the front of the building caught a few bullets. Nothing like what they did here, but enough that it needs to be cleaned up and repaired.
“Nova,” the deputy on the right, Wheeler, says. “Sheriff Redford said you had it under control here, so we were heading back to the gates.”
“You got a live one, eh?” Thompson muses, looking down his nose at the asshole on the ground between us.
“Seems that way. You two mind helping me for a second? I have a few questions for him, and I think he’ll be most comfortable in Southern Steel.”
“You sure you don’t want us to bring him in? Might be hard to clean all that”—Thompson pauses, tsking from the back of his throat—“blood outta your carpets.”
I grin at the deputies, all sharp edges and blunt teeth. “Nah, my studio has an in-floor drain I think will be extremely useful today.”
The deputies’ faces contort in amusement. Their eyes dance with dark mirth as they both take in Richard’s form, his palm still pressing against his shoulder. They exchange a look with one another.
“Sure thing, Nova. I’ll grab my truck, it’s easier with the open bed,” Thompson says.
I observe with a mix of satisfaction and detachment as the deputies roughly shove him into the bed of their dusty pickup. He’s doing absolutely nothing to make it easier on them, and I idly wonder if he’s going to be the type to try to die rather than talk.
I climb into the front seat with Thompson, Wheeler staying in the back with the Hell Hound. I direct them where to park for easiest access to my building.
Thompson and Wheeler handle my instructions without complaint, getting the pickup into position just outside my door. I hop out of the passenger seat and stretch my arms, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over me. This is what I’m good at—talking and fixing problems.
The deputies get him out of the truck and put him exactly where I direct inside one of my studios.
“Let us know if you need anything,” Thompson calls over his shoulder, dusting his hands off on his uniform pants.
Wheeler waves a hand over his shoulder. “Later, Nova. Good luck with the asshole.”
The asshole in question stands in the center of my work area, arms bound and raised above him, attached to a hook and pulley system I installed for my brief stint with pendulum painting.
I gesture to his bound hands. “I installed it above the drain for easy paint cleanup, but I guess it works for blood too.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks, grimacing as he looks at me.
“Well, see, that’s the thing,” I murmur, circling around him like a predator does to prey. I reach out and deftly pluck his wallet from his back pocket. My fingers slip inside the worn leather billfold, and slip his driver’s license out. “Richard Miller of nine-twenty-eight Cleveland Avenue.” I whistle, my brows rising. “Damn, man, you don’t look like you’re thirty-five. I would’ve guessed fifty. I guess being the absolute scum of the earth ages you, yeah?”
I let out an exasperated sigh and pull out my phone to snap a photo of his license. With a flick of my finger, I send it to Bane, knowing he’ll work his behind-the-scenes magic. I slide his license back inside the wallet and toss it across the room with a flick of my wrist. It skids across the floor, landing just outside the circle of bright white from the overhead spotlights.
“Are you going to kill me?” He doesn’t sound scared really, more pitiful. Maybe a little resigned.
I shrug with a smirk. “Do you want me to kill you?”
His beady eyes scan the room we’re in and he sniffs. “Isn’t that why you brought me here, to your kill room?”
My face twists into a scowl and my neck arches back in surprise. “I don’t know what kind of fucked-up club you belong to?—”
“The only club worth being in.” He bares his teeth, the veins in his neck bulging.
Ah, there he is. I was wondering if he’d show any kind of backbone here. Still, it’s hard to take him seriously right now. His face is a mess. Sunburned from baking in Bane’s front yard, plus a busted lip and what looks like a blooming black eye courtesy of Rosewood’s finest deputies.
“Hmm,” I muse, turning around and heading to the cabinets on the far wall.
I’m feeling creative, and while I’m no stranger to the physical methods of getting information, I’ve found that psychological tactics often work just as well. This is my creative space, after all. If I killed him right now, it’d be a wasted death. And if there’s anything Ma taught me, it’s to be resourceful.
