Even if Carmichael and I hadn’t met earlier, I still wouldn’t like him. He’s one of those men who has you plotting their demise within minutes of meeting them, the urge growing more rampant the more time you spend with them. If he hadn’t become a lawyer, I guarantee he would have been a serial killer. He has the psycho tenancies most men have, he just hides them with an expensive suit and worthless words.
Once we’re joined in the van by an additional three riot officers, we commence the most direct route to the courthouse. The instant I was arrested, Trey organized for my crew to line every route known to mankind. If I want out, I merely need to brace my tattooed hand on the ‘supposed’ bulletproof glass above my head, and my crew will jump into action.
I was born craving carnage. Chaos, death, and sidestepping justice is all I know. So, usually, the urge for destruction would have had me placing my hand on the glass over two miles ago.
Alas, a boring life is as meaningless as a moral one. I’ll still get the thrill I’m chasing tonight. It will just come from a pretty molten-haired woman with unique-colored eyes.
I stop sucking in Justine’s scent that grows stronger with each second I stare at her when she shouts, “Done.”
Her eyes pop up from the documents to me. They’re as dilated as predicated, heavy with need. A lesser man would believe her excitement stems from her being the only female in a tin box brimming with testosterone, but I know that isn’t the case. She’s forgotten everyone else in the van. As far as she is concerned, it’s just me and her.
“Now you just need to sign it.”
“Do not approach the detainee,” an armed guard roars when she attempts to hand me the paperwork.
When Justine recoils in fear, blood furiously pumps through my veins to cool my skyrocketing body temperature. I’m shackled to the floor, but no amount of metal will save him. One look, and a bounty will be placed on his head the instant I leave this van.
I hope he kissed his family goodbye this morning, because it was for the final time.
I work my jaw side to side when Justine says, “I just need a signature on the bottom of these forms.”
She’s shaking so hard, my home arrest documents shudder along with her words. Usually, I’d relish in the fear. But since it’s coming from her, I’m fucking ropeable.
“It’s just a few pieces of paper and a pen. What harm can be done?”
The guard snarls at Justine before jerking up his chin, wordlessly approving her request. I could let this be the end of it, he’s a dead man no matter how much he pleads, but our exchange not only presents the perfect opportunity to warm him about the wrath he’s about to face, it also gives me the chance to commence my ruse long before we reach the courthouse.
“Ten seconds,” I murmur while removing the documents from Justine’s grip.
Justine chokes down her annoyance before asking, “What?”
While her wide eyes dance between mine, seeking an answer to my riddled comment, I switch out the sheet of paper responsible for incarcerating me at the Popov compound until my case is presented to the courts with the one I filled in. I don’t bother darting my eyes between the many pairs I feel watching me, because even if they witnessed my not-so-inconspicuous swap, none of them are brave enough to confront me about it. Guaranteed.
“Ten seconds.” I bend the edges of the paper so my unstapled sheet appears to have been clipped with the original ones before saying, “That’s all it takes for me to kill a man with a pen.”
The true scope of Justine’s innocence is exposed for the world to see when she replies, “Oh.” I was anticipating a ‘gross,’ ‘eww,’ or a hard swallow. They’re typically the responses I get when talking about murder as if it’s an everyday occurrence.
She didn’t even bat an eyelid.
Keen to unearth more of her quirks, I keep our conversation alight. “What am I signing?”
My jaw clenches so firmly when Carmichael says, “It’s a petition for you to be placed under house arrest until better circumstances can be arranged,” my teeth will be ground to nubs by the end of today.
“I wasn’t asking you.” My sneer sounds as if it was delivered straight from hell. “I was asking Justine—mydefense attorney.”
Justine appears shocked by the possessiveness in my tone. She’s not the only one. Usually, I only look out for number one. Me. But instead of panicking about it, she explains, “It's as Mr. Fletcher stated, an application for house arrest.”
Hating the low hang of her head, compliments of Carmichael I’m-going-to-gut-him-alive Fletcher’s observant stare, I remove the strands of hair fallen in front of her eye before slanting my head to block Carmichael from her view.
“Your eyes show the confidence you fail to exude,Ahren. Don’t hide them from me.”
When she nods, I keep the boost her submissiveness fed my ego on the down-low by pretending to peruse the home arrest documentation as if it’s the first time I’ve agonized over one.
I need to take a moment to consider my next step. I live my life a million miles an hour, knowing it could end at any moment, but this is the first time I’ve thrown an outsider into the chaos. My crew face a grueling initiation process to ensure they understand the dangerous world they’re entering, as do the whores who service them after a gory day, so why am I not giving Justine the same leeway?
I don’t ask for shit. I take what I want, and bring fury down on those who dare to keep it from me, but for some fucked-up reason, I want this to be Justine’s decision.
I guess even those born evil don’t realize how much they want something until they risk having it taken from them.
