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“Don’t you have somewhere else to go be an asshole?” I ask him. “Or were you just flying around the neighborhood, looking to smear someone across your grille like a new hood ornament?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t have chosen such a mouthy one.”
I frown. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe your schedule isn’t that busy, if you have time to sit here and banter like the hotshot you so clearly think you are.”
He pauses, taking his time to drink me in again before answering. That’s how it feels: like he’s drinking me in. Slurping a little bit more of me up with every pass of his eyes, whether I like it or not.
Spoiler alert: I do.
“You weren’t kidding. Youarehaving a bad day.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Is it written on my forehead?” I’ve got my fists balled up and planted on my hips, face screwed up in anger. The fact that he’s so obnoxiously calm after his initial bellowing outburst is irritating me.
I’m in one of those moods where I’m like,My world is shit, so everyone else’s should be, too.It’s not fair for him to be so cool and collected.
“No,” he murmurs. “It’s written in your eyes.”
I shiver involuntarily. “Are you a fortune teller or just a run-of-the-mill creep?”
“Neither. I’m a businessman.”
That makes me snort. “And your business brings you to the most boring suburb in the country at—” I check my watch—“ten p.m. on a Tuesday?”
“As a matter of fact,tigrionok,it does.”
“Sounds like you need a new line of work.” I blink. “Also, what did you just call me?”
“Tigrionok,” he enunciates in a cool, dark rumble. “It means ‘little tiger cub.’ Because you’ve got your claws out, but I don’t think you have the faintest idea how to use them.”
I back up a few steps. I’m suddenly, painfully aware of how isolated we are. This stretch of Evanston isn’t exactly the big city. It’s silent and still everywhere I look. The thunder clouds overhead seem to be pressing down on us like a big, flat palm smushing me into the earth.
“Is that a threat?” It takes everything I’ve got to keep my voice from trembling.
The man chuckles and spreads his hands wide as if to show me he’s unarmed. “I have better things to do than threaten feisty little girls who don’t know how to look both ways before they cross the street.”
“You came barreling out of nowhere! This is Evanston, not the Daytona fucking 500.”
“Excellent reminder. Let me get the fuck out of here then.” He turns to go back to his car, which is still growling and vibrating.
But just before he gets in, he stops and looks up at me again. It sends goosebumps racing down my spine. “Someone did hit you.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother denying it. “Did you hit them back?”
I can’t help but let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Slapping your own dad is pretty unforgivable.”
“Slapping your own daughter is worse,” he lashes out, so viciously that my breath catches in my throat for a moment. “Any man who does that is a coward.”
I think about my dad’s frail, trembling hands. The way the skin hangs loose on his neck these days, so gaunt he almost matches Mom.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe he is.”
Then, to my everlasting horror, a tear leaks down my cheek.
I clap my hand over my face almost as soon as I feel it. But, to pile horrors on top of horrors, the man sees it, because of course he does.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, as more tears follow the first. “I don’t know why I—”
The words die on my tongue.
Because the man has slammed his door shut.
