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“No, not at all.” Jim holds out his hands, his shoulders lifting. “I got what you were saying. It’s just that things got mixed up. Look at this.”
He ducks behind the counter. Automatically, my hand grips my pistol, lifting it so the barrel is properly aimed. When he reappears with Calista’s backpack in his arm, I quickly stow away the firearm.
“Here,” Jim says, placing the item on the counter between us, careful to avoid the spilled alcohol. “She left this.”
I dip my head in acknowledgement but leave the item untouched. If this idiot thought that returning Calista’s backpack to me would lessen my wrath, he’s dumber than I thought. Another mistake on my part.
I’m discovering that I tend to make a lot of errors where Calista is concerned. She warps my thinking until it’s nothing except instinct, lacking the finesse and forethought I’m used to employing.
“Are we good?” Jim asks. He licks his lips and pours himself another shot, quickly downing the contents. “I spoke to the customer you…handledlast night, and he agreed not to press charges, so everything is cool. No harm, no foul.”
I tilt my head. “Are you done lying to me?”
“What?”
“Come now, Jim. We both know you not only hired Miss Green, but you also planned on fucking her.”
The flush on his face disappears, regardless of the alcohol trying to heat his skin. Pale, his eyes wide enough to see his dilated pupils, he takes a step back. A hum of satisfaction travels through me at witnessing his terror. It’s why I’m still here and the reason he’s not dead. Yet.
I guess you could say I like to play with my victims before their demise. Like smoke does with oxygen, I siphon their fear, letting it empower me. Some have even called me the Grim Reaper. It fits. If a person sees me in this capacity, it’s definitely because I’ve come to take their life.
“That’s not true,” he says. “I have nothing but respect for women.”
“I read your texts. The game is over. Apologize.”
The man’s brow furrows as he decides whether or not to tell me the truth. The outcome is irrelevant. I’ll pull it from him, even if I have to rip his skin from his body. Perhaps he sees the dark intent in my eyes, the one I’m not bothering to conceal. It would explain his immediate acquiescence.
“I’m sorry, okay? She’s so fucking hot I couldn’t help myself.”
My simmering anger boils over, barely restrained. The need to kill this motherfucker has my muscles vibrating with the desire to move. To mete out justice, yes. But more than that, I want him to suffer.Greatly.
“Are you telling me you didn’t notice?” he asks. “I mean, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because you want her for yourself?”
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “Undoubtedly.”
He clenches and unclenches his fists, his adrenaline getting the best of him. In the flight-or-fight response, he’s obviously the former. Too bad for him, I excel at the latter.
“Look, man, I’m sorry about all of this.” He walks up to the counter, beseeching me with his gaze while resting his palms on the flat surface. “Why don’t you both come back tonight and have free drinks on me?”
I sip on the whiskey.
“So, what do you say?”
My gaze finds his over the rim of my glass. In a swift, downward arc I slam the tumbler against the edge of the bar. The remaining liquid splashes against the wood and drips onto the floor, immediately forgotten at the high pitch of glass breaking. Shards fall, scattering across the bar like diamond fragments, leaving behind a single jagged edge.
I ram it into his hand.
The glass slices through tendon and bone with the force of my strike, only stopping once it drives into the wood underneath his palm. Blood wells. His scream of agony echoes in the room, a delightful sound.
“What the fuck?!” he shouts.
He further showcases his stupidity by attempting to wrench back his hand. Only to find it secured to the counter by the glass. More blood spills, coating his fingers and pooling on the wooden surface.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve my lighter. He goes still at the subtle click as a single flame appears, dancing when my breath stirs it.
“I warned you,” I say. “I gave you a chance to walk away and you didn’t take it. Instead, you thought you could touch what’s mine.Fuckwhat’s mine. For that, there’s no devil in hell or god in heaven who can save you. Burn, motherfucker.”
With a flick of the wrist, the flame meets the spilled alcohol and sweeps over the wooden surface. Fire licks at the bar and Jim’s skin. Smoke fills the air along with his screams for help. He flings curses at me while attempting to dislodge the glass from the wood, keeping him pinned as the fire swells around him.
