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“What the… What’s this?” Mark doesn’t look quite so fucking charming when he’s about to shit his pants.
“Hear you got some plans tonight with the pretty lady cop?” I get up in his face and tighten my grip on his collar until he splutters.
“Yes,” he just about manages to choke out.
“Well, let me make this clear. If you ever want to toss your dick off again, you’re gonna be a no-show,” I warn.
Christ, this guy's pathetic. Wilting to nothing. No fight, no protest, just a nod of his head to tell me he understands.
“If I ever see you talk, look at, or even think about Deputy Monroe in anything other than a professional capacity, I'll cut out your tongue and use it to wipe my ass.” I release him, letting his body slump into a heap on the ground. Then taking out a toothpick from my cut, I pop it between my teeth and snigger at the mess of a man at my feet.
“Wait, I…I haven't got her number. I have no way of letting her know I can’t, um… make it,” he stutters at me.
“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him, and just as I’m about to turn and walk back to my bike, I crouch in front of him instead.
“You… got a reservation or something?” I ask him, curious to where he’d have taken her.
“Yeah, at the Olive Tree. I’ll cancel.” His hands tremble as he takes out his phone.
“No, keep it. She’ll still be going.” I ruffle his hair before straightening myself back up.
The whole ride home, I debate what to do. I could do nothing, have Deputy Monroe dress herself up all pretty for no reason. But there’s no fun in that.
If I really wanted to piss her off, I’d go as Mark Peterson's replacement. I like the idea of that, not because I like her, because I like fucking with her. She looks so damn sexy when she gets all riled up and mad. So sexy, that it makes the decision an easy one.
I am taking Miss Monroe out on a date, and if she’s lucky, I might just let her come after.
I’m relieved to find our cabin empty when I get there, and after hitting the shower, I search through my wardrobe for something to wear. I’ve never been on a date before, so how the hell should I know what to be wearing for one? I take out the black shirt that I save for funerals and tuck it into the only pair of jeans I own that ain’t ripped. Then checking myself over in the broken mirror that hangs on my wall, I slick back the blonde hair that's flopped over my forehead and pull a comb through my beard.
The rapping at the door irritates me, and the fact that Rogue doesn't wait for a response and barges right in pisses me off even more.
“We’re out of pot, so I’m taking some of yours… Whoa, who fucking died?” She stands static, her pink lips wide open as she takes me in.
“Nobody died.” I shrug her off, marching over to the teapot where we keep our stash. Mom gave it to us when we moved in. Apparently, it’s some kind of family heirloom. Screwy won’t throw it out, so I found a use for it. Taking out a baggy with a few buds in, I hand it over, hoping she’ll do one.
“So why you wearing your funeral get-up?” she asks, making it clear she’s going nowhere when she kicks out a chair and takes a seat.
“I’m going on a date,” I mumble the word date in the hope she won’t catch it and fuck off.
But this is Rogue, and Rogue likes to poke.
“Did you just say you're going on a date?” She throws her head back dramatically and laughs like a hyena being strangled.
“It ain't like that, and don’t fucking laugh at me.” I shake my head at her.
“Come on, you can understand why I find it funny. Going on a date isn’t exactly a very Squealer thing to do.” She manages to compose herself.
“Fuck off, Rogue.” To think I was actually gonna ask her for some advice on this.
“Oh, I’m going nowhere until you tell me more.” Leaning her elbow on the table, she rests her chin on her fist. “Who’s the lucky girl?” She gets straight to the point.
“Nobody you know. And like I said, it ain’t like that.”
“Where you taking her?” God, with all the questions.
“Some restaurant in Fountain.” I take a seat opposite her.
“A restaurant. Fancy…” She looks impressed.
