Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J. M. Darhower

  I expect him to continue his story, but he grows quiet, simply working on his puzzle. “So what happened?”

  “The same guy who killed my father beat me half to death with a shovel before trying to bury me alive. I was sixteen at the time.”

  I gape at him. “Your mother hired the hitman to kill you?”

  “Didn’t have to hire him,” he says. “She’d married the motherfucker, so getting rid of the stepson was more like an anniversary present.”

  “I, uh… fuck.”

  “Together, they had Pretty Boy, the picture perfect little family with only one thing still standing in their way: me. My eighteenth birthday was approaching, so I knew, sooner or later, he was going to try to kill me again.”

  “Did he?”

  “Never got the chance. They died on the grove they tried to steal from me, so I guess that means I got the last laugh.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I just blurt out the first word that comes to my mind: “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m not sorry.”

  He laughs to himself, plopping down in his chair as he regards me. “You can come in.”

  Slowly, I stroll into the library, approaching where he’s sitting. I drop the envelope onto his lap. “A thousand bucks.”

  He picks it up, pulling out the cash, and shoves it right into his pocket without counting. Crumpling the envelope, he tosses it aside before pulling me down to him.

  His lips are soft as he presses them to mine, kissing me gently, sweetly, his tongue exploring my mouth and caressing mine. It doesn’t last long before he’s pushing me back away, creating some distance between us.

  “You taste like oranges,” he says, licking his lips. “Good oranges. Not that cheap watery shit from a box.”

  “Does that make you want to ravish me?”

  “Or else strangle you,” he says. “You walk a thin line.”

  I laugh at that as I turn to walk out, not wanting to press my luck any more tonight, and make it to the doorway when his voice calls out.

  “Scarlet?”

  I glance back at him. “Yes?”

  “I should’ve killed you.”

  He says that matter-of-fact. There’s no threat to the words, no anger in his voice, just a stark reality that sounds almost sorrowful. He should’ve killed me.

  I’ve stolen from him, used what belongs to him without permission, taking what I have no right to take. But yet I’m still alive, he’s kept me breathing, long after he would’ve killed others for doing what I did. I’m not sure why that is, why he grants me leniency that he doesn’t give others, and judging by his expression, I’d wager a guess that he doesn’t know why he does it, either.

  I nod. “You should’ve.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Three months.

  Ninety days.

  The little girl couldn’t count that high. She tried to keep track, but she lost her way somewhere in the middle, the days blurring together.

  She hadn’t left the palace at all. She’d missed three months of sunshine, missed running barefoot in the grass and soaring high on a swing, chasing butterflies and picking flowers for her mother to keep.

  The Tin Man wouldn’t let her go outside. All the doors were full of locks and armed with an alarm. So most days, when she got tired of drawing, she just stood at the window with Buster and stared out, remembering how her mother used to take her to the park every weekend and push her so high on the swings she thought she could fly.

  “What are you doing, kitten?”

  The little girl turned away from the window, looking to the Tin Man in the doorway of the bedroom. He didn’t look like himself today, not wearing a suit, dressed down in a pair of black shorts and a plain white t-shirt with white sneakers. Tattoos covered him. She never got to see most of them. They weren’t colorful pictures, like some people had, just weird drawings and words in dark ink, like he forgot a piece of paper and wanted to doodle one day.

  “Nothing,” she said, because it was true.

  She wasn’t doing anything.

  Just more waiting.

  “Then come on,” he said, nodding his head. “You can come with me to the beach tonight.”

  Her eyes widened. The beach? “Can I go swimming?”

  “If you can find something to wear to swim. You have five minutes. Be downstairs.”

  He walked away. He didn’t have to tell her twice. She tore the bedroom apart, finding a pair of black cotton shorts and a yellow tank top, yanking it on. It wasn’t a swimsuit, but that didn’t matter. She’d swim in a dress if she had to.

  She met him downstairs five minutes later, finding him in the foyer, holding a duffel bag with a towel draped over it.

  He barely even looked at her before opening the front door, ordering her to go ahead of him. The warm air blasted her when she stepped outside, and she smiled, feeling the last bit of the day’s sun on her face. It was already so late. Did people go swimming at nighttime?

  She didn’t ask, not wanting him to change his mind. They drove about ten minutes in his black car before parking near the shoreline. She could see the sand, could smell the water, could feel the breeze on her face as it rustled her messy hair. It was the best feeling ever.

  They walked out onto the beach just as the sun set. Nobody was in the water, few people even near the sand. It was closed, she realized. Everything around them was closed, even the amusement park in the distance. Off-season. Coney Island.

  “Go on,” he said, “but stay where I can see you.”

  “Won’t I get in trouble?”

  He scoffed. “From who?”

  “The police?”

  The Tin Man laughed, like he found the police funny, before waving toward the water. “Go swim. I will keep you out of trouble.”

  She didn’t know how he could do that, if swimming was illegal, but she wasn’t going to pass up the chance. She ran off, the sand soft against her bare feet, the water warm as she crashed right into it.

  It didn’t matter that she had no one to play with. It didn’t matter that she was out there on her own. After three months of only really having Buster, she was kind of used to being alone.

  She laughed, and splashed, soaked from head to toe, sand clinging to every part of her. Her attention drifted to the Tin Man every so often, making sure he could see her, and watched as a group of guys joined him. They stood in the darkness, talking, exchanging things, none of them looking like they were having fun out there on the beach. Flying monkeys. They weren’t like the others, though. These guys were new. They didn’t have tattoos. The Tin Man turned away from them eventually, his attention on her. He waved, motioning for her to come to him.

  Time to go.

  The little girl ran out of the water, heading straight for him, flinging water everywhere. She skidded to a stop near the group, her stomach queasy.

  One man let out a low whistle, a guy with freckles like polka dots and eyes like seaweed. “Man, she looks just like her, doesn’t she?”

  The Tin Man made a face as he shoved the towel around the little girl, covering even her head so she could barely see anyone. He pushed her behind him, away from the group, as he took a step toward the man, standing right up against him, his voice gravely serious as he said, “I let you have the suka, I let you stick your cock in her, and I did not kill you for it, but if you so much as ever ask about my daughter again, svinya, I will cut off your balls. I do not care what leverage you think you hold over me.”

  The Tin Man shoved against him, making the man retreat a few steps, and stood there, holding his ground, as the group left. Once they were alone, he turned back to the little girl, drying her hair as he crouched down before wrapping the towel around her properly and securing it under her arm.

  “Are you hungry, kitten? You must be starving. I have been so busy today I have not fed you.”

  He didn’t wait for her response before standing back up and grabbing
her hand. She looked at his inked fingers in surprise as he pulled her along.

  He’d never held her hand before.

  “What do you like?” he asked, looking down at her. “You do not like my food, so tonight I will treat you to yours.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Take a pick.”

  “Peanut butter and grape jelly!”

  He laughed. “I do not think we will find that here.”

  She ended up with hot dogs, eating two whole ones by herself, and he even bought her a chocolate ice cream cone before they returned to the car to make the trip back to the palace. She smiled as they drove along, watching out the window, sitting in the front seat of his car, where she wasn’t supposed to sit.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said quietly when they parked.

  It had been a good day. She felt happy. Maybe the Tin Man wasn’t so bad. Maybe she should think of him as something else, maybe something like Daddy.

  Just Daddy.

  He cupped her chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment, before whispering, “If only you were not so much like the suka.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three injured. Three dead.

  That’s what all the news reports said.

  Six people caught bullets that night at Mystic—half of them died, while the other half lived.

  The neurotic asshole that exists inside of me loves the symmetry of it. Three has always been my favorite number. Three books in a trilogy. Three sheets to the wind. They say the third time is the charm. Three strikes and you’re out. Rock, paper, scissors... Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice... the good, the bad, and the ugly... need I go on?

  Hell, there are three good Star Wars movies. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which ones I’m talking about.

  They say deaths come in threes, too.

  I don’t know who they are, but they’re on the mark in this case. Three dead because a madman burst into a club, hunting for Scarlet.

  That’s one hell of a burden to carry.

  “Sorrowful.”

  Scarlet turns to me when I say that word.

  “That’s how you look,” I tell her, grabbing her wrist, my fingers pressing into the ‘S’ tattoo. “Sorrowful.”

  She glances down at where I’m touching her, giving a small half-smile, before looking back at the club in front of us. “That’s not what it stands for.”

  “I’m starting to think it doesn’t stand for a damn thing,” I say. “Sucker. Me. For fucking thinking it had any meaning. Maybe you just like the letter S.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe it’s not even an S at all,” I say, examining it. “Maybe you got fucked up one night and woke up the next morning and there it was, and even you don’t know what it stands for.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe you’re just being salty as hell.”

  She pulls her arm from my grasp. “Or maybe it doesn’t involve you, so it shouldn’t concern you. You ever think about that?”

  “Smart ass.”

  She laughs, the sorrowful look fading. “Shut up.”

  “Make me, slut.”

  She gasps, shoving me so hard I stumble a step. “You asshole.”

  “What? It starts with an ‘s’.”

  “Such a shithead,” she says. “Can’t you just... be nice for once? People died here, Lorenzo. I’m trying to, you know...”

  “Be sorrowful?”

  “Be respectful.”

  “Oh.” I make a face, waving that off. “Fuck them.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck them,” I say again. “You think a single one of them would’ve mourned you, Scarlet? You think they’d be respectful if you died?”

  She’s quiet, staring at the club, not answering that.

  “So fuck them,” I say for the third time. “You have to be careful who you give pieces of yourself to, because even a little bit here and there adds up to a hell of a lot eventually, and it’s not worth it, losing yourself to them, giving yourself to people who don’t give a fuck about you. You keep pouring yourself into other people and you’ll just wind up empty.”

  She sighs. “You’re—“

  “An asshole, I know.”

  She cuts her eyes at me. “I was going to say you’re right.”

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “I’m what?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s learning.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Maybe later,” I say, stepping away from the curb to approach the club. “Other things to do first.”

  “Wait, what? Where are you going?”

  “Inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Figured I’d send my condolences to Georgie Porgie while I’m here.”

  “How do you even know he’s here?”

  “I don’t,” I say, glancing back at her. “You coming?”

  She scoffs. “No way.”

  “Suit yourself, then.” I wave her off. “Do whatever you want, Scarlet.”

  The door is unlocked, so I walk right in. Everything has been cleaned up, the floors scrubbed, bloodstains covered, holes patched, all evidence of what happened wiped away. I hear voices coming from the office so I head that way, turning the corner and startling the men inside.

  No hesitation, guns are pulled, aimed my direction.

  “Hello to you all, too.”

  Amello stands at his desk, surrounded by mounds of paperwork, sorting through all of it, shredding a lot of shit. “What do you want, Scar?”

  “A friendlier greeting would be nice,” I say. “So would a pepperoni slice. Kind of hungry. Thirsty, too, so maybe a drink. Wouldn’t say no to having my dick sucked, either.”

  He raises his gaze, meeting mine. “What do you want from me?”

  I step into the office, moving past the armed men, and take a seat in a chair across from Amello at the desk. “You could tell these buffoons to do something about their guns. Use them or lose them, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Amello motions for them to lower their weapons.

  “No offense, Scar, but...”

  He pauses.

  Hesitates.

  I learned long ago that when someone says ‘no offense’ there’s about a seventy-six percent chance they’re about to offend the fuck out of you. They think those bullshit words will help them get away with it, but that doesn’t work with me. I know it, and he knows it, because it’s clearly written in the deep lines of his troubled face.

  “But? Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I can’t do this right now,” he grumbles, plopping down in his chair, running his hands down his face. “I’ve got the cops riding my ass, my business is in shambles... nobody wants to work with someone facing all this heat... and the Russians... the fucking Russians!” He lets out a manic laugh that sounds strained, like he’s damn close to shedding tears. “They shoot up my place, they attack me, my business, all because of that little bitch! If I knew where she was right now, I’d wring her fucking neck!”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Harsh? Three of my guys are dead.”

  “I don’t see how that’s her fault.”

  “They were after her!”

  “But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew the Russians wanted her, and you used that to your advantage.”

  “I helped her,” he says, his back straightening, a hint of anger in his voice. “She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, so I took pity on her. I gave her a job. I gave her a place to live. And look where it got me. I’m fucked. I should’ve turned the little bitch over to Aristov the second I realized who she was. She’s not worth the trouble. He can have her.”

  “I beg to differ,” I say. “He wants her, he’s going to have to go through me first.”

  “You?” His expression flickers with surprise before he lets out another laugh. “She got you, huh? Charmed the pants
right off of you, did she? Got you thinking she’s some damsel in distress that you can save? You know nothing about her. You want my advice? Wash your hands of it. Toss her out on his front porch, be done with the bitch.”

  Before he can say another word, I spring out of the seat, grabbing him by the hair on the back of his head and slamming his face against the top of the desk. BAM. He cries out, blood spewing out onto the paperwork, streaming from his busted nose. Yanking his head back up, I whip out the gun from my waistband, pointing it at his neck, pressing right where the carotid is.

  His men react, drawing their weapons once more, shouting, panicked, their hands shaking hard.

  Makes me wonder if they’ve ever shot anyone.

  “They got their guns back out, Georgie,” I say. “Are we using them this time? Because I’m not opposed to pulling the trigger if that’s where we’re going with this. Just say the word and I’ll blow this artery apart.”

  He swallows thickly, raising his hands up as if in surrender, his voice again strained as he says, “Put down the guns.”

  Nobody moves.

  “Uh-oh, they’re not listening.”

  “Drop the fucking guns,” Amello growls. “Get out of here! All of you! Leave us!”

  It takes them a moment before they lower their weapons and retreat from the office, backing up into the club, leaving us alone. Amello glares at me, blood streaked all over his face, his eyes glassy. He’s scared, yeah, but he’s furious, too. I think he might be the kind to cry when he’s angry, because he looks damn close to boo-hoo’ing.

  “You owe me a couch, Georgie,” I say, letting go of him. “I came here to collect.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A couch,” I say. “My couch. You see, it got fucked up when I blew holes in that incompetent little asshole you sent to kill me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t.” I pull the gun away, backing up a step, but I keep it trained on him, just in case… just in case I decide to blow his head off for the hell of it. “You owe me a couch, so my guys will be here in about three minutes to collect.”