Menace (Scarlet Scars Book 1)

by J. M. Darhower

  I know there’s one hell of a sex joke in there somewhere, just begging to be made, but I don’t have time for it right now, because the air’s so thick the damn smoke detector starts screeching in the hallway, as if I’m not drawing enough attention.

  “Clean the gun,” I tell Seven before waving toward the mess on the couch. “The rest of you, do something about this before Three shits his pants.”

  They laugh some more as Three grumbles under his breath, trying to pull himself together. He’s the whitest white boy around, with shaggy blond hair and light green eyes, freckles on his button nose, his cheeks all rosy, like he’s always blushing. He’s a cross between a California surfer and little Bobby Brady with the personality of John Wayne Gacy… you know, a murderous clown.

  “Lorenzo? Everything okay?”

  My brother’s voice rings out from upstairs. I turn, stepping back out into the hallway to respond, and come face-to-face with Scarlet. She stands there, eyes kind of wide as they regard me, a look in them that I recognize… a look that tells me she watched what I just did. It’s not fear, no. I’ve seen her scared. I watched her cower behind a bar in terror, remember? This is more so surprise, like maybe she didn’t think I had it in me, like maybe she hadn’t been taking me seriously until now.

  Like she didn’t realize I lived up to my reputation.

  “It’s fine,” I yell, waving toward the blaring smoke detector, fanning the haze away. “Stay upstairs.”

  “Planned on it,” he yells back. “Just, can you keep it down? I have to work in the morning, bro.”

  The blaring silences as I laugh to myself.

  I’ll never get over the irony of me raising a straight-laced member of society.

  “I need a drink,” I grumble, scrubbing my hands down my face as I walk away, detouring to the library for the bottle of rum. Scarlet follows me. I don’t see her, or hear her, so much as sense her. It’s a feeling ghosting across my skin from her eyes studying me.

  “There has to be more,” she says finally.

  “More what?” I ask.

  “The Juniper Tree,” she says. “It can’t end like that.”

  Taking a swig of rum, I turn to her. “You’re still going on about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just a story. Stories have to end sometime. Hell, did you watch The Sopranos? Sometimes stories just stop. Shit just goes black. Wham, bam, over. No more, nothing left, the end.”

  She makes a face. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, well, life sucks, Scarlet,” I say. “You know that as well as anyone. Sometimes beasts are just fucking beasts, no matter how much you love them, Belle. It’s a fact. I’ve seen love bring a monster back to life before, but most of the time, the monster just loves you to death.”

  She shakes her head, looking away.

  I take it she doesn’t like what I’m saying.

  For a woman who claims she doesn’t believe in fairy tales anymore, unhappy endings are sure ruffling her feathers.

  “A white picket fence,” I say, something clicking after a moment. That’s what she said outside. You’ve got a white picket fence. “Is that what you want? To be proven wrong? For some happily ever after to come along and sweep you off your feet? Take you away from this bullshit life and give you your picket fence?”

  “You’re an asshole, Lorenzo.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a denial.”

  “Is it so wrong to want to be happy?”

  “Is that what makes you happy? Really?”

  She noncommittally shrugs a shoulder.

  “Well, if it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I say, “because I can’t give you that. Don’t let the fence out there fool you. Around here, it’s just a fence. It came with a house that I bought because my brother liked it. Nothing more. But what I can offer, Scarlet, is to stand in your corner. You and I, we can be the best of friends, but don’t expect to find your fairy tale under my roof. You got me?”

  She stares me down.

  I think maybe I offended her. Not that it matters, though, because it’s the truth, and the last thing I want is for this woman to get it twisted and think I’m something I can’t be: her hero.

  After a moment, she cocks her head to the side and says, “Are you for real?”

  “As real as it gets.”

  “Why would you be my friend? What do you get out of it?”

  I consider that question as I sip from the bottle of rum, sitting back down in my chair. “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m bored,” I admit. “I came to the city because of a movie, too. The Godfather. But reality? It’s nothing like it is in the movies. Most days we just sit around, waiting for something to happen. It’s monotonous. The world, it’s all in black and white, but you? You’re so many shades of red, woman, and color me curious, but I find myself not so bored with your bullshit around.”

  “You know, Kassian’s not just cruel,” she says, approaching. “He’s callous… soulless… vicious.”

  “Cold-blooded, hardhearted, and a dozen other synonyms that mean he’s a real piece of shit?”

  “Yes,” she says. “He’s not someone you mess with.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not Mary Poppins, either.”

  She pauses right in front of me. “Yes, but—”

  Before she can finish, before she can rattle off something that’ll probably offend me, a hundred bullshit reasons why I shouldn’t befriend her, I snatch ahold of the back of her neck, gripping it tightly as I yank her down, forcing her to look me in the eyes, so close my nose brushes against hers.

  Her breath hitches.

  “I will slit his fucking throat and drink his blood, Scarlet,” I say, my voice gravelly, quiet, and goddamn serious. “He might scare you, and maybe it’s for good reason, but he doesn’t scare me. Because all those words you used to describe him? I’ve been called them, too. I’ve earned my distinction, I fought for my title, and whether or not he’s worth the fear he incites? Well, I’m still deciding. You got me?”

  She exhales shakily, but instead of acknowledging what I ask, she lets out a laugh. “You’re crazy.”

  “Welcome to the madhouse. Feel free to stay as long as you’d like, but as long as you’re here, there are rules to be followed.”

  “Like?”

  “Like betray me and I kill you. Lie to me and I kill you. Ignore an order and I kill you. Otherwise, do whatever the hell you want. You think you can handle that?”

  “As long as you don’t talk down to me because I’m a woman. You pull some misogynistic shit and I’ll kill you. We got a deal?”

  Those words, they do something to me, hearing that threat come from her lips, so at odds with that low, sultry voice. It makes me hard in an instant.

  “Depends,” I say. “Is telling you that I’d really like to fuck your throat right now misogynistic?”

  She blinks a few times, like she didn’t expect me to say that. “Would you say that to your men?”

  “If something they said turned me on, I would.”

  My hand shifts, from the back of her neck to the front of her throat, my thumb and forefinger against her carotid arteries. I don’t press hard, just resting them there, faintly feeling the blood pulsing through her system. Her heart’s racing.

  “Is it even possible for them to turn you on?” she asks, swallowing thickly, her throat vibrating against my palm.

  “Oh, without a doubt,” I tell her. “Nothing is impossible. But those guys, you know, they’re crude, kind of scuzzy, so they’re more likely to disgust me than get me hard. Still, though... I don’t like to rule anything out.”

  I let go of her, relaxing back in my chair, and expect her to pull away now that I’m no longer holding her there, but she keeps her position, her hands coming to rest on the arms of my chair as she leans over me.

  “Then I wouldn’t really call it misogynistic,” she says. “You’re more of an equal opportunity asshole.”

 
“Well, then, I guess we’ve got a deal.”

  “Guess so,” she whispers, tilting her head as she licks her lips. She leans closer, the tip of her nose brushing against mine, her mouth a breath away when tapping echoes through the library.

  Fuck.

  I press my pointer finger to her lips, stopping her, and get to my feet, the movement pushing her away from the chair. Seven lurks near the threshold, holding my gun, freshly cleaned. Scarlet stands up straight, frowning, and I pause in front of her, gaze scanning her, before I pull my hand away.

  Nudging her chin, I lift her face up.

  She looks almost disappointed.

  “Business first,” I say quietly. “Maybe afterward there will be time for some fun.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The stench of bleach makes my nose twitch, thick in the air, burning my lungs as I inhale the odor. Ugh. The living room has been thoroughly scrubbed, faster than I thought humanly possible.

  It’s clear, as I watch from the doorway, that this isn’t the first time this has happened. They seem more on top of things than the professional Crime Scene Clean-Up crews in the city, and those guys have plenty of experience.

  Lorenzo stands just two feet or so in front of me, so close that I could touch him if I wanted. His plain white long sleeved shirt is all jacked up in the back from the gun he shoved behind him, right in his waistband. Freshly reloaded, I’m guessing. The silencer is no longer attached, fisted in his hand, as he stands there, staring at his black leather couch.

  He’s trusting. Or maybe just reckless. I could snatch the gun from his pants and shoot him in the back of the head before he even knew it was happening. I’m not going to, of course. I’m just making a point.

  I could.

  If I wanted.

  But I don’t.

  “We could throw a blanket over it,” one of the guys says, breaking the silence. I don’t know his name. Hell, I don’t know his number. He’s just... one of them. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark features, dark voice. Everything about him is dark, down to his all black clothes.

  They’re all wearing black, I realize, as I glance around the packed living room, except for Lorenzo, who dresses more like some hoodlum/model hybrid. It’s weird, right?

  I don’t know.

  I’m still not even sure what I’m doing here.

  “A blanket,” Lorenzo says, not sounding convinced.

  “Yeah, you know, or one of them covers,” the guy says. “The ones they put on couches. What are they called? Uh...”

  “Couch covers,” Lorenzo says.

  “That’s it!” The guy snaps his finger, pointing at Lorenzo, looking damn proud like that was some big revelation. “A couch cover!”

  “That could work,” someone says—the oddball of the group, the lone blond guy in a room full of mostly Italians. “My granny has one of those on her couch, hiding this big ass wine stain. It’s ugly, you know, but it could do the trick.”

  Lorenzo turns his head, regarding the blond, his expression as flat as his voice as he says, “You gonna go rob your granny of her couch cover?”

  He shrugs. “Well, yeah, if you need it, sure.”

  Lorenzo stares at him for a moment before turning back to the couch. I shift to the side a bit, peeking around him. There’s a bullet hole in the back of it, where the guy had been sitting. It’s not that bad, but it’s noticeable, which I guess is a problem.

  “Just get rid of it,” Lorenzo says, waving toward it. “I’ll get a new one.”

  The guys jump into action, teaming up and grabbing the couch, picking it up to move it.

  They barely get it away from the wall when Lorenzo yells, raising his voice, damn near growling. “Put it back!”

  The men are confused. You can see it in their faces as they cast him concerned looks, but I know what the issue is. Behind it, a hole is blown into the wall, a hell of a lot bigger than the one on the couch. Which, again, I’m guessing is problem.

  They drop it back into place, stepping away, giving the couch a wide berth like it might attack them.

  “Find some fucking duct tape or something,” Lorenzo says, turning, storming past me. “Fucking incompetence.”

  He makes his way back to the library, the door slamming so hard I flinch.

  The men stream out of the room, moving past me, all of them except for Seven, who stands near the window in silence. It doesn’t take half a dozen guys to find duct tape, but I’m guessing none of them want to be the one who ignore an order.

  I head to the library to check on Lorenzo, my hand grasping the knob when Seven’s voice calls out, “Don’t do it.”

  I stall, glancing back, seeing he followed me out, his expression serious.

  “If the door opens, he’s liable to shoot,” he says. “He probably won’t even look to see who it is.”

  I slowly pull my hand away from the knob, casting the door a sidelong look, as the men filter back through the hallway, one of them carrying a roll of silver duct tape.

  “Come on,” Seven says, motioning to the living room where the men congregate. “Join us.”

  I hesitate before going back that way, giving the library door one more look. The guy with the darkest features layers duct tape over the hole before dropping the roll onto the coffee table in front of him. They all go back to hanging out, like nothing had happened, barely missing a beat as they pick up liquor bottles, someone rolling a blunt.

  I don’t know what they did with the body.

  Someone took him out the back door before returning, empty-handed.

  “Scarlet, right?” Seven asks, lingering by the door.

  “That’s what he calls me,” I say, pausing beside him. “My name’s actually Morgan.”

  Seven smiles, holding his hand out. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Seven.”

  I shake his hand. “Do you have a real name?”

  “Bruno,” he says, “but you can just call me Seven. It makes things easier around here.”

  “Seven,” I repeat. “It doesn’t bother you that he refuses to call you by your name?”

  “Why, does it bother you?”

  “No,” I say. “Not really.”

  I’m surprised by my own answer. It’s true, it doesn’t bother me that he doesn’t call me Morgan, although the first time he called me Scarlet, it hit a nerve. Holding my arm up, I shove my hoodie sleeve up, glancing at the tattoo on my wrist. My Scarlet Letter, he calls it. If only he knew how close that was to reality...

  “Is he okay?” I ask, dropping my arm again. “Lorenzo?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Seven says. “He just loses his cool every now and then. When the door’s closed, leave him alone. When he feels better, he’ll come back out. His library is off limits so don’t go in without permission. If the door’s open and he’s in there, consider whether or not you really need him, because he’s just as liable to shoot you as he is to say ‘come in’.”

  I blink at him. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

  “Probably ought to,” someone else says with a laugh. I glance over at the other guys. They’re all looking at me, but it was the blond that spoke. “He’s Natural Selection, live and in the flesh. If you want to make it, adapt, because it’s survival of the fittest around here. He weeds out the weak.”

  Hence the missing numbers, I’m guessing, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

  Reintroductions are made by Seven. He calls me Morgan, giving the others the courtesy of their real names. Three, the blond guy, turns out to be Declan Jackson, while Five, the one with dark features, is named Frank Romano. The others, they all blend together, and I’m not trying to be an asshole about that, but they’re just Italian guys with Americanized names. There’s a Joey, a Johnny, something else... whatever.

  There aren’t any more chairs, so I end up sitting on the coffee table, ignoring the alcohol, passing on smoking, trying to keep a clear head, but I get a contact high pretty quickly. They’re all nice, I guess… nicer than I�
��m used to. Time fades away as they kid around, and I laugh a bit at their antics. They’re almost like young boys, telling fart jokes.

  I never hear the door reopen, but eventually, he’s just there. Frank’s telling a story, I’m barely paying attention, when he suddenly says, “Ain’t that right, boss?”

  “You know it.”

  Lorenzo’s voice is quiet, calling out from the doorway, looking like he might’ve been lurking awhile. His eyes are fixed on me, his expression unreadable. It’s like the man is an open book but whatever his story is just happens to be written in a different language.

  One I can’t read at all.

  It’s there, but what does it mean?

  “Why don’t you fellas take off for the night?” he suggests, although it’s pretty clear that’s really an order, since they all immediately get to their feet, swiping the liquor bottles and carrying them along as they shuffle toward the front door. Mumbled goodbyes are cast my way from a few of them, but for the most part they just nod to Lorenzo before disappearing.

  After the front door closes behind them, Lorenzo strolls my direction, stepping past me to survey the thick duct tape patch over the hole on the couch. “Which one of those jackasses…?”

  “Frank,” I say, earning a peculiar look from him, his brow creasing with confusion. I roll my eyes. Of course. Does he even know their names? “Five, I guess you call him. His real name’s Frank.”

  “I know his name,” Lorenzo says. “Just surprised you do.”

  “If you know their names, why don’t you use them?”

  “Same reason you don’t name a puppy unless you know you’re going to keep it.”

  “Which is...?”

  “Gotta keep them at a distance. Don’t want to get attached.”

  Unbelievable. “So you dehumanize them, make them things and not people, because things are replaceable but people are one of a kind?”

  “People aren’t one of a kind,” he says. “Puppies, you know, they love you, they play fetch with you, because you take care of their needs. Dogs out on the street, they kill whatever moves, whatever’s weak, whatever they’re sure they can beat, in order to survive. Affection is the only thing that keeps Lassie from going all Cujo.”