Menace (Scarlet Scars Book 1)

by J. M. Darhower

  He pauses, glancing up and down the block. “Don’t like the couch? I’ve got a bed.”

  “A spare bed?”

  “My bed.”

  “Won’t me sleeping in your bed put a damper in your game?”

  “No.”

  That’s all he says. No.

  “Where are you going to take your wham-bam’s?”

  He looks at me then, raising his eyebrows. “You really want to talk about this right now? Here?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m just trying to figure things out, because as grateful as I am for the offer, I’ve yet to meet a person who didn’t have ulterior motives. So I’m wondering what yours are, before this goes any further, because no offense, but I’m not interested in being your fluffernutter.”

  He grabs me by the waist, pulling me away from the alley. “My fluffernutter?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m not fluffing your nuts while you fuck other women. That’s not in my job description.”

  I’m dead serious about that, but he laughs. “That won’t be a problem. Besides, I pretty much just declared war for you, Scarlet. At least if you’re sleeping in my bed, I know I’m winning.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Hell of a prize you’ve won.”

  “Come on,” he says, ignoring that. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, I need my bag,” I say as he tries to pull me past my building. “It’s upstairs.”

  “Again with that goddamn bag?”

  “Yes.”

  He groans, and I expect him to fight me on it, because I know he’s frustrated, but instead he lets go of my wrist. “You’ve got about two minutes, woman, so make it fast.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The little girl’s drawing was on the refrigerator.

  She sat on a stool at the bar in the kitchen, a bowl of fresh porridge in front of her, untouched. Her gaze was fixed on the drawing. It wasn’t a frame, like he’d said, but it was still on display.

  Her mother always covered their refrigerator with the little girl’s art, layer after layer, heavy magnets holding it all up. The Tin Man had used a piece of duct tape to stick it there, dead center of the freezer door, not a magnet to be found anywhere.

  “Why are you not eating your kasha?” the Tin Man asked, his voice low and gritty, kind of like sandpaper to the little girl’s skin. His eyes were gray again, but they didn’t appear very kind that morning.

  “I don’t like porridge,” she said, looking down at the bowl. “I like Lucky Charms better.”

  “Lucky Charms? You like the marshmallows? You like all that sugar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “We eat to live, kitten. We do not eat for fun. So eat your kasha. It is good for you.”

  Frowning, she took a bite, forcing it down. In the month she’d been there, she hadn’t had any sweets. No cakes, no cookies, no candies, no nothing. It was all soups and stews and too much fish, which she hated, but if she didn’t eat what he made her, she just went hungry. She missed ice cream, and pepperoni pizza, and even hot dogs. She missed Kool-Aide, and root beer, and chocolate milk. Tea or water was all he ever offered, except that bitter burning vodka. Yuck.

  The little girl missed so much, but most of all, she missed her mother, who used to say life was too short to eat yucky stuff.

  The little girl looked over at the Tin Man as he sat across from her, reading a newspaper. “Daddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “She woke up, didn’t she?”

  He didn’t look up from the paper. “Sure, kitten. Woke up good as new. We had a laugh about it this morning before she went home.”

  He was lying. Nobody laughed that morning. The little girl had sat at the top of the stairs, afraid to come down, and watched the Cowardly Lion carry the woman outside wrapped up in a black tarp.

  “I meant Mommy,” she whispered, looking at her porridge, thinking she’d rather starve than force down any more of it.

  She could feel his eyes then, regarding her in silence.

  “Your mother is fine,” he said finally. “We have not laughed about it yet, but we will, and everything will be as good as new when we do.”

  Her eyes lifted, meeting his stern gaze. “She woke up?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Does that surprise you?”

  She slowly nodded.

  “Words. Do not mime your answers.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because she didn’t find me yet.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer before his expression cracked. His lips twitched with a hint of a smile. “You think she is looking for you? That someday you will hear, ‘Knock-knock, kitten, Mommy is here’?

  The little girl nodded again, earning an annoyed growl, his fist slamming against the bar so hard her bowl bounced, some of the porridge splattering out.

  “Words.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  He laughed again, that mean laugh now.

  “I hope you do hear it,” he said. “I hope she crawls out of the Hell she is in and comes for you, kitten. I would enjoy watching that happen.”

  He ruffled the top of her head, still laughing as he walked away, leaving her with the porridge she didn’t want and an answer she couldn’t understand.

  Did that mean she wasn’t coming?

  Chapter Twenty

  The first thing I hear, when I open my front door, is that fucking song from that goddamn movie.

  You know what I’m talking about. You might have even guessed it already. The one about the big ass boat and the iceberg, with the rich bitch and gutter rat making googly eyes at each other. Draw me like your French whores, asshole. I’ll never let go. Blah blah blah.

  Yeah, that one.

  Saturday night—or well, guess it’s Sunday morning now, isn’t it? A few minutes past midnight. Leo is here somewhere with Melody. I know this, because she’s singing along, like this is Karaoke Hour on the RMS Titanic.

  Sighing, I step out of the way for Scarlet to enter, wanting to smash my head into the wall in hopes that maybe I’ll go unconscious and won’t have to hear this for a second longer. Scarlet strolls right to the living room, stopping in the doorway, looking in.

  After shutting the door, I join her.

  They’re cuddling on my couch, my brother and his girlfriend, all tangled up together with a big blanket covering them. I’m not sure if they’re dressed, to be honest. Wouldn’t be the first time they fucked on my couch, just like this, watching some sappy love story.

  I think it’s a kink.

  Some people like spanking.

  Others like voyeurism.

  My brother likes to fuck his girlfriend as she sobs over fictional characters.

  Me? I like a little bit of everything… with the exception of that last one. Stick a finger in my ass all you want, but the second you start boo-hoo’ing, I’m done.

  They don’t pay us any attention, and I’m not even trying to interrupt whatever that is. Nudging Scarlet for her to follow me, I head to my library. I walk right in, but she hesitates before crossing the threshold.

  “Shut the door,” I tell her, plopping down in my chair. “Maybe it’ll muffle the sound of that dying cat out there.”

  Scarlet laughs, shutting the door. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Could be worse,” I say. “I could muffle her with a pillow, but I won’t. Don’t I get credit for that?”

  “Nice try, but no,” she says, approaching. “You don’t get points for not killing your brother’s girlfriend when the only thing she’s guilty of is being a terrible singer.”

  “She’s so damn emotional, and she’s always just… peppy.”

  Scarlet gasps with mock horror. “How horrible!”

  “Fuck you,” I mutter. “It’s exhausting to be around.”

  “She’s still young.”

  “She’s the same age as you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly normal,” she says. “I was forced to gro
w up quick when I was just a kid. But her? I imagine she’s had a normal life. Well, until you came into it, so cut her some slack.”

  “I do,” I say. “She’s still breathing, isn’t she? Still out there singing. Still hanging around, eating my groceries, watching my television, getting her pussy played with in my house.”

  Scarlet leans against the table beside me, shaking her head as she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ll probably be saying all that about me… eating your food, using your electricity, showering with your hot water—”

  “Getting your pussy played with?”

  She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.

  I grab her hips, pulling her between my legs. “Look, all I’m saying is if you’re going to sing, do that shit silently so nobody has to listen to it.”

  She laughs, her hands on my shoulders. “Should we talk silently, too, so you don’t have to listen to that, either?”

  “Preferably,” I say. “Unless it’s dirty talk, in which case, I’m more than happy to hear you.”

  “Wow,” she says, voice flat. “You keep being so charming and I might start catching feelings.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you,” I say. “Just, you know, keep them to yourself, in case they’re contagious.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I practice safe sentiment. I’ll be sure to wrap it before I yap it.”

  I laugh at that. This goddamn woman. She’s got a mouth on her, without a doubt, the kind of mouth that’s destined to get her in a lot of trouble in life.

  Already has, it seems.

  Aristov, he’s the kind of guy who likes to break wild horses, and Scarlet is one of the most strong-willed I’ve ever encountered. She might not be broken, but it wouldn’t take much more, not with the way she buckles when it comes to him.

  It’s uncharacteristic.

  Sure, I haven’t known her long.

  But she doesn’t flinch from me.

  I don’t scare her.

  So why does he?

  My eyes narrow slightly, and damn if she doesn’t notice, because I see her stiffen in response to it.

  “Tell me about Aristov.”

  Her expression blanks. There she goes, trying to fade on me, shutting down.

  “I’ve already told you about him,” she says. “He’s a cruel man.”

  “One that stole from you.”

  “Yes.”

  “He stole the light from your life,” I say, recalling her words. “He stole your innocence.”

  Her eyes close. It’s automatic. She can’t even look at me when I say that. When she reopens them, they’re glassy, but she doesn’t shed a single tear.

  I’ve yet to see her cry.

  “Yes.”

  That’s all she says.

  Since she’s not elaborating on her own, fuck it... I’m going to ask. “How?”

  It’s a simple question, but I know right away she’s not going to answer it. Her hands leave my shoulders and she steps back, out of my grasp, as she forces a smile on her lips, the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.

  “I stink,” she says. “Do you mind if I take a shower?”

  “Of course not,” I say, waving her away. “Help yourself to whatever. It’ll take me at least two weeks to start complaining about you, so make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks,” she says, turning to walk out of the library. “I make no promises when it comes to singing in the shower, though. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

  “Make that one week, then,” I call after her. “I’ll start complaining by next weekend, so enjoy these next few days.”

  She laughs, disappearing from the room.

  I stare at the doorway once she’s gone, drumming my fingers on the arm of the chair. She evaded like a motherfucker. She wasn’t even trying to be sly about it. She just flat out wasn’t answering.

  Shoving up from the chair, I stroll out of the library, making my way into the kitchen for something to eat. There’s not much in here, so I just grab two slices of bread, pull out some lunch meat, and slap that shit together with a dab of mustard. Viola.

  I take a bite, chewing, as I grab a Capri Sun from the fridge and walk out. My sandwich gets smashed as I stroll back down the hall, so busy tearing the plastic off of the small yellow straw that I almost drop it all.

  “Hey, bro.”

  I stop near the living room when Leo greets me. I look up at him before glancing into the room. Melody isn’t singing anymore, thank fuck. “Hey.”

  “So that lady,” Leo says. “Morgan.”

  “What about her?” I ask, fiddling with the straw, trying to poke it through the hole but I’m using the wrong end. Goddamnit.

  “She’s back already, huh? Saw her walk by a bit ago.”

  “She needs a place to stay,” I tell him, flipping the straw around. “Figured I’d be nice for once. Got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all.”

  I shove the straw in, impaling the fucking thing, putting it right through the other side of the little silver pouch, stabbing my hand. I’m three seconds away from just squeezing the damn thing and letting it squirt out, wherever the hell it wants to go, figuring at least some of it will make its way into my mouth, when Leo snatches it from me, fixing the straw before handing it back.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “These things are bullshit.”

  Look, before you go thinking I’m incompetent, remember my world is two-dimensional. I’ve adapted to that, for the most part, but sometimes objects are assholes. I misjudge distances, can’t catch a fucking thing, spill drinks and bump into door frames. I also can’t seem to ever get a straw in a hole, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, makes sticking things in other holes a bit of a struggle.

  Pussy is what I’m getting at, in case you didn’t pick up on that. I aim and sometimes miss like a virginal teenage boy who has never used his dick.

  I take a sip, sucking through the straw.

  “I don’t know why you keep buying those,” Leo says. “They give you trouble every time.”

  “I like them,” I say. “Besides, no bitch ass little juice pouch is going to best me, Pretty Boy.”

  I hit the stairs, making my way up them as I take another bite of my sandwich. It’s dark on the second floor. I flip on the light in my bedroom just as the water shuts off in my bathroom.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed, kicking my boots off as I eat. They’re already untied, so it isn’t that hard. I shove them aside with my foot just as the bathroom door opens. My gaze shifts that way as Scarlet steps out, nothing more than a gray towel wrapped around her. She pauses, looking at me, so I hold out my half-eaten sandwich. “Hungry?”

  I expect her to scoff, maybe laugh, but she plucks the thing right from my grasp and takes a bite, mumbling, “Starving.”

  Well damn. I hand her the Capri Sun. She sucks the rest of it down as she finishes the sandwich.

  Pulling my shirt off, I toss it across the room. I miss the hamper, of course, but it doesn’t matter. General vicinity. Scarlet watches me, tossing the empty pouch in the trashcan near my bed. She makes it. Doesn’t even look.

  I shake my head.

  “So,” she says, “I’ve got a problem.”

  “No shit.”

  She purses her lips. “I have no clothes.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

  I grab the towel, slowly pulling it away, taking it off and tossing it aside, again near the hamper. Scarlet doesn’t move as my gaze trails her body.

  I’ve seen this woman naked a few times now, but beyond the obvious, like those gorgeous perky tits, I’ve never really looked. You know what I’m saying? But I see it now, every inch of her petite body. Strong legs. Wide hips. Slim waist. My fingertips trail her collarbones before running down her chest, brushing across those pert nipples.

  Scars pepper her skin. They’re not blatant, little marks here and there, healed burns and cuts, the most noticeable scar below her belly button, dangerously close
to the Promised Land.

  “Do I pass inspection?” she asks. “Or are there some violations I need to work on?”

  Glancing up, I meet her gaze. “You can work on that mouth of yours.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s running a little rough. Nothing a face-fucking can’t fix, though.”

  Her eyes widen. “Big words for a guy who drinks Capri Sun.”

  I try to keep a straight face, but I crack at that, letting out a laugh. “Got me there.”

  Grinning, she does some bullshit little bow before turning, like she thinks she’s going to walk away from me. Yeah, right.

  Before she can take even a step, I wrap my arms around her from behind, dragging her to the bed. I don’t climb in it, just shoving her down on the edge of it, her top half pressed into the mattress, my left hand planted firmly on her back, along her spine. I lean over top of her, my mouth near her ear as I say, “We’ll see how much shit you’re still taking when I’m through.”

  Kicking her legs apart, forcing her wide open, my right hand slips down, stroking her bare pussy. There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing tender. I rub hard, not fucking around. It’s mere seconds before she’s drenched, soft moans escaping that she’s trying to hold back. She doesn’t want me to see how turned on she is by this.

  I slide two fingers into her, going slow at first, before I start really fucking her with them. Her eyes close as she fists the comforter, letting out a whimper. She’s trying so hard to be still, to not react, but pleasure is the most difficult thing to mask. You can bottle up your feelings and suck up your tears, put on a brave face instead of showing fear, but when that spine-tingling euphoria rolls through your system, there’s no denying it.

  Bodies are traitors.

  They wave red flags.

  And those slick juices coating my hand tell me everything. The way her thighs tremble, her back arching, her knuckles white with tension as she clings to the bed, holding on tight. Goose bumps coat her arms, the fine hairs bristling, her cheeks flushed, lips parting, throat flexing as she swallows, but her mouth is so damn dry it does nothing. Her voice is raw, strained from trying to force back noises, so much so that it sounds like she’s growling, like she just wants to annihilate me, rip me to fucking pieces. I’ve got her eating straight out of my palm, but she’s the kind to bite the hand that feeds her.