“Yeah?” I pull away from his hand slowly, trying to make a show of it, to rest my face in my palms. I expected it to be harder to find a man while I’m not dressed like I’m looking for it.
But, well, men never really disappoint in this area. Roger/Robert had gravitated to me the moment I walked in and sat down alone with my drink. My very non-alcoholic drink sits in front of me, occasionally sipped like it’s something worth taking my time with, instead of literally just Sprite and grenadine.
I barely have to say anything else before the gross man who sidled up to a girl maybe half his age is leading me to the door that leads to the back parking lot. I’m unsurprised when I see the lights back here are few and dim. But really, that’s sort of why I picked this particular bar I don’t even know the name of.
Drunk men.
Cheap lighting.
No security.
He talks, saying something as I trail behind him across the cracked asphalt. My hand goes to my pocket where the box cutter sits heavy and waiting, and now that I’m this close to doing what I want, my heart starts to race and ideas flutter through my head.
I won’t kill him here, I decide without much hesitation. The chances of me getting caught are higher than I’d like to risk. I won’t take him back to my apartment, either, because that would just be another mess to clean up.
No, I’ll go back to his place with him, to a location where he feels safe. Roger/Robert doesn’t strike me as someone who will be missed terribly by anyone of importance, and if I’m wrong?
Well, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.
He turns to look at me with that gap-toothed, disgusting as fuck smile, and his mouth opens as he pulls out his key fob to unlock a nearby, beat-up car from the eighties.
But he never gets to say a word. A shadow suddenly detaches itself from a nearby Jeep, and before he can speak or I can do anything at all, Larkin is behind the man with an arm around his neck and a rag over his mouth.
He meets my gaze with a smirk on his face and atsksounding from between his lips, never once looking away from me while the man struggles to get away from him and whatever Larkin has pressed to his face. “Bad, silly girl,” Larkin chastises quietly. “You were going to do something awful to this poor guy, weren’tyou?” He glances down finally, a sneer of disgust gracing his lips momentarily. “Do you even know his name?”
“Roger,” I snap, but I can’t help biting my lip and adding, “Robert? Umm. Richard?”
That makes Larkin roll his eyes, and he fixes me with another withering look. “Youdon’teven know his name. Don’t tell me you have a box cutter on your person you were going to off him with.” Finally, the man stops struggling, dropping like a stone in Larkin’s arms.
When I don’t immediately answer, my stalker snorts. “How fucking pathetic. And worse? Predictable.” He hoists the man over his shoulder and turns, walking to the same car he’d thrown me into the trunk of almost a week ago. This time, it’s the gross man’s turn to get bodily tossed inside, his form lolling about in his unconscious state.
Larkin turns to me, an expectant look on his face that makes me pause. My hand goes to the box cutter in my pocket, and I can’t help the way my skin prickles like just that look is a threat.
“Well?” He gestures toward his car.
“Well,what?”
His grin widens a little, and I know I’m not going to like what comes next. “Get in. You wanted this, remember? So let’s go.”
My eyes go to the man in the trunk, then back up at Larkin. Having no idea what’s going on, my brain is working a mile a minute trying to put together the pieces of whatever this is. “No. You can keep him. It’s repayment for Derek Prescott.”
Lakin’s snort is soft, and he rolls his eyes just a little at my words. “Get in before I make you, silly girl,” he murmurs in a silky soft voice that’sdefinitelynot just a request.
Fuck.
I don’t know what to do, or what he wants. And I certainly don’t understand why he wants me to go with him, or whatinterest he could have in this stranger that I picked up in the bar to dispose of however I wanted.
But I do know I can’t outrun Larkin, and a quick glance around shows me that there’s no one out here to heed my screams if I attempted to get help. With the music so loud I can feel the bass in my bones even out here, I also know that no one from inside would come out if I yell.
“That’s right,” Larkin purrs. “You know how this is going to go, no matter how you play it.” He tips his chin to the side, and his eyes narrow slightly. In the darkness, it’s hard to distinguish where he begins and where the shadows end, making him look ethereal and unnatural in the cold Seattle night.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Part of me hopes he can’t hear it, but judging by the way his eyes narrow a bit more and his smirk grows, he definitely did.
“Careful,” Larkin cautions, even though he doesn’t seem too worried about whether I’ll listen or not. He holds my gaze a second longer before I sigh, and I finally make the first move to cross the parking lot to him. Stopping when he holds out his empty hand, I give him a quizzical look. “Box cutter.”
“No.”
“Box cutter…or chloroform.” His other hand comes up to dangle the rag in front of my face, goading and taunting at the same time. While Larkin waits, patiently giving me time to decide what I want to do, I wonder if I would be fast enough to stab him or at least cut off a finger before he could get it from me.
