“So am I.” I folded my arms across my chest, mirroring his posture without meaning to. “Thad is my responsibility. I decide what happens to him and when it happens. Not you. Not Prime. Me.”
“Nobody’s trying to take that from you. I’m just saying?—”
“Then don’t say it. Take care of Kacey, give her some money, whatever you gotta do for your family obligations. But what’s in that warehouse is my business.”
He studied me for a moment. That same focused look he’d given me at the wedding when his hand was on my thigh. I looked away first because I refused to let him do that to me twice.
“You don’t have it in you,” he said.
My eyes snapped back to his. “Excuse me?”
“To kill him. You’ve had six months. If you were going to do it, you would’ve done it by now. You’re keeping him alive because ending it means you lose the one thing that makes you feel in control. And you’re not ready to give that up.”
The accuracy of that statement made me want to scream. Instead, I reached into my other jacket pocket—because I kept a blade on both sides, always—pulled out my second switchblade, and flicked it open. The sound was sharp in the quiet parking lot.
“You wanna test that theory?” I held the blade up between us.
Quest looked at the knife. Looked at me. And then this man—this insane, arrogant, infuriating man—stepped forward and pressed his chest directly into the tip of the blade until I could feel the resistance of his body against the steel.
“It’s gonna take more than a butter knife to kill me, sweetheart.”
My hand was shaking. Not from fear. From something I couldn’t name and refused to examine. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne underneath the faint copper of his own blood, and his eyes were looking down at me with an expression that had no business being on the face of a man with a knife at his chest. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t angry. He looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
I lowered the blade. Because what else was I supposed to do? Stab the man?
“You’re insane,” I said.
“Probably. But I’m also hungry.” He straightened up, adjusted his jacket like I hadn’t just held a blade to his sternum,and pulled his keys out. “Bring your mean ass and come eat with me. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in a week.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You just tried to kill me twice in the last five minutes and I’m still standing here asking you to dinner. The least you could do is say yes. Think of it as an apology for my hand.” He held up the bloodied handkerchief. “Which, by the way, still hurts.”
“Good.”
“Come on, Mean-har.” There was that stupid nickname again. And that stupid smirk. “One meal. You can bring both your little knives if it makes you feel better.”
I stood there in that empty parking lot, switchblade still in my hand, looking at him as if he were crazy.
“Fine,” I said. “But you’re paying. And I’m driving my own car.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
8
QUEST
I took her to Ray’s.
Not because I was trying to impress her. You don’t impress a woman who just sliced your hand open by taking her somewhere with cloth napkins and a wine list. Ray’s was a twenty-four-hour spot off Rhode Island Avenue that served the best jerk chicken in the district and didn’t ask questions when you walked in at eleven PM on a weeknight with blood on your handkerchief. The owner knew my name, the food came out fast, and nobody was taking pictures for Instagram.
She followed me in her own car, which was cool. She wasn’t the type of woman who let a man drive her anywhere. She probably had a switchblade in the cup holder and another one in the glove compartment. At this point, I was starting to think she kept them the way other women kept lip gloss—just scattered around in various locations for easy access.
We walked in and the hostess seated us at a booth near the back. Corner spot, good sight lines, two exits visible. I chose it on purpose because I always chose seats where I could see the door. It was one of the few things my pops shared with me before he died. As a man, you never sat with your back to an entrance.Ever. That was how people got caught slipping, and I didn’t get caught slipping.
I slid into the side facing the door. And Mehar stopped.
“I need that side,” she said.
