“You don’t get it,” I said, leaning forward now, matching his intensity. “He’s not like that. I can handle him. Okay? He’s just—he’s…” I trailed off.
Lai raised a brow, waiting.
I sighed. “He reminds me of you when you were young.”
I moved before the sentence even fully landed, my chair rolling back fast, ducking just in time as Lai’s cane sliced through the air where my head had been a second ago. The wood cracked against the desk instead, sending my paperwork flying.
“How dare you?” Lai snapped, one knee on the desk now as he prepared to swing again.
“You can’t deny it!” I shot back, putting more distance between us, rolling further away. “Possessive, violent, jealous—”
“Oh, I’m going to kill you,” he hissed.
“See? Exactly my point.”
Lai narrowed his eyes, pupils thinning to sharp slits. “And you think you can break him?” He asked.
I didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”
“You’re going to die,” Lai said flatly.
I grinned. “Probably.”
Then I leaned back in my chair again, as that settled it. “But it’ll be a hell of a ride.”
Chapter Eight
Fox
I interrogated a student who was trying to leave in his Prius.
I wanted to know more about this school and where you worked. The boy was shaking like a leaf as I pinned him against his car, but he was talkative.
“I’m just heading home,” he squeaked, hands lifting in surrender as my bumper nudged his legs.
I let my engine drop into a low, rolling idle. “I don’t care,” I told him. My headlights brightened just a fraction, catching his face, forcing his eyes wide. He swallowed hard, pulse visible. “Tell me about this place,” I demanded. “I have questions.”
That was all it took; he talked too fast, tripping over his own words as he tried to give me everything at once. Classes ended at three; clubs stretched things out until six; faculty stayed later, taking care of papers, meetings, and responsibilities.
You, being responsible? The idea made me laugh.
By the time I let the student go, he could barely keep his hands steady enough to push-start his car. The Prius’s tires squealed as he fled the garage, as if enough distance might save him from whatever he’d just encountered.
I didn’t follow. He wasn’t important. I sat in my driver’s seat, watching my clock as the illuminated digits ticked slowly forward, the march of time glowing dull orange.
6.56
6.57
6.58
I had waited before; I’d spent twelve months on that lot, unmoving, unseen, passed over by hands that never lingered. I had learned patience there, endless, empty patience.
This was different.
Now I knew what I was waiting for.
And I knew you would come back to me.
