“I cut his spleen out while he was still breathing. I did my research. Tiny organ that’s so unassuming, you won’t even miss it when it’s gone.”
“Nasty,” I whisper in awe. Lucian always finds a way to do some diabolical shit that makes me envious. Grabbing my phone, I google the spleen—I don’t know what it looks like—andwhistle low in my throat when I see where it is. “God damn, Lucian. You must have really made it hurt.”
“Of course I did,” he preens, doing a spin and a bow. “We have a few more to go if you’re still down.”
I’ll always be down to get rid of the people that hurt Lu. He knows that. I proved it when I pushed one of our group home counselors down the stairs after he struck Lucian because he wouldn’t stop crying.
He yelled that Lucian was too old to be a crybaby bitch and slapped him so hard he left behind a handprint. We were twelve and Lucian had just started to come out of his shell, speaking to me in more than one-word sentences.
Before he could walk away, I shoved him down the stairs, watching as his head hit several on the way down before he landed in a heap, his skull cracked wide open.
“I am. Who’s up next?” I ask.
“No one from my past. Still working on some leads. But I think I found someone through my contacts. Sounds like a job for us.”
“I’m game. Tell me the score.”
Chapter Seven
Menace
“Yes, pouty, Menace, give me pouty,”the photographer says as he snaps photos in rapid succession.
I glare at him, annoyance clear on my face. I don’t do pouty. I was discovered for my swagger—my manager said I looked like I could break someone in half and eat them for breakfast with just my gaze.
That gaze does not do fucking pouty.
This guy must be new. If he weren’t, he’d know that puckering my lips and smizing was not my brand.
Or is it smoldering?
Whatever the fuck it is, no.
Sya sighs and hops out of her chair, her heels clacking as she trots over to the newbie photog.
She taps his shoulder as she stuffs her cell under her ear. He gives her a scathing look, one she gives right back, but her bark matches her bite, so he calms the fuck down real fast. “Menace doesn’t do pouts,” she says in a tone that would scare the piss out of most men. “He’s not a brand-new model trying to get his big break. He is his name incarnate. If you remember that, you might get some halfway decent photos.”
He opens his mouth to form a retort, but she holds up an irritated finger, making his mouth snap shut. “Jesse, hi, darling,” Sya glides away, not giving the photographer a backward glance.
I fucking love that woman.
I’m fucking over this shoot. It’s been shit since we stepped through the door, the choice of clothing so far beneath me I almost walked the fuck out. If I hadn’t signed a contract, I would have.
“I’m taking a break,” I announce, stepping down from the platform and walking over to my vanity.
The makeup artist comes over to touch up my foundation or blush or whatever the fuck. After all these years, I still know shit about fuck when it comes to makeup.
I wave them away and hunch in on myself, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. It’s fucking freezing in this goddamn room and the fucking photog has me in just a pair of slacks, undone to show the underwear I’m modeling. I know he wanted to get all my tattoos in the frame, but fuck, turn the fucking heat on.
One of my assistants wraps a robe around my shoulders and I thank them while reaching over for a smoke. I pop a cigarette in my mouth, searching around for a lighter. The photographer lifts an eyebrow at me, and I stare him down as I flick the flint and light the end of my smoke. I inhale deeply and blow out a cloud of smoke, daring him to say anything.
He clenches his jaw, but just turns away, looking at the pictures he took.
Fucking asshole.
While I finish my smoke, I think about my little journalist. We’ve been texting since he left my place a few days ago, getting to know each other.
I’m trying to be a normal person and take shit slow, but I’m not normal.
