I slap him across the face like the little bitch he is. The sound of my open palm connecting with his cheek reverberates through the air, and my mouth lifts in a smile. “Fuck, that felt good. You know when you get the tingle in the palm?” I clench, then unclench my hand. “Haven’t felt it in a long-ass time.”
Gotta give the asshole credit. When his head sweeps back from my slap, he doesn’t appear confused or scared out of his mind like I expect. He looks…pissed off. Lips pressed together, he watches my brothers continue walking in and out of the broken down house with boxes in their arms. “Take whatever you want,” he grits out. “You can have it. Whatever you want, it’s yours. Take it and leave.”
Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I wipe my palms against my jeans and sit up a little taller. “That’s not very nice, Virgil. Giving away your daughter’s things without her permission.”
His eyes widen, then narrow into slits.
Yeah, asshole. You surprised I called you out for giving away yourdaughter’sshit? What a prick.
“I will be taking what I want,” I add. “And you won’t say a thing.”
Something else appears in his eyes. It isn’t fear. It isn’t even the anger I glimpsed seconds ago. No. It’s hatred. The assholehates me. Good. He should. Maybe he still has some fight in him. From what I heard from Roman’s and Hawke’s digging, he was a pretty good cop. Okay, good is a bit of a stretch. Competent doesn’t fit, either. He was a dirty cop, the worst of the worst, but at least he knew how to hold his own until the alcohol took over his life. When it did, he tracked down Violet’s mom and dragged her down with him.
“Where’s Violet’s money?” I demand.
He grits his teeth even more, so I slap him again. “I can do this all day,” I add, throwing a quick jab to his nose. Blood pours from the wound, painting his lips red. “All day,” I repeat. Roman threads his fingers through the bastard’s head, forcing him to hold it up so I can look him in the eye. “Shall we keep going?”
“Couch cushion,” he spits. “It’s under the couch cushion.”
Roman’s grasp disappears, and he lifts the cushion, revealing a worn envelope. It’s the same one I handed to Violet after putting my ass on the line. Roman tucks it into his pocket and gives me a look. I know what he’s asking. What now? We got what we wanted. Time to wrap shit up.
My attention flicks back to Violet’s dad. “You’re also to stay away from Violet.” I don’t ask him if he understands. Instead, I push to my feet and slowly circle him. His eyes follow my movements, but he doesn’t open his mouth. Maybe he’s a better listener than I gave him credit for. “Because if you don’t…” Grabbing his trapezius muscles, I dig my fingers in and squeeze. “I’ll kill you.”
Ford reappears with Hawke, each of them holding opposite sides of a stained twin-sized mattress. “We’re done,” Hawke announces.
Taking in the stains, I question, “That hers?”
Ford nods.
“Leave it. We’ll get her a new one.”
The mattress falls to their feet with a quiet thump. They step over the tattered rectangle and disappear out the front door.
“You don’t mind picking it up, right, Virgil?” I challenge. His body vibrates beneath my palms, proving how pissed he really is, but he doesn’t curse me out the way he wants to. Good. Maybe he’ll heed my warning and actually stay away. If not, I’ll kill him. I squeeze his flesh a little harder, proving a point before letting him go. “Goodbye, Virgil.”
I head toward the door. Roman follows. When we climb into the truck, the bed is barely a quarter full. I’m pretty sure we’d be able to pack all of Violet’s belongings in two boxes, max. Dammit, the girl’s even more destitute than I originally assumed.
“This is it?” I ask.
Ford nods. “That’s it.”
Roman looks out the windshield, checking both sides of the empty gravel road. “Let’s get out of here.”
24
VIOLET
My body groans in protest as I roll onto my side.
Ooookay. Yeah, that hurts.
And when I saythat, I mean my entire body. I squeeze my already closed eyes even tighter. Yup. I still feel like I got the shit kicked out of me. Actually, Ididget the shit kicked out of me, bless my sperm donor’s soul. The memory leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And so does the reminder of how I’m once again out of money and in desperate need of a new laptop. I also have to move today, which, considering how hard it was to roll over, means carrying boxes is going to be a real treat.
I let out another groan and peel open one eye. Might as well get it over with. The bed is empty, and the sheets are just as soft as when I first climbed into them. They smell good, too. Like Jagger and laundry detergent. The combination is weirdly comforting. Emphasis on theweirdly.
It’s late. Later than I usually sleep in. The bag of defrosted peas sits on the nightstand next to a glass of water, a small bottle of pain meds, and a handful of saltines with peanut butter slathered on top. My mouth lifts in the smallest of movements as I force myself to a sitting position and steal one from the plate. It’s good. Salty and sweet and nutty and exactly what thedoctor ordered. Well, if I could afford one, anyway. Regardless, I appreciate it. The sweet gesture. It reminds me of the haunted house and how a certain someone managed to surprise me then, too. Man, it feels like a lifetime ago.
I still don’t know what convinced me to show up at Jagger’s house last night. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures. Do I regret it? I don’t think so. And that’s the scariest part of all of this.
