Page 107

I hold Mr. Clarke’s gaze a moment longer before releasing him with a harsh shove. He falls back into his seat, his face pale, his eyes wide. He looks like he wants to be angry, but he doesn’t quite have the energy.

Or the balls.

I stand, straightening my jacket with a sharp tug. The waiter steps back, his eyes darting between Mr. Clarke and me, his hands up as if fending off a wild animal. I can feel the weight of stares from the other diners, their shocked whispers buzzing in the air like flies after a bloated corpse.

But I don’t even look at them.

They don’t matter.

They are utterly insignificant.

Straightening my tie, I reach into my pocket, pull out a wad of cash, and throw it on the table. I think there were a couple hundred dollars in that handful.

Good. The waiter deserves a good tip.

Maybe he can get his fuckin’ teeth fixed.

“I want you to know,” I say, staring Mercy’s father in the eyes. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about this, and a lot of praying.”

“You, praying?” He snorts.

“Yes,” I say, still staring him down. “I spoke to God, and I said ‘Lord, have mercy on my soul.’”

I paused, just for a moment, for dramatic effect. I couldn’t stop the grin that split my lips, no matter how hard I tried.

“Though, I think you should know that by ‘my soul’, I mean my cock. And that’s exactly where she’ll be tonight.”

I flash him a wink and turn away from the table. The door chimes cheerfully as I step out into the world outside, sucking in a shaking breath to try to calm my nerves. I need to get home. I need to get home and take it out on her, just like she asked me to.

I need to make her cry.

I scan the sidewalk, the parking lot, my eyes narrowing as I spot her.

Mercy.

She’s sitting on a worn iron bench, her back to me.

Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her chocolate waves dancing around her shoulders with every inhale. The sight of her, so vulnerable and broken, stokes the fire within me, but I rein it in.

Not here.

My shoes crunch on the gravel as I step up to her. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know she feels me. I can sense the shift in her, the way her muscles tense.

“Mercy?” I say.

She doesn’t respond, she just cries silently. I sigh and sit down beside her, sliding closer to her.

“Where’s your mom?” I ask.

“She’s in the car,” she says. “She called me a whore. She says she doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

I follow her gaze, seeing nothing but a fat black crow perched on a nearby fence, its beady eyes watching us with keen interest. It tilts its head at me, watching me closely.

Can it sense that I’m a predator?

“She’ll come around,” I say.

“What if she doesn’t?”