Page 19 of Executing Malice

Sharing conspiratorial smirks, I watch her skip out.

The rest of my day is less exciting. The steady flow of customers keeps me from checking the time ... or the window. I even manage to avoid stapling my fingers as I finish up the paperwork for the day.

I do — casually — steal a peek out the window as I’m locking up. Curious to see if he’s still there, and blink to find the spot empty.

My fingers pause on the latch. My head pivots along the lightly crowded street in case he moved locations. But there’s not a single black bike in sight.

Well, I feel stupid.

Here I was thinking he was there for me when clearly, I am a delusional snowflake with an ego that is very quickly deflating.

Pursing my lips, I snap the lock into place and give the door a tug to be sure before gathering up my things and heading out the back.

The lot is a cluster of shiny metal glinting in the cooling evening. I weave my way through to where myFiestais nestled between a blue Toyota and a black Yukon. I think nothing of it as I fish out my keys and reach the driver’s side.

No sooner have I curled my fingers into the handle when the driver of the Yukon throws open his door and cracks the edge hard enough into mine that I feel the vibration run through my frame. The sound alone is the equivalent of a full on collision that splits the silence.

“Hey!” I yell.

Phone plastered to his ear, the man who hops down barely acknowledges me as he shuts his door and starts to walk away.

“Hey!” I snap at his back, forgetting all about getting into my car as I stalk after him. “Excuse me.”

Dressed like some knock off version of an FBI agent, the man comes to a reluctant stop. The phone never lowers as he turns his dark head back over his shoulder to peer at me over the plastic rims of his sunglasses.

“No, Shawn, one second.” He tells the person on the other end. “Yes?”

I realize I have his attention and hurriedly wave at my car.

“You hit my car.”

His head tilts in the direction I’m pointing to.

“How?”

The level of no fucks this man is giving fuels the inferno in my belly.

“With your fucking door, asshole. How can you miss that?”

“No, tell Elijah I’m going to be a minute. Some townie is trying to tell me something.”

I can’t even process the thoughts clamoring in my skull as he disconnects the call, slips the phone into the inside pocket ofhis crisp black suit and gives me the full grace of his attention by sweeping his glasses off.

Dead, brown eyes meet mine from a face carved from granite. Every line sharp enough to cut, to draw blood. Even the thin state of his lips gives him an almost cartoon villain vibe.

Still, there’s something weirdly familiar I can’t put my finger on. Something like steel talons tickling the back of my mind.

But I shove it aside. Too unimportant to dwell on when the answer is in his conversation.

“You work for Elijah Virelli?” I bite through my teeth, fingers curling into the sharp metal teeth of my keys.

I don’t know Elijah Virelli aside from the few glimpses of him around town, but that’s probably where I’ve seen this dick. Virelli is constantly surrounded by men, none from town. It makes the most logical sense.

“Work for?” the man mutters lazily like he’s trying not to laugh. “Sure.”

My jaw tightens. “Were you seriously going to just walk away?”

He continues to stare into my face with the amusement of someone witnessing a monkey do tricks. Like I’m too stupid to be worth his time.