Page 62 of Executing Malice

Bitch needs to get smeared by a semi.

Calm down, Leila. You psychopath.

This ishisfault. I never had homicidal thoughts over a man before. My life was fine and simple before he rolled in on his stupid bike. He’s the one toying with my sanity, testing my boundaries and making me question myself. Before him, my life was so uncomplicated and never filled with daydreams of ripping out another woman’s esophagus.

It’s deliberate.

It has to be. He’s testing me. Trying to make me jealous. He’s intentionally worming into my head. He thinks if I see him getting cozy with another woman, I’ll forget my request to see his face and come crawling back.

The joke’s on him.

He seems to think he’s the only guy who can crawl under my skin and make me feel ... anything. Well, he is, but he doesn’t know that. I used to get guys asking me out all the time. It only stopped when I kept turning them down.

Jasper was one of them.

I even considered him a mild possibility because he really is a sweet guy, comes from a good family, and ... makes me feel absolutely nothing, but that isn’t the point.

“Do you want to grab a sandwich from the bakery ... with me?” I hear myself blurt before I can second guess my decision.

Brown eyes blink from a classically handsome face. Not exactly rugged and sharp, but soft and round, topped with a neatly trimmed cap of light gold. A hand springs up and he scratches at the back of his neck, and I think I’m about to get turned down.

“Yeah, I ... that sounds great.”

I don’t give him, or myself the chance to chicken out. I already have my purse snatched out of the bottom drawer of the desk, my keys fisted between my fingers. Even to my own ears,the slap of my flats echo loudly in the still silence as I march to the door.

I’m not trying to prove a point.

I am not trying to show him that I can also move on. His opinion doesn’t ... goddamn it. He’s put his condom jar on the hood of my car. The beige tote mocks me from across the street. The handles neatly bundled into a bow like some weird gift.

And it is weird, right?

Who just leaves someone an entire jar of used condoms? Not even a small jar. It was an industrial jar used in restaurants. Bulk pickles, or whatever used to be inside. It would take months to fill to capacity. Every day, if not multiple times a day.

“I think about you a lot.”

His words from earlier sends a warm tingle scuttling down my spine. A giddy sensation a normal person would get over receiving a dozen roses. It’s stupid because this shouldn’t be cute. It’s weird, stalker behavior. And a biohazard.

Worse still, each condom had neatly written dates in black Sharpie. I had to look closely to spot the smudged and faded scripture along each knotted bubble. He apparently has no preference for brands because there were an assortment of colors. Some were even fancy with ribs, barbs and textures. I may have sat in my car for longer than was necessary, examining each one.

Not out of the jar. I can’t even imagine what the stench would be like. Still, I wasn’t nearly as horrified as I should have been. I wasn’t disgusted. I waited. I waited for the feelings to come, to surface from beneath my surprise, but I was amused — initially. I studied his efforts with a snort of laughter and a shake of my head before annoyance kicked in.

Did he honestly think he could win me over that easily? I told him what it would take to keep me and his response was another gift I don’t understand. The cryptic messages are only further confusing me and messing with my head. It only fuels the voice insisting he’s fucking with me.

Now, he’s flaunting another woman right in front of me because I put my foot down.

Well, I can also play this game.

Jasper pushes the door open and holds it for me to join him on the sidewalk. I do so and offer him a smile as I reach to lock up. My keys are abnormally loud in the steady rush of traffic. They jingle like bells between my ears. Made louder by the sound of Jasper shouting his sister’s name.

“We’re going to the bakery to get lunch,” he tells her, but I am too focused on the helmet covered head turning in my direction.

Even if I couldn’t see him in the sheet of glass, even if I wasn’t watching him, the weight of his eyes slams between myshoulder blades. It hones in with a silent scrutiny I’m not prepared for.

He’s pissed.

I don’t need to see his face to feel the ripple of heat practically washing across the entire block. It’s in the rigid posture of his spine. The curling of his fingers in their leather confines. He’s no longer seated but braced on both feet like he’s ready to swing off and march over.

I tell myself I’m not pleased by his reaction. That it isn’t pleasure coursing through me, but disinterest. I even avoid glancing in his direction when facing Jasper with my best smile.