Page 18 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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When Joy and Evan took me in, I wondered what kind of person I was before. Every action, every decision came with an immediate second guessing. Hesitation while I contemplated if I always did things that way.

Did I like broccoli?

Did I always like the color green?

Did cottage cheese always gross me out?

Dr. Hammell did his best to calm my anxiety the older I got but never could answer me. How could he? I was a stranger to him. The best he could do was assure me I may get my memories back.

When the nightmares began, a terrifying smear of colors and distorted imagery that sent me bolting upright drenched in sweat, his only solution was medication that served to lock me in my prison until dawn. It was sheer luck that it finally stopped.

Until last night.

The bed and the hallway. The scream of voices.

It’s all so familiar, but dreams are so unreliable.

I can’t trust ... but what if it’s accurate?

What if that was my life? What if that was my reality and the reason I’d been in those woods?

Maybe that was why no one has found me in eight years because no one is looking.

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and scribble out the incorrect daily total for the fifth time. My multiple attempts glare up at me from beneath deep scratches of blue ink and I have to resist the urge to admit defeat.

I know how to do this. It’s my job, damn it. I’ve done it a million times before. I just need to get my head on straight and...

The bell over the door jingles, disrupting my focus.

My head jerks up, brain partially relieved for the reprieve as I focus on the figure strolling in.

It’s been an unusually slow afternoon. Aside from the handful of regulars making their swing by, I’ve had a remarkably quiet day. Part of me had hoped it would remain that way until I can leave, alas, fate has other plans.

But all good feelings vanish when I find myself caught in a set of familiar, brown eyes.

My spine stiffens even as my fingers tighten around the pen gripped over my ruined paper. The need to bolt comes and goes with the realization that he’s blocking my only escape. And it’s just us in the building.

“Hello again, Leila,” he drawls in that tone that suggests he knows something .

I will my muscles to relax. I remind myself there is nothing he can do to me.

“Here to make a deposit?” I counter, barely managing to keep my voice even.

He stops on the other side of my kiosk. “I’m here because you owe me a new set of tires.”

My heart thumps in my chest. It’s cracking with the aggressive force of a war drum while I actively keep eye contact.

“What are you talking about?”

Long arms cross over my counter as he leans his body forward.

The chunk of granite dividing us isn’t wide enough to keep his Old Spice cologne from invading my space.

It assaults my senses with a familiar slap that sends all the bells whistling in my skull.

The acid in my stomach bubbles up my chest. My skin prickles with sweat.

I’m suddenly struggling to keep my breathing in check as he bears down on me.

And I can’t move.

Every muscle is paralyzed. Coiled like a spooked rabbit too afraid to run as the snake descends.

The irrational fear tingles at the back of my skull like an itch I can’t scratch.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he drawls with the lazy purr of a demon in the dark. “You cut my tires.”

The accusation curdles in my throat. But so does a different hum. A thicker vibration that ripples up my spine.

“That’s a serious allegation. Have you spoken to the sheriff?”

The steadiness surprises me.

I don’t know this man, but I hate him. He scares me, but I’m not scared. He pisses me off.

Disgusts me.

While his face is handsome in that rich asshole way douche bags in movies are, I find nothing appealing.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother him. I find I get better results when I handle the matter myself.”

I hate that I want to lash out and punch him in the nose. It’s so unlike me, I don’t understand the taste for violence.

“Well, good luck with that.”

His head cocks to one side, unleashing a chunk of wispy brown over those dead eyes.

“I don’t believe in luck. If it existed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“What conversation are we having exactly?” I bite out.

The right corner of his mouth quirks. “You owe me new tires.”

I snort. “You can’t prove it was me. With your charming personality, I doubt I’m the only person you’ve pissed off.” I tighten my grip on my pen in case I need to ram it into his eye socket or restrain myself. I haven’t decided. “You should leave now.”

His gaze has settled on my hand. On my weapon. His mouth pulls wider, exposing canines.

“I was stabbed with a pencil once,” he remarks casually. His left arm lifts to touch his right shoulder just beneath his collar bone. “Here. Hurt like a bitch. Damn thing snapped, too.”

My brain flashes to the broken pencil I found on my car a few weeks back. Obviously, one has nothing to do with the other, but I find myself swallowing thickly.

“Let me guess, you didn’t deserve it,” I taunt.

He laughs, and I have to admit, he’s actually pretty good looking ... if it wasn’t for the eyes. They give him away.

“Oh, I did. But...” Heavy lids lift and I’m fixed on those vacuums of endless nothing, “I made sure they learned their lesson. I’m not someone who takes lightly to ... bad behavior.”

I take a long, slow breath. “Funny. We have that in common. Now, if you’re not here to—”

“I could go to the sheriff, if that’s what you want,” he cuts me off. “I could talk to your ... brother. Reed, isn’t it?” I say nothing and he continues lazily, “What do you think he’ll say?”

I lift an eyebrow. “Contrary to popular belief, Reed and I don’t share a brain.

I have no idea what he would say to your flimsy claim.

But I’m sure he’ll be very interested when I show him the giant ding you left on my car.

See,” I will myself to my feet and square off with the prick watching me, “there’s something called proof.

I have it. You don’t. You have assumptions and bad breath.

Two things you can take right out of here and shove up your ass. ”

Something in his gaze sharpens. A predatory gleam like he’s won something. It’s triumphant and amused.

“Thank you for not disappointing me.”

Without giving me a chance to process, he crosses the bank and pushes through the doors. I watch him melt into the afternoon crowd. Not a soul even glances at him as he passes amongst them.

I don’t move until he’s out of sight. Far enough that he won’t notice when I sprint to the door and peer through the glass.

First, in the direction he’d headed to make sure he’s really gone. Then the opposite way towards my biker’s usual spot.

And blink when I find the curb empty.

The bike is there as it always is. A sleek, black beast under the warm sunlight.

I even sweep the streets. Scan every passing face in case I missed him.

He’s not there.

Had douche bag done something to him? Had he hurt him and left him somewhere to bleed out ?

But why would he? It wouldn’t make sense. They don’t know each other. Douche would have no reason to...

So, where is he? He never leaves his bike. I’ve seen him out there in the pouring rain, just sitting there for hours.

Maybe he had to pee.

Maybe he’s gone to eat.

Maybe he’s with another girl. Maybe he has her in the butcher shop basement. Maybe he’s kissing her right now.

I’m not a jealous person. I never have been, but the brewing inferno snapping through my gut, raging up my chest is a different beast. It’s murderous.

Bloodthirsty.

It has my fingers curling into the handle of the door and yanking it open. The rush of autumn tugs at my top. Ruffles my skirt between my legs as I charge out onto the sidewalk ... and freeze.

What am I doing?

Am I seriously going to confront the guy who broke into my house because he may have moved on to someone else?

Yes.

Because why?

Why did I stop being attractive to him? Did he realize I’m not actually what he wants? Maybe I’m too boring. He seems to have some wild taste. But I could have learned. Maybe I’m too lumpy. I get I’m not smooth and slim like some women, but it hadn’t stopped him from eating steak off my stomach.

Maybe he realized he doesn’t want that. Maybe he tried it and it wasn’t his thing.

I bite my lip, willing back my tears.

I know I’m being ridiculous.

I don’t know this man from Adam. Literally never even seen his face. He’s every red flag in the damn book. I should be thrilled that he’s moved on. Not feel gutted.

Maybe a large part of it has to do with the fact that he’s the first guy I’ve wanted back. The only guy who has touched me and my body hasn’t recoiled. I’d begun to think I had a problem, that something was wrong with me, but I want him to touch me. I ache for him.

I need him in a way I have never needed anyone and...

As if summoned by my pathetic desperation, he steps out of the alley between the clinic and the pharmacy.

The sun shimmers off the black dome over his head and catches across the plastic visor over his eyes when his chin tips.

It cocks and I know he’s spotted me. That look alone sends a cacophony of sensations and emotions flooding through me.

Relief.

Anger.

Pain .

Fear.

Happiness.

Fury.

So many all colliding together until I can’t be sure if I’m happy to see him or I need to throw up.

I turn and hurry back inside.

I need to think. I need to process everything that just happened, including earlier. The absence of my biker had momentarily diluted the reason I’d gone to the door.

I barely make it halfway to my desk when the door is thrown open behind me. I jump at the violent jingle of bells, but don’t need to turn to know he’s there.