Page 22 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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“Oh, sweetie, you don’t look so good.” Daisy eyes me from across the counter, soft lips pulled into a grimace.

I know I don’t.

I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’m sweaty and flushed. That I haven’t taken a normal breath in hours. My skirt is drenched through at the back and that moisture has soaked into the cushion of my chair.

I don’t even want to start on the smell; I had to prop the bank door open.

“Just a little under the weather,” I croak.

Like every other time a new client walked in, the humming starts. It’s low, teasing. Never enough to get me over ... unless it’s a man. The asshole outside has made it his mission to torture me a little more when the opposite sex is nearby, like he’s proving a point.

But I wish he would give me a break.

Multiple orgasms are a girl’s dream, but consistently for hours is more than a novice can handle, especially one who only ever had one or two at her own hands in the past. Plus, I’m pretty sure my heart can’t take much more.

I considered ripping the fucking thing out, marching outside — crawl more like — and chucking it at his head, but the cons of that decision have me suffering through.

Last thing I need is for him to storm back in and do it all over again. I definitely don’t have the energy for that.

“Want me to bring you some of my herbal tea with honey? I swear, it clears up everything,” Daisy offers.

I shake my head, knowing full well no tea on earth is going to solve my problem ... unless it’s laced with poison.

“It’ll be over tomorrow,” I say, wishful thinking out loud.

Daisy clicks her tongue sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

I wave the kindness aside, accepting that I brought this on myself. “What can I help you with?”

Her concerned frown melts a margin into a brilliant smile as she slides a slip of folded paper across the counter.

“I did what you said. I went to Maisie’s and happened to bump into Peggy Sue.”

My own lips twitch. Literally. Probably looks like a grimace as I try to breathe through the subtle hum coursing through my entire being.

“What a coincidence. ”

Her grin flicks up a notch, turning mischievous. “Right? We love a good coincidence. But I asked about my booth at the carnival ... sorry, festival, and she gave me one. So, I’m here to submit my deposit.”

My eyes narrow, all good humor vanishing. “Which booth?”

Because last I deposited all the checks, all the booths were accounted for.

Daisy purses her lips and digs into her purse for a frayed and tattered notepad. “Booth twenty-eight?”

I groan inwardly, but smile up at her, unable to break her heart by telling her it’s the shittiest booth at the festival. Practically ostracized to the very far end of the fairgrounds where literally no one even bothers going.

Fucking Peggy Sue.

“That’s really great,” I say.

Daisy gives an excited little squeal and bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’m so ... I can’t wait.”

Her radiant smile only adds fuel to my annoyance. To my already ragged patience. I know there is nothing I can do to help her, but ... goddamn it. What a shitty thing to do to a person.

Still, grudgingly, I take her deposit and add it to the other funds allocated for the festival under the City Hall account. I hand her the slip and promise her I would come visit .

What I don’t tell her is that I will also tell every client that comes through the door that she has a booth and where to find it. It may not do anything, but I’m not going to let her sit in some corner booth alone thinking no one wants to see her stuff.

Peggy Sue can go dry hump sandpaper.

The final leg of my shift ends with the slowest torture.

It stretches every minute into hours until I’m ready to say fuck it and leave.

When six finally arrives, I already have everything turned off.

The bank hums in the eerie darkness as I stomp across the marble to the doors.

My keys jingle, sounding angry even to my own ears as I latch up and turn.

I spot him immediately.

Parked at the curb like some leather clad reaper straddling a rumbling, black beast. The helmet makes him look inhuman, like he’s not a man, but something darker.

Hungrier. One hand is draped over the throttle.

The other holds up a spare helmet. A smaller version to his.

He grips it around the edges like he already knows I’m going to take it.

I’m not.

Fuck him.

“No.”

The helmet doesn’t lower.

“Get on, Leila,” he says, voice thick with warning and distorted by the visor and distance .

Done with his shit, I fold my arms and glower at him from ten feet away “You can fuck right off.”

He tilts his head. A terrifyingly casual way serial killers do in movies while covered in blood and wielding a butcher knife. Impossible, but I swear even his bike growls a little louder.

“Get on, or I get in your car.” The hand on the throttle uncurls and he straightens in his seat like he’s fully prepared to hop off and follow me. “Where I will have full use of both hands.”

My breath hitches. Not because of the threat, but because I know he means it. I know he’ll slide into my passenger seat, kick his boots up on the dash and torture me the entire way home with the damn toy still nestled between my walls.

Still, I don’t move. My defiance is a steel rod bracing my spine as I glare like a petulant child at the asshole killing any chances I may ever have of being with another man.

“I will get you for this,” I hiss through my teeth.

“Promise?”

I stare at the helmet still dangling from his fingers. Every inch of me wants to slap it from his hand. But there is a part of me curious to see what his plan is once I do.

I’m obviously every serial killer’s dream victim, but something tells me he’s not going to kill me ... the traditional way .

Infuriated, I stalk forward on jelly legs and snatch the offered helmet. All the while, I stare into the visor with all my brewing frustrations.

“You’re very upset for someone who had multiple orgasms,” he muses in a tone that has me gritting my jaw.

“Unwillingly!” I snap, poking him in the chest with the helmet. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts right now?”

His response is the solid grip of his long fingers around the delicate bones of my wrist. I’m too caught off guard to react when he tugs me straight into his arms.

“Then I hope you learned a lesson.”

It takes a lot of effort to chew down the grin itching the corner of my lips.

“Is that how you plan on solving all our arguments?”

His hold tightens, a cobra coiling around my middle, caging me in the powerful lock of his embrace.

“Only the really important ones. Now, get on.”

I resist long enough to give a slow rock of my head. While amused, I’m not that amused by his shenanigans. I’m more annoyed with myself for still wanting him. Still craving him in a way that makes me certifiable. This guy has proven to be insane. Full out admitted to it. Yet...

Gingerly, I take a step back, breaking his hold. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me from beneath that faceless helmet, chest rising and falling like he’s already counting the seconds until he can pull me back. I wish I hated the way that makes my stomach hurt.

But a much larger prickle has formed at the back of my skull. A nagging I ignored every time he slipped into my life. The red flags I turned a blind eye to.

Who the hell is he?

I have no doubt in my mind that he’s not from Jefferson.

No one like him lives here. He knows where my house is.

He broke in, and I let him. I let him crawl into my bed.

I let him poke holes in my body. I let him cum in me .

.. twice, without a single protection. I let him torture me to the point of agony.

And I don’t know his name.

I have no idea what he looks like.

How old he is.

Where he lives.

I let some guy stomp into my life and command I obey him or else. Not even a single date. I just gave him all my control.

“I want to see your face,” I state with all the confidence I don’t feel.

In fact, I feel nauseous. I feel drained and alert. I feel the buzz of panic and dread as realization finally sinks home that I fucked up.

“No. ”

I expected the refusal and still, I blink in surprise. “Why? You’ve seen ... all of me...” oh God ... oh God... “but you won’t show me your face?”

The urge to throw up settles at the back of my throat. A ball of bile lodged at the base of my esophagus. It burns tears of shame in my eyes that I will back but know it’s a losing battle.

I let him bare me.

I lay before him naked and vulnerable. Blindfolded.

I don’t think there were other people in the basement, but what if he was recording me?

What if this is some sick prank for hits on social media?

No one just cuffs a person to a table and eats steak off their stomach if it wasn’t some weird thing for views.

“Laila...” He slips off the bike and I flinch.

I retreat. “Don’t.” I fold my arms. Not in defiance, but security as all the warmth leaves my body shivering in the settling sun. “I ... don’t touch me.”

The wedge of silicone lodged deep in my body feels suddenly violating and humiliating. I want to rip it out but can’t with so many people still moving along the sidewalks.

“Just tell me who you are,” I beg, searching the visor through a welling of tears.

“Not yet.”

“Why?” I growl through gritted teeth. “I know you’re not from Jefferson. There is no one like you here. So, who are you? Why are you doing this?” I bite my bottom lip. Shift from my right foot to my left. “Do I know you?”

There’s a good chance he’s not from my past. I don’t know why someone from before would do half the things he has, but if he’s not, I will have to explain why I don’t remember my life before eight years ago.

It’s not a romantic or cute story. I don’t want him thinking I’m broken.

He’s already stripped away enough of my pride.