Page 26 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

Felicity stalks in. Her strides are hurried like she’s prairie dogging a turd. I can’t see her whole face, but the glimpse I catch — stressed.

Not happy. Everything about her posture is angry and annoyed. While that gives me great pleasure, it’s ruined by every breath she takes.

Vaguely, I’m aware of Maisie and Jasper waiting for me to pick a drink, but I’m too focused on Felicity scampering into the bathroom. I watch the door clap shut behind her and a hot surge of madness falls over my vision. A sticky cling of poison that settles at the back of my throat.

“I’ll be back. Going to wash my hands.”

I don’t know what the plan is when I cross the glossy floor, or when I push through the bathroom door. Slowly. Quietly. With the greatest ease possible. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs begin to ache .

Felicity is in the middle cubical. I hear the toilet paper roll thumping and her angry slaps for more tissue. But my gaze is on the lock, watching it for the second she turns the latch.

I still don’t have a plan. My brain isn’t even working when I step up on the other side and slam it back hard. I hear the satisfied thud of Felicity’s face bouncing off the metal, the beautiful crunch of cartilage, followed by her wail of pain.

I have only a second to smirk before she’s coming out, clutching a bloody nose.

“Oh my God, Felicity!” I gasp with all the horror I should be feeling. “I am so sorry.”

“You broke my nose!” she sobs, pinching the bridge and trying to tilt her head back, but her sweater is already stained with crimson just the way I’d been fantasizing minutes before. It’s running in a shiny river over her lips and down her chin. It’s all over her hands.

I shouldn’t be satisfied, but I am.

“I am so sorry,” I say again, making to shove past her for tissue. I yank a wad free and stuff it into her bloody hand. “I was on my phone. I didn’t see you coming out. God, I am so sorry. Can I do anything?”

“No! I’m supposed to be the Queen of the Corn Maze next weekend. How am I supposed to be beautiful with a broken nose? ”

I bite back the urge to tell her makeup.

“Let me grab Jasper,” I offer, but stay and watch as she rushes to the sink and tries to wash her face.

I watch her while her head is down, crimson streaks running between her fingers. They drizzle in speckles across the sink only to swirl away in a pink smear.

I doubt it’s broken. I didn’t hit her that hard. But she’ll have swelling. Maybe a matching pair of black eyes. Maybe she could be a zombie queen. I don’t tell her that. That’s her problem to solve. She’s not even listening to me anyway.

With a last lingering survey of my handiwork, I leave the bathroom. I brush my hands down my skirt, adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder and wander back to where Jasper is waiting. It takes a lot of work to smother the delighted gleam I know is lighting up my eyes.

There’s guilt, too. Women shouldn’t attack women over a man. I like to think I’m a girl’s girl at my core, but like don’t touch my shit. It’s rude. The girl code goes both ways and Felicity can eat my ass after a dinner of laxatives.

Jasper, with our sandwiches in hand, meets my gaze and offers a smile that immediately amps the guilt in my chest. Poor guy didn’t ask for this. It’s not his fault his sister pissed me off. Hell, it’s not his fault biker man is on my shit list. He’s just getting the bad end of everything .

I offer him what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Jasper.” I motion over my shoulder in the direction of the bathrooms. “There was an accident. I think Felicity needs you.”

His smile dims even as his gaze jumps over my head to the closed door in the car corner. Maybe it’s my twisted imagination, but I think I can hear the faint wisp of Felicity weeping. Shouldn’t give me pleasure, but it does.

With both of our sandwiches, Jasper leaves me to hurry to his sister.

Maisie and I exchange glances and I offer her a faint shrug.

“I’m sorry for the mess, Mais.”

Her brown eyes widen. “Mess?”

I give her a quick rundown — setting my alibi in case Felicity decides to run her mouth.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Maisie says, watching Jasper talk through the bathroom door to his sister.

I nod, not at all sorry. “Can you let Jasper know I’m sorry again and I need to head back?”

Maisie agrees and says nothing as I leave.

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I’m not proud of my actions.

I’m not unproud, either.

Jasper and Felicity are out of my mind by the time I’m locking up. I am grateful to her, though. Thanks to her, I got to leave Jasper at the bakery without making any excuses or having to confess I was using him to make a masked asshole jealous.

An asshole who stole my jar.

He was gone when I left the Sutton family, but so was my tote. I did panic for a split-second thinking someone else took it, but the likelihood of that is nearly impossible, which means he must have taken it.

Good.

I don’t want his stupid spank bank, though, so rude to take back a gift.

His absence makes me think he’s finally come to his senses and gone off to give his weird offerings to someone else.

I’m not mad.

Disappointed, maybe. Partially annoyed. How is he angry with me when he started it? He let Felicity paw him. For all I know, he’s gone off to get ready for their date.

Which, I don’t care about. He can stalk whoever he wants.

I pitch my keys into my purse and stomp to my car .

I’m at the driver’s side door when my phone chimes. The Sugar Plum Fairy ringtone — Reed’s ringtone — has me scrambling to fish it out from the bottom of my bag.

I stuff it between my ear and shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey, you headed home?”

My bag is tossed over the middle console into the passenger seat before I duck behind the wheel.

“Just getting into the car. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just driving back from Mayfield. Wanted to see what you were doing.”

I squint with disbelief even as I turn the key in the ignition. “Since when?” The silence tells me everything I need to know. “Who told you?”

“It isn’t a report. Just chatter through the grapevine.”

I roll my eyes. “It was an accident.”

“Yeah, I know. Just wanted to hear what happened from you.”

“If there isn’t a report, why are you asking for my side?” I counter, ignoring his smooth delivery.

“Curiosity.”

“Bullshit. Someone ratted. Was it Felicity?”

“Leila...”

“It was, wasn’t it?” I pull off the shoulder and start towards home. “It was an accident. I was looking at my phone and didn’t see her coming out of the stall. That’s it. She walked into the door.”

“Okay. That’s all I need to know.”

“I can’t believe she snitched.”

“She didn’t. Her parents did. They’re with her at Mayfield General. Her nose is broken.”

I grimace. I didn’t think I hit her that hard.

“Is that why you were there?”

“More or less. I went to check on her.”

“Am I in trouble?”

His sigh echoes through the speaker as I mount my phone to the dashboard. “No. I managed to talk them down. They were livid initially.”

“Well, it was an accident.”

“That’s what I told them. Anyway, swing by and maybe apologize again. Maybe bring some flowers or something.”

I stifle back my snort. The only thing snitches get is stitches, but I doubt Reed wants to hear that.

“Yeah, sure.”

We disconnect the call and I continue home with my head already fuming.

I partially consider crawling in through her window and strangling her with her hair, but Reed is right.

Killing her won’t solve anything. If anything, it would only create more paperwork.

Plus, I’m not going to jail for that little bitch .

But this is a tomorrow problem, I decide. After the day I’ve already had, I don’t want to think about any of it anymore. It’s definitely a brain rot sort of day. Food, wine and a movie marathon.

I have nearly forgotten all about Jasper and Felicity by the time I pull into my driveway.

I kill the engine, grab my bag and keys, and jog up the steps.

The items are discarded on the hallway table as I hurry into the bedroom to swap my work clothes for loose shorts and my favorite house T-shirt.

I run a brush through my hair and bunch up the strands into a loose knot at the top of my head.

In true movie marathon set up, I gather up blankets and pillows and dump them on the sofa.

The coffee table is dragged to the opposite wall of the living room, leaving a wide-open space in front of the TV.

I grab every snack I can get my hands on out of the cupboard, including the open bottle of wine I keep on hand for days like today.

I pour myself a glass while I finish arranging everything.

I even make a neat stack of chosen films next to the player and toss the remote on my makeshift bed.

I sip while I get comfortable.

Something about the tart flavor of crushed grapes and watching Michael Myers in a mask gives me a warm, cozy feeling.

Reed thinks I’m insane for having a thing for men in masks, but something about Halloween as a franchise just does something to me.

It tickles a part of my brain that feels familiar and safe.

“He’s a serial killer, Leila. You’re not supposed to feel safe,” Reed always mutters in that cop tone of his.

I roll my eyes and take a deeper gulp, already feeling the light buzz of alcohol on an empty stomach.

The fruity dryness coats my tongue, and I let the glass hang loosely from my fingers as I crawl across the mound of blankets in search of the remote.

I’m fully aware of my fumbling, the slight numbness in my fingertips as I set my drink down just in case.

My vision sharpens, then blurs in slow pulses.

I blink and try to focus, mentally berating myself for drinking without food. I’m not exactly a lightweight, but ... a low thrum has started vibrating through my skull. It stays even with the prodding of my fingertips into my temples.

I scoot clumsily down the blankets and fall onto my stomach. My head barely hits the pillow before I slip under.