Page 4 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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Don’t be a weirdo, my inner voice warns. Don’t go full Jefferson.

But I do have a right to confront the random stranger parked outside my work every day. I just have to be careful I don’t come off as crazy.

So, I plaster on a smile I reserve for children and idiots and head over.

“Hi,” I chirp, adding a little wave, committing to the performance.

Sunlight lances along the smooth plastic of his helmet with the slight tilt of his head. Maybe he’s as confused by my actions as I am.

“I’m just wondering if you’re lost.”

That’s not weird. It’s a totally reasonable partial question.

“Do I look lost?”

I blink because what the fuck? Rude.

My smile slips. “You’re parked here every day—”

“Is that a crime?”

My hesitation irritates me more than my visceral wish that I never walked over.

“Not a crime, but definitely creepy,” I state, planting my hands on my hips.

Strong arms unfurl and a gloved hand presses into his chest as if I’ve mortally wounded him.

I wish.

“That’s harsh. Here I thought I was bringing real world whimsy to your Pleasantville community.”

“We don’t need whimsy. You’ve been lurking in this spot every day for weeks. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t talk to anyone—”

“Been watching me that closely, huh?”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I hate that he can see my face, but I can’t see his.

“I’m part of the safety committee,” I lie. “Are you even from Jefferson?”

“Will you have me lynched and feathered if I’m not?”

“Tarred,” I correct sharply. “Tarred and feathered.”

His arms return to their folded state across an incredibly impressive chest draped in a loose T-shirt and a leather jacket.

“Oh, well, that does sound much better. Should I call the historical society and book a lynching or does that come with the welcome basket? ”

I draw in a breath meant to calm and soothe but definitely doesn’t.

“You book an appointment with my brother, the deputy sheriff,” I threaten, mirroring his stance, crossing my arms.

He says nothing for a long, painfully brittle minute where I fight against my own urge to wince with self-disgust; I’m becoming like every other busybody in town threatening to call the sheriff on people for simply minding their own business.

I have no reason to give this guy a hard time.

He has done literally nothing to me or anyone else.

“Well, you sure showed me,” he drawls with an edge that hadn’t been there before. “Haven’t had a girl threaten me with her big brother in a while.”

I ignore the jab, the blatant mockery.

“You know what, stay. I don’t care.”

It’s here that the universe fails me.

My grand escape, my smooth exit is shattered by reality when I spin on my heels and walk straight into oncoming traffic.

Nearly.

I nearly become a Leila pancake, if it wasn’t for the arm that clamped down around my middle. The yank that jerked me back, straight into a hard, solid chest .

The world takes a moment to fully adjust as my heart catapults in my chest. My lungs clap around the gasp I barely get past my lips as the hold around me tightens.

Ahead, the car that nearly hit me swerves to a stop.

The driver rolls down the window and shouts my name.

But I barely hear it. I can barely focus on anything when he’s holding me cradled against his chest. One big, gloved hand is splayed across my abdomen, pinning me in place while I stare up into the glossy visor reflecting my face.

My wide eyes, parted lips. My confusion and something I can’t put a finger on, except I shouldn’t have it there.

“Careful.” The voice falls close to my ear. Too close. Too loud despite the plastic between us. “I can’t irritate you if you’re dead.”

“Who says you irritate me?”

Maybe it’s my imagination, my near-death experience, but I think his hold tightens.

“Don’t tease me. I might get the wrong idea.”

Despite my annoyance with him, I have to bite back my amusement. “What kind of—?”

“Leila!”

I’m saved from saying something potentially mortifying by the sound of Mr. Singh calling my name. He’s standing outside of his car, holding up traffic, waiting for my response .

“Sorry about that, Mr. Singh,” I call, unable to take my gaze off the masked weirdo making my brain fuzzy. “I’m fine.”

The biker’s head tilts back like he’s peering down his nose at me. “I agree.”

Cheeks blazing all over again, I turn my head to watch Mr. Singh wave at me before getting back into his car. The small caravan continues on its way, leaving me to face my mystery biker once more.

I pull out of his hold, careful not to step into traffic a second time.

“You should stop parking here,” I tell him, all joking aside. “You pissed off the wrong people and they will get you arrested, or worse.”

His arms fold over his chest. “ Skelator and her crew of garden gnomes?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I snort a laugh. “You don’t want to mess with them. They will cut you at the knees. They’re not playing around.”

“Sexy. I love a good foreplay.”

This guy can’t be real.

“They’ll dig up your entire life,” I warn, trying my actual best to save him. Fuck if I know why. “They probably already know your blood type, shoe size and the color of your underwear. ”

His arms drop. His hands settle on the front of his bike as he leans towards me.

“What underwear?”

Don’t look. Don’t look, Leila!

My gaze flicks down to his dark cargo pants with its millions of pockets and a thick leather belt for a split second. Barely more than a blink.

“I saw that, you little pervert.”

“I didn’t!” I snap, heat crawling up my neck.

“You absolutely did. That was a full-on underwear reconnaissance mission. I feel vulnerable and exposed.”

“There is something wrong with you,” I tell him, meaning it.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea. Now, go before one of the lawn gnomes take a shot at my kneecaps and you become collateral damage.”

Exasperated, I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. I pivot on my feet, and this time, I look both ways before sprinting back towards the bank.

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I’m not annoyed.

That’s a satisfaction I will not give that asshole. I’m not going to let him creep under my skin and...

“Fuck!”

A crimson bead bubbles up from the puncture in my finger where I injected a staple through the skin.

How? Fuck if I know, but I pop the digit into my mouth and glower at the window where the day has begun to slip into autumn dusk.

He’s to blame.

I was startled by what I thought was the growl of a machine. Otherwise, I was doing fine completing the nightly closing.

I shove the deposit slips into the basket with a little more force than is necessary and stuff the whole thing under the counter to finish up in the morning.

I’m not one to leave things for the next day. I’ll stay the extra twenty minutes to make sure everything is put in their rightful places — even if I won’t get paid for it. But I’ve been frazzled and scatterbrained all afternoon and I can’t trust myself to do a proper job.

So, I close up. Toss my purse straps over my shoulder and leave the bank .

The low hum of a beast in the brush ripples through the settling silence.

We’re usually the last to close so the predatory growl scuttles up my spine.

It takes every ounce of control not to glance back over my shoulder as I fumble to get the key into the lock.

I miss a few times but get the tumblers to clack into place.

I continue to pretend like I don’t see the broad hulk of a shadow crouched just out of sight from the corner of my eye. He’s hard to miss. He’s the only other person parked along the curb.

I briefly wonder if I’d be more worried if he’d been in a car. Granted, there are still enough people on the sidewalks that I don’t think he’d get the chance to kidnap me, but I still make sure I call out to Maisie Baker as she snaps the locks on the bakery several doors down.

“See you tomorrow, Maisie!”

Wide, brown eyes lift and find me. She smiles while stuffing her keys into her bag.

“See you tomorrow.”

I reach my car and get in behind the wheel.

Only when I’m seated and have the doors locked do I dare a peek up into my rearview mirror, and my heart catches in my chest.

I can’t see his face, but I know his eyes are locked on mine. The powerful build of all those muscles strain with the forward brace of his body. His gloved hands are twisted around the handlebars like a racer ready for the gunshot.

I put my car into drive and clumsily pull out of my spot. I wait to hear the revving of his engine, the squeal of his tires, but there is nothing as I turn off Silver Pines Road to Dunlop Crest.

He doesn’t follow me through the winding streets. He never does. I don’t know where he goes or if he even leaves at all. Maybe Viola is right, and he sleeps there. Doubtful. He’s never there when I arrive in the morning.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s not my problem.

Once I get home, I’m taking off my bra, kicking off my shoes and grabbing the ice cream from the freezer. In that order. Then, I’m going to park my butt in front of the TV and binge the rest of Bridgeton .

It’s a beautiful plan. I’m practically dancing in my seat as I take the final bend, dip off the main roads and down Wellington Drive. Buildings bleed into wilderness. The scent of cinnamon gives way to pine and earth. I roll down my window and breathe in the crisp evening air.

Our house — mine and my parents’ — isn’t the only one hidden from the world amongst looming acres of wilderness.

It does sit alone in a slight incline, encompassed by trees, but our nearest neighbor is a ten-minute walk in either direction.

Dad used to say, “Close enough to have over for barbeque, but far enough not to share stories.”

In Jefferson, stories are everything. Good or bad. People love their stories and telling them. Even as a closely knitted town, an innocent conversation can take on many outcomes by the time it circulates the entire population. It’s crucial to be careful who you share those stories with.