Page 9 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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It’s easy to lie when no one’s watching.

It’s easy to slip behind the cut-out version of yourself when everyone is too busy with their own lives.

In the handful of years I have memories of, I have perfected the art of fitting in. Blending with everyone else. Pretending I’m not missing whole parts of myself.

It’s weird missing something and not knowing what. The imbalance never fails to make my heart thump a little faster with anxiety. A restless patter akin to heartbeat.

But I can’t fix it. I don’t know how. I can only hope the person I seem to be missing, the person responsible for the ache in my chest will find me and put me back together.

For now, I kick open my car door and slip out into the crisp October morning. My simple, black flats scuff on the loose gravel making up the back parking area behind the bank. The change in scenery takes my brain a second to process.

I’m not hiding.

This is my town and I’m not letting some hulking man in a leather jacket and a motorcycle run me off, but I am curious what he would do if I don’t show up to my regular spot out front. Would he leave? Would he come into the bank to check?

There’s a good chance he might actually not be there for me at all and I’m acting a fool, but the little thrill I get at possibly throwing him off brings a grin to my face as I fist my keys and start in the direction of the back door.

The morning breeze tugs at the hem of my skirt and scuttles up my naked legs. It’s a subtle reminder I might have to unearth my fall clothes from the basement. We probably have a handful of good days before winter hits.

Maybe it’s the cold snap coming off the lake, or maybe that’s just a fact of life in Canada, but winter comes quick. I should start getting ready.

I make a mental note to swap my closet this weekend once Jasmine returns. After the autumn festival.

Thoughts of the approaching event has my mind slipping to the previous night and the bloody candy apple on my porch. I contemplate calling Kimmy and asking her to talk to her kids but let it go.

They’re just kids. Despite the orderly and seemingly outdated traditions, Jefferson does get news from the outside world.

We have all the social media apps. Kids have full access to the newest trends and news.

It may be heavily monitored and discouraged to post negative behavior or anything that may look bad on the community, but kids know about Halloween.

They know it’s a day for fun and mischief.

It’s normal to want to be like other children.

A candy apple with a little fake blood isn’t the end of the world.

Logged in and paperwork complete, I pad to the glass doors and pause.

He’s already there.

A dark, hulk of a shadow out of place next to the grinning Jack o’ lanterns. His face remains shielded by the glossy helmet, big hands encased in gloves. His long body leans against the beast parked at the curb, unbothered by the flow of traffic moving around him.

Everything about him is so animalistic. So raw and beautiful. Even my brain doesn’t care that I haven’t seen his face. It’s in full agreement with my heart that he is delicious. Even his voice — while muffled by the confining box on his head — had been deep and rich.

Or maybe I read too much. Maybe I need to stop...

His head lifts and tilts in my direction like he can sense my stare, and every neuron in my body backfires. My brain fizzles out and I jolt. My entire body spasms as if I’ve been butt poked by a cattle prod and I scramble.

I run, slippers sliding on marble and throw myself behind the counter.

No grace .

Not a single shred of elegance.

I bolt like a spooked rabbit, and I know he saw it. With a full wall of glass looking directly over the entire space, no way he missed it.

Fuck!

Mortified, I drop behind the computer and cup my scorched face in both palms.

“What is wrong with you?” I groan.

I have no answers for myself, but I do know I can’t stay here ... I need to go back. I need to unlock the damn door.

Maybe no one will come. Maybe today will be the day everyone is too busy for banking.

My wishful thinking is immediately dashed when I hear the distinct thump of the lock catching followed by the gentle rapping of knuckles on glass.

Goddamn it.

Resigned, I grab the first thing within reach and pop up like I meant to make a fool of myself. I smile at Daisy DeLuca when we make eye contact.

She smiles and waves.

The empty receipt basket I grabbed on a whim is set down and I hurry to let her in. I’m careful not to look beyond her pretty face as I step back.

“Morning!” she says .

I grin back. “Sorry about that. I must have forgotten to unlock the door.”

Daisy, her wild mane in a heavy knot bunched up at the top of her head, waves the hand not gripping her red pencil case. Her green eyes gleam in the sharp morning light.

“It happens. I just want to deposit last week’s payroll.”

She holds up her case as proof.

Daisy is one of the sweetest people I know, and yet there are days I have to stop the spear of jealousy at how effortlessly gorgeous she is.

She’s in faded jeans and a loosely knitted sweater falling off one shoulder and still looks like she belongs on the cover of some Bohemian, desert rose magazine.

I have to swallow the bubble of irritation as the nagging voice can’t help wondering if the biker also thinks Daisy is gorgeous. He’d have to be blind and stupid if he doesn’t. But enough that he might try to pursue her?

She can have him, I think grumpily. If he’s that easily swayed, do I even want him?

Still, darn Daisy and her beauty making us lesser mortals unworthy.

I bottle up the plummet of my good mood and walk her to the counter.

“Are you booking a booth at the festival?” I ask, redirecting my thoughts as I start the process of depositing her money .

Sunlight plays through the coiled tendrils falling free of her knot to tangle with the cluster of stones and wires dangling from her ears. They swing with her nod.

“Trying. Just waiting for approval.”

I fight not to grimace, or tell her this close to the day, odds are she’s already been declined. The festival booths get finalized in August. I know because Peggy Sue submits the deposits at the end of the month.

I offer her a smile. “Have you talked to Peggy Sue?”

Daisy’s light dims a notch. “She’s a hard lady to track down. Left her a million messages.”

I bite my lip, locking in the bubble of words wedged in my throat. I process her funds and pass her the slip to sign.

“You know,” I blurt, unable to hold back any longer, “you should visit Maisie’s around one-ish this afternoon.” I raise my eyebrows and stare into her soft eyes.

Daisy blinks. Then realization dawns and she grins.

“You know what?” She plucks her printout from my fingers. “Maybe I will.”

Sharing conspiratorial smirks, I watch her skip out.

The rest of my day is less exciting. The steady flow of customers keeps me from checking the time ... or the window. I even manage to avoid stapling my fingers as I finish up the paperwork for the day .

I do — casually — steal a peek out the window as I’m locking up. Curious to see if he’s still there, and blink to find the spot empty.

My fingers pause on the latch. My head pivots along the lightly crowded street in case he moved locations. But there’s not a single black bike in sight.

Well, I feel stupid.

Here I was thinking he was there for me when clearly, I am a delusional snowflake with an ego that is very quickly deflating.

Pursing my lips, I snap the lock into place and give the door a tug to be sure before gathering up my things and heading out the back.

The lot is a cluster of shiny metal glinting in the cooling evening. I weave my way through to where my Fiesta is nestled between a blue Toyota and a black Yukon. I think nothing of it as I fish out my keys and reach the driver’s side.

No sooner have I curled my fingers into the handle when the driver of the Yukon throws open his door and cracks the edge hard enough into mine that I feel the vibration run through my frame. The sound alone is the equivalent of a full on collision that splits the silence.

“Hey!” I yell .

Phone plastered to his ear, the man who hops down barely acknowledges me as he shuts his door and starts to walk away.

“Hey!” I snap at his back, forgetting all about getting into my car as I stalk after him. “Excuse me.”

Dressed like some knock off version of an FBI agent, the man comes to a reluctant stop. The phone never lowers as he turns his dark head back over his shoulder to peer at me over the plastic rims of his sunglasses.

“No, Shawn, one second.” He tells the person on the other end. “Yes?”

I realize I have his attention and hurriedly wave at my car.

“You hit my car.”

His head tilts in the direction I’m pointing to.

“How?”

The level of no fucks this man is giving fuels the inferno in my belly.

“With your fucking door, asshole. How can you miss that?”

“No, tell Elijah I’m going to be a minute. Some townie is trying to tell me something.”

I can’t even process the thoughts clamoring in my skull as he disconnects the call, slips the phone into the inside pocket of his crisp black suit and gives me the full grace of his attention by sweeping his glasses off.

Dead, brown eyes meet mine from a face carved from granite. Every line sharp enough to cut, to draw blood. Even the thin state of his lips gives him an almost cartoon villain vibe.

Still, there’s something weirdly familiar I can’t put my finger on. Something like steel talons tickling the back of my mind.

But I shove it aside. Too unimportant to dwell on when the answer is in his conversation.

“You work for Elijah Virelli?” I bite through my teeth, fingers curling into the sharp metal teeth of my keys.