Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J.M. Darhower

He doesn’t drink. It’s against his religion, he says. Raised Mormon, he still adheres to some of the principles, like not drinking alcohol or screwing around, although it seems the ‘no killing folks’ aspect is more negotiable with the guy.

“What does he want?” “An apology, I’m guessing.” “What? Is that what he said?” “Well, no.” The guy pauses. “He said for you to suck his cock, but I’m pretty sure an apology was the sentiment he was going for.”

After all, everything’s a weapon if you look at it the right way, and I’m the MacGyver of murder. I could kill a man with a shoe like this. Wouldn’t even faze me to have to do it, either.

Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.

I’m getting my money back, every single penny of it, and she’ll be damn lucky if I don’t take her last breath as interest.

She’d smile, without a doubt. I know it now. If I wrapped my hands around her throat, if I strangled the life right out of her, she’d look me in the eyes and smile. It almost makes me want to do it. Almost makes me want to kill her, just to get the chance to watch her die.

Moments are pieces, formed together and built upon, creating the bigger picture within the border of your world. My puzzle is full of deformed shapes and jagged edges, but it still all fits together in its own twisted way, making a hideous fucking picture of my reality.

“He might scare you, and maybe it’s for good reason, but he doesn’t scare me. Because all those words you used to describe him? I’ve been called them, too.

might scare you, and maybe it’s for good reason, but he doesn’t scare me. Because all those words you used to describe him? I’ve been called them, too.

“Then I wouldn’t really call it misogynistic,” she says. “You’re more of an equal opportunity asshole.”

“You have to be careful who you give pieces of yourself to, because even a little bit here and there adds up to a hell of a lot eventually, and it’s not worth it, losing yourself to them, giving yourself to people who don’t give a fuck about you. You keep pouring yourself into other people and you’ll just wind up empty.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” he suggests. “I am. I’m talking to you.” “I mean somebody who might be able to help you.” “Again, I thought I was.” He sighs, setting his coffee down. “I mean a therapist, Morgan. Maybe a grief counselor.” “I don’t need a shrink. I just need someone to give a fuck about me.”

“You have no reason to help me.” “Oh, bullshit,” Lorenzo says, shoving to his feet. “I’ve got plenty of reasons to help you.” I stare at him. “Name one.” “I can name a dozen.” I wave at him. “Well, then, go on, I’m listening.” “One,” he says, “I’m bored as shit and it’s something to do. There’s not a lot else to do right now.”