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“I—” Stanley abruptly stops talking when I press my finger to my lips.
“You owe us a hundred large, Stanley. You disrespected me and my family.” I shake my head as Conor walks behind him. “We won’t be leaving empty-handed this time.
Conor tosses a knife in my direction. It hits the bar and slides across the wood, coming to a stop before me. As I reach for the blade, Conor wraps his arms aggressively around Stanley from behind, caging him in. With him firmly pinned between the bar and Conor, I grab his wrist and slam his hand onto the well-polished wood between us.
Standing from the stool, I press my weight against his fist, forcing him to splay his fingers across the bar. I drag the knife Conor provided over Stanley’s knuckles, tormenting him as I speak, “Welches pay one way or another. Ten fingers, Stanley. That’s one for every ten grand you owe us.”
He snivels as I align the blade with the knuckle of his pinky. Without hesitation, I press down firmly. It crunches through the tendons as it separates the joint, leaving his finger lying on the bar beside his hand in a pool of blood and Stanley howling in pain.
I slide the knife along Stanley’s sleeve to clean the blade and lift his finger from the bar as Conor releases him. Done with him for the night, we both head to the door, shouting, “I’ll be back for my hundred grand or another finger tomorrow night, Stanley.”
Stepping onto the street, I toss the useless finger into the nearest drainage grate and hand the knife back to Conor. “This is nice. I might need to get one of these.” Carefully, I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and quickly wipe my hands before climbing back into my cherry-red Vantage; I’d hate to soil her with his blood.
After dropping Conor at his place, I head home and straight to my ensuite. While I wait for my shower to get to temperature, I empty my pockets. I briefly check my phone and notice a notification for a dating app. One used so infrequently—and mostly for research—that I had nearly forgotten it was still installed on my phone. When I open it, I am pleasantly surprised to find the pretty brunette in gold from the bar earlier tonight.
Swiping to match her, I send her a quick message before climbing into bed in an attempt to get a few hours of sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
LAYLA
Feeling like death—and nursing one hell of a hangover—I’m moving as slow as hell this morning.
I totally blame Jorge…even if this is equally my fault.
What the hell did we do last night?
This is the worst fucking hangover.
Groaning, I stand over the kitchen sink and force myself to chug a glass of Liquid IV while I down a few ibuprofen.
I’ll thank myself for that in about an hour.
These are the mornings I’m grateful for a well-stocked fridge of store-bought cold brew. I don’t think I could drag myself to the corner coffee shop if I tried. After pouring a glass of the good stuff and adding a splash of vanilla-flavored creamer, I grab my phone and curl up into the corner of the light gray loveseat with a fluffy blanket.
Sipping my iced coffee, I work up the nerve to look at the ridiculous amount of notifications on my phone. Jorge and I were swiping right way too liberally with beer—or whiskey—goggles for this not to be disastrous.
Opening the app, I hesitate for a moment before clicking on my inbox. The first message immediately sets the tone and matches my unease about how this is going to go.
“Of course, the guy that likes to stuff and collect dead things would match back. We say no to taxidermy,” I grumble. He might be absolutely gorgeous, but that alone isn’t nearly enough to erase fifteen seasons of Criminal Minds from my memory.
Continuing to read through the notifications, I could absolutely kill Jorge… The men matching back and flooding my inbox with atrocious pickup lines could not be any further from the type of men I date. If there is any algorithm to this app, I’m going to be swiping left for months after last night to fix this.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim when I see the notification from Tristan. I cannot believe the asshole actually had the audacity to match with me. Making it two words into his message, I let out an annoyed sigh and reread it contemplating my next move.
I’m sorry about last night with the drink.
Under any other circumstances, I would have stopped to apologize in person.
And thoroughly made it up to you.
Damn it.
Great… Now I feel like the asshole.
How exactly do you plan to make it up to me?
You just had to actually be a walking green flag and lead with an apology…
