Page 14 of Cold Mercy

“If you put a single scratch on this car...” he warns, clenching his fist as I start the engine.

I glance at him, my smile sharp and humorless. “What will you do? Kill me?”

I pause, letting the silence stretch just to mess with him.

“Sounds tempting, actually.” I add.

He stares at me for a beat too long, his expression shifting from annoyance to something unreadable. “Just drive,” he mutters, looking away.

We drive in silence for a while. He watches the road, one arm resting on the open window frame.

I can feel the heat radiating from his arm, smelling the faint scent of his cologne that is nothing like the familiar one I still search for on my pillow at night. It already feels…wrong. Like I'm cheating on a memory, betraying someone who can't even fight for his place beside me. Not anymore.

“You handled my gun well at the club last month,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. I was hoping he’d forgotten that. Keeping my eyes on the road, I refuse to look at him.

“I grew up in a house where you either learned to disarm the monster or you ended up bleeding on the floor,” I say, my voice light, almost cheerful, as if discussing the weather. I flash him a tight, humorless smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

“Call it a quirky childhood hobby.”

He shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward me. The sarcasm is gone, replaced by something heavier.

“I didn't intend to use it that night,” he says quietly. “I certainly didn't plan on you having to hold it. I'm sorry if it... brought things back.”

I glance at him then. His face is serious, but I don't buy it. Men like him always have a practiced look of concern ready to go.

“It didn’t bring anything back,” I lie smoothly. “But I have to ask about the gun. Is it an ego thing? Do you carry it to feel taller? Or is fixing servers just so dangerous these days?”

He looks out the window, a faint smile touching his lips, like he expected the insult.

“Bad neighborhood growing up. Old habits die hard. I quickly learned you can only rely on yourself.”

I roll my eyes. The tragic backstory. Right, like I don't know the ball.

“Save the sob story. You’re wearing a watch that costs more than the entire building I grew up in.”

He glances at his watch, then back at me, not even trying to look ashamed.

“I like being prepared. You of all people should understand that.”

Yeah, no shit.

“I just learned the hard way that looking like trouble keeps it away,” he continues.

I glance at his arms, where faint white lines cut through the ink on his forearms.

“Bar fights?” I ask dryly. “Or did you fall off a motorcycle trying to impress someone?”

He looks down at the scars, flexes his hand once, then looks back at me with a smirk that is all trouble.

“Let's go with the motorcycle. It sounds cooler.”

Secret, secret, locked away. You can’t afford the price to pay. Dig too deep and find the rot. You’ll wish for things you haven't got.

He actually smiles, and this time it is real rather than the practiced smirk. The sight of it catches me off guard in a way I do not like. Something shifts inside me, not attraction and definitely, definitely not warmth, but awareness. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and keep my eyes on the road, reminding myself that he is not a mystery or a temptation, just a problem I have not named yet.

By the time we get out of the car, I’m already tired. Not physically, but emotionally. One man has already bailed on me by dying, so weddings feel like a chapter that slammed shut without asking my permission, and I have no intention of reopening it. But everything for a best friend, right?