Page 99

Sometimes, I do things that might be considered bad and honestly have no recollection of doing them. It’s like a blur where I “come to” after the fact and realize that, yes indeedy, I did just slash the tires of the dickhead who cut me off at the light four miles and fifteen minutes ago.

But there’s no blackout this time as I calmly walk to the opposite end of the bar from Vivienne and sweetly ask the bartender for a shot of Everclear.

It's quite possibly the foulest fucking liquor ever invented. But it’s also 190 Proof, which means it’s ninety-five-percent alcohol.

Very flammable stuff.

People really should be careful around it.

And Vivienne Bellandi really should not have her back to me right now.

The whole thing goes off so smoothly that I almost want to take a photo to memorialize the moment. After plucking a little votive candle off an empty table, I walk over to the metal recycling bin full of old newspapers near the restroom hallway, pour some of the Everclear over them, and then touch the candle to it.

Yep, that’s a perfect distraction.

The whole bar whirls in shock as the newspapers go up in a pillar of flame that roars toward the ceiling. Then, when the bartender rushes out from behind the bar with a fire extinguisher, I turn my sights on my actual target.

Vivienne practically levitates off her stool when the Everclear I’ve just poured down the back of her hair and dress ignites with a violently loud PHOOOM . I then step to the side and grin as I watch her screaming and flailing and generally running around the pub like a chicken with her head cut off.

Which, side note, does not happen with people.

Such bullshit.

The bartender is still covering a screeching Vivienne with the rest of the foamy contents of the fire extinguisher when Damiano strides out of the hallway and stops cold. His brow pinches as he glares at the smoldering newspapers, then at Vivienne.

Then, like a magnet, those dark, dangerous eyes swivel to land right on me, still standing in the corner of the bar where he and Vivienne were just camped out together looking so cozy.

“I hate this shitty little town!!” Vivienne squawks, sobbing and pawing at the foamy white fire retardant oozing down her face and outfit.

She looks like a giant just spit out their toothpaste on her head, which is a very funny visual. At least, it is to me.

Damiano’s eyes narrow on me, pinning me with his dark, piercing gaze before he swivels it to Vivienne.

“Next time,” she spits venomously, “take me someplace nice, you asshole! Like, I don’t know, a real bar, maybe in freaking Manhattan?!”

“I’ll email you the details⁠—”

“Fuck your details, Damiano!” she yells, pawing at her limp, foamy, goo-streaked hair. “And fuck you!”

The handful of old fisherman types in the place snort to bury chuckles as they return to their beers. Vivienne flips Damiano off before she storms out the door, slamming it behind her. The pub goes back to its normal quiet murmur of low conversation and sports highlights on the battered TV behind the bar.

Damiano slowly turns his head until his piercing dark eyes land right on me.

My throat bobs as a ripple finger-walks up my spine.

That look…

I lift my brows innocently as he starts to move across the room to where I’m still camped out in the corner.

“Your date seemed lovely,” I chirp. “Have I met her before? You should call her again! Seems like there was a real spark there.”

Damiano’s face is a mask as he continues to prowl toward me.

“You two seem to have real heat.” I giggle. “Positively combustible chemistry.”

He eats up the last few steps between us.

“Tell me, though, does Barbie even have a hole you can stick it in? Or is it just smooth, androgynous⁠—”