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Chapter 10
Justice
Brody MacKenzie isn’t the nice guy. He’s the one my momma warned me about. Hell, the preacher crafted full sermons to the likes of him too.
But last night, he was an ear to listen and a shoulder, though I dared not cry on it. He was . . . perfect. I’ve given myself a negative complex, called him a challenge. Any fool could see his agenda. But he set aside the pursuit while we drank. Once the night drew to an end, he stood at the door to his bedroom, offering his assistance. With what, pulling the sheets snug to my chin? I declined him. Once he disappeared, I slept in his childhood bed. Most nights, my dreams are fitful, which I expected to happen here as well. Hell, I was sleeping in the man’s old bed—a king-sized, heavy oak, all-character type of bed. Big enough for the two of us. Anyway, something peculiar happened. Once I finally succumbed to sleep, it was lights out.
I burrow in the crisp sheets as I awake, more refreshed than I’ve been in years. I’ll trick myself into believing fresh linen put me to sleep.
The faint scent of Brody energizes me, and the all-real, all-man has thoroughly roused me. Like a fawn glancing into the eyes of a hunter, I gawk.
“Brody . . . what are you doing?” I pull the sheets snug to my chin.
“I was looking through this here.” He pats the dresser. “I keep some clothes here.”
You were staring at me.
“Then I watched ye sleeping.”
“Okay.” Thanks for broaching that subject.
“Ye looked peaceful, like the deid.”
Stifling a laugh, I rustle a hand over the couple of cornrows I braided last night, waiting to fall asleep. “Why have I laughed more in your presence, in what’s been twenty-four hours, than I have in all five years combined? But yes, this is a comfortable bed.” I sit up and arch against the headboard.
“That’s good. There’s nothing wrong with the deid, Justice. I kill people. It gets me closer to God. Some need to have a hundred on the dash for that.”
“You’re inferring that killing people is a more efficient way to connect to the Lord? Have you heard of prayer?”
“That’s for food or when bullets are flying at my arse.”
I laugh again. “I feel like that was your first attempt at a joke. You’re a natural.”
The devil grins, offering temptation specifically for just me.
“You know what?” I muse, trying not to look at the package in his sweatpants. “Let me add how I appreciate your ability to speak of murder while not concerned about me.”
“Wit’s there for ye to be concerned about? I’m not gonna kill ya.”
“Just the normal things. Such as you feeling comfortable even broaching the subject with me. You trust me not to run to the cops? You trust me not to keel over from shock.”
Brody looks at me. Slowly, an eyebrow ascends. “I told ya yesterday, lass.”
“Of course, you said you liked killing yesterday. I doubted it was a joke.” I pinch my forearm softly. “All I’m saying is discussing murder isn’t normal.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Um, I’ll go get ready for the day. I’m assuming Chevelle and Leith are going home, and I’m going with them.”
“Nae. They have shite to deal with today.”
“Okay, I could call Michie and see—”
“Nae. Ye were at peace just now. The two of us will do peaceful shite today.”
I pull my lips into my mouth, chewing on the meat of them. “You’re telling me, you’ll go to poetry night, and God knows what else. You’re calculating in your head that if you do a few things, I’ll—”
“Pipe down, Justice.” His face clears of any emotion. “Ye already said ye aren’t fecking.”
“Then what’s your objective?” I’ve looked over my shoulder for years, eating paranoia chow for breakfast. I can sum up Brody in one sentence. One term. Hedonist. “You’re not Netflix and chill. Yesterday, I executed friggen teeth extractions to get you to talk. Why entertain me?”
With a slight narrowing of my gaze, I scrutinize him over from head to toe. Break you, freaky bastard—break. Behonest.
