Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

But the cherry on the shit sundae that was my life story was that they’d found a body just down the street from where I worked. Although finding corpses in this city wasn’t exactly breaking headliner news, there was a prickling on my skin that told me this wasn’t just any death.

“So that body they found?”

“Yeah?” I waited to see if she’d give more information or if I’d have to press a little harder. I didn’t watch the news and didn't want to be any more depressed than I was. And the news that tended to be throughout Desolation was always the same. Warring criminal factions, gang wars, deaths from either murder or drug addiction. And of course there was rape and sexual assault.

She leaned in close and looked around as if she was afraid someone would hear, although nobody that frequented cared. In fact, they probably had a hand in many of the news stories that had come out over the years.

“This isn’t public knowledge, not yet anyways, but I have a friend who works at the local paper who has connections with a guy who works at the police station. Apparently the body they found not only had his hand cut off, but he also had a wound on his…” She pointed down to her crotch region. “The wound was so substantial that he bled out from the groin before he could from the missing hand.”

My heart jumped in my throat at the brutality of his death.

The front door opened, and we both looked toward the entrance. My heart, that had been beating fast and erratic from Laura’s story, stilled in my chest at the sight of the man who stepped in. The same man who consumed my thoughts and made me question what was going on with my body for the last two months.

He took his usual seat, but I didn’t miss how he kept his gaze locked on mine.

“Why is he watching you so—”

“Yeah,” I said before she could finish. “It’s intense.” I glanced away, because his eyes on me were heavy, so heavy it was like a cloak over me.

But I found myself looking back at him. I didn’t miss how his gaze moved down to my throat, didn't miss the way his jaw tightened as he no doubt saw the marks. I forced myself not to touch my neck, feeling bared even from across the restaurant.

“Yeah, he screams, ‘Stay the hell away.’”

I snapped my attention toward Laura and saw that she was staring at him, but she quickly looked away. I didn’t miss how she shivered and then shook her head, her focus on her hands.

“He looks at you like he wants to eat you up until there’s nothing left,” she whispered before clearing her throat and pushing away from the counter. “There’s just something about him that scares the hell out of me.” Her voice was soft, and she finally looked up at me before slapping on a smile, which I could tell was forced. “But the men I’ve been around and this shitty city have kind of ruined it for all others.”

This would’ve been a good time for us to bond, for me to tell her she wasn’t alone, that I, too, knew all about bad men. But she was gone before I could say anything. I didn’t even know if I would have been able to say anything. Connecting with people wasn’t a strong suit of mine.

I looked back at him and gathered my strength. I made my way over to him, his eyes never leaving me, as if he were the negative end of a magnet and I the positive. I was drawn to him, this invisible thread that was winding tighter the closer I got.

When I was right in front of his table, I held the pad in one hand and a pen in the other. My fingers shook, and I tightened them around the objects. His gaze flickered down, and I knew he saw my physical nervousness. I had a feeling he could read me better than I could read myself.

When he was looking back at me, I felt my tongue swell, my throat tighten, that pain from being strangled last night making itself known once more. As if he knew the latter, his focus once more lingered on my neck. Although his outward appearance seemed stoic, almost uncaring, I noticed a slight, subtle clench of his jaw, the same thing when he first looked at the bruising.

I found myself fidgeting with my hair, pulling it over my shoulders to hide the marks. There was nothing I could do about them, but I certainly didn’t want anyone paying attention to the marks either. “The usual?” I hated that my voice was so low, slightly shaky. And it didn’t have anything to do with anxiety.