Page 39 of SKIN

He arched that eyebrow again, which only seemed to enhance the smugness of his expression. “It seems withholding your funds is a decent enough motivator. Good thing too. At least it is for that pretty little college girl you’re so fond of. Inch upon inch of flawless skin. Would hate to have to give her a scar to remember me by.”

I leveled Adrian with my glare. He wanted me to react. And I refused to give him what he wanted. “Emily is off the table.”

“Then don’t make me put her on mine.”

I grunted in response. Saying more would have been dangerous. The fucker liked to play mind games and I wasn’t about to let him probe around in my brain anymore.

I pushed up from the chair and stalked back towards the door before slamming it behind me. Which, I suppose, told him exactly what he wanted to hear anyway. He’d gotten under my skin.

By the time I made it back down the hall towards the bunks—the basement was too far from our liquor stash—I could sense Casper trailing my steps. Couldn’t hear him but I knew the creepy fucker was there. Almost as if the temperature had dropped a few degrees. There was just this odd chill to the air whenever he was lurking in the background. Like every time he sucked it in through his lungs it came out colder.

Maybe the guy really was a ghost?

“Do you know anything about the job we just did? Specifically the client? Prescott’s wife from what I hear?” My gut told me that something was off. That this target was personal somehow. To Adrian. I was certain tonight had to do with more than just teaching me some fucked-up lesson.

I needed to find out what that more was. Gain some leverage and tip the scales so the sick son of a bitch didn’t have me by the balls anymore.

I stopped short when instead of replying, Casper started humming a familiar nursery rhyme, the haunting tune bouncing around the corridor and echoing back on all sides of the stone walls.

“Mary had a little lamb whose coat was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went that lamb was sure to go.” He alternated between singing and mumbling, the lyrics slightly different from the way I remembered them. But fuck if I cared enough to ask him why.

Guy was seven sorts of crazy on a good day. Definitely swinging towards the manic side of bipolar from what I could tell.

I didn’t have the time or energy to figure out the other six.

49

EMILY

Istifled a yawn with the backside of my hand as my date prattled on about his day. My eyelids heavy while the sound of his voice lulled me into a sleeplike trance.

I know! It was rude. I needed to be more attentive. Which was why I ordered the steak, hoping the persistent chewing would be enough to keep my mouth active and my brain stimulated. Unfortunately, my second glass of wine had the opposite effect. A third would knock me on my ass for sure. Though I had to admit the idea was tempting.

I glanced across the table. Grant Nielson was a decent-looking guy. A strong jaw and chocolate-brown eyes that sparkled an amber color under the flickering of the candlelight. His face clean-shaven. His hair brushed back and neat and his mannerisms open and engaging. I also had to admit his cologne smelled nice whenever it wafted between us.

I continued my visual perusal as my gaze drifted along his bobbing throat to his wide chest. His dress shirt was freshly ironed, an off-white color tucked into perfectly creased suit pants. It was clear he made an effort to impress me tonight. Which was more than I could say about my dating life over the last couple of years.

I was living, breathing man repellent. Someone who couldn’t even pay a guy to take her home. Not that I’d stooped to that level. Yet. I wasn’t far off though. A battery-operated boyfriend could only get you so far. I mean, it got me there. Obviously. Shit was an investment well-made. Until the damn thing found a way to leave me too.

I mean, who loses their vibrator?

It also wasn’t the same as being fucked into unconsciousness. Hurting so good you couldn’t move the next day.

My glare flicked across the table again. And I couldn’t help but wonder if Grant was the type of guy who’d be willing to throw me up against a wall. It was always the quiet ones. The ones you least expected who were the freakiest in the bedroom. At least that’s what all the articles said. I was out of practice, remember?

“You wanna go back to my place?” I arched a brow and watched my date nearly choke on a mouthful of mashed potatoes before washing it down with his glass of sparkling water.

“Um, yeah, let me get the check.” Grant fumbled with his cloth napkin while waving a waitress over with more vigor than I’d seen him display all night. I could only hope that was a good sign.

A short cab ride and a lot of heavy petting later, Mr. Nielson and I were stumbling through my front door, tearing each other’s clothes off on our way to my bedroom. He was a little clumsy but that could have had a lot to do with the two whiskeys he’d downed at dinner without me giving him the chance to finish his meal. Poor guy was probably starving.

Speaking of…

The underside of my knees hit the edge of my mattress and I tumbled backwards. Grant dropped his slacks and attempted to crawl over me.

Nice try, pal.

I shoved at his shoulders, until his head was exactly where I wanted it. I was gonna get mine first. It’d been too long and I couldn’t risk the chance that Grant here was a two-pump chump, prone to passing out before his balls even finished unloading.

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