Page 14 of Fear Me, Love Me

The pharmacist stares hard at his keyboard. “Has your partner taken Plan B before?”

My smile widens. “She’s not my partner. Yet. For some reason, this sweet little thing seems to be afraid of me. Do you have any dating tips?”

Oliver mumbles. “Sorry, I’m not good with girls. There’s, um, blood on your mouth.”

I run my tongue across my teeth, remembering the sweet, metallic tang of Vivienne’s blood and the expression of shock in her eyes as I licked it up and swallowed it down. I meant what I told her all those weeks ago. Her blood is just for me.

“No tips? Just the Plan B, then.”

Oliver places the packet on the counter in front of me, and I glare at it. Vivienne has taken this fucking pill multiple times behind my back. I pick it up and crumple it in my fist, the plastic pill tray inside popping and cracking. Destroying the pill completely and crushing it to dust.

I drop it back on the counter. “Thank you. Now give me your entire stock.”

Oliver gives me a confused look. “What? Why?”

“Because I say so.”

The pharmacist hesitates, but only for a fraction of a second before turning around and pulling out a box full of pill packets and placing it on the counter.

“How long will it take you to restock these?” I ask, chucking the destroyed packet into the box and putting the whole thing under my arm.

“About a week.”

That will be too late for Vivienne to take a morning-after pill. Perfect. I pull out my wallet, drop a stack of bills on the counter, and turn away.

The young pharmacist can’t help his professional disapproval bleeding into his voice as he calls after me, “There are safer and more effective forms of birth control if you and your partner wish to prevent pregnancy.”

“Prevent pregnancy? She’s not taking these. I’m burning them.” I turn back and fish around in my pocket for a copy of Vivienne’s university photo and place it on the counter. “If this young woman comes in here looking to buy contraception, you tell her that you have nothing to sell her. You can’t help her. No contraceptive pills. No condoms. No spermicide. Unless…” I beckon the man closer, and he leans toward me. I seethe in his face, “Unless next time you’d like it to be your blood all over me?”

The pharmacist jerks back and shakes his head rapidly.

I smile at the young man. “I didn’t think so.”

There’s a stand by the door with a series of cartoon faces from sad to happy and the question,How Was Your Experience Today?

I stab the green smiley face with my finger on my way out. “Excellent customer service. Have a lovely evening, Oliver.”

* * *

I visitfive pharmacies around the university and then call it a night. When I get back into my car, I throw half a dozen carrier bags full of Plan B pills into the trunk. I hope no young couples are making mistakes in the dorms around Henson University for the next week, or their babies are going to be courtesy of Tyrant Mercer.

As I get into the back seat, my night just keeps getting better. I can still smell the sex I had with Vivienne, and I receive a text message from one of my enforcers that I’ve been waiting months for.

Located Lucas Jones. Yancy Street basement.

Lucas fucking Jones, the piece of shit that I’ve been dying to get my hands on for months. I clench my phone in victory and then type a quick reply, telling my man that he’s done a fucking wonderful job and there’ll be an extra twenty thousand in his pay this month.

Liam is waiting expectantly in the driver’s seat for my instructions. “Take us to the Yancy Street club.”

“Yes, sir.” He starts the SUV and makes a U-turn, heading toward the west side of Henson.

I can’t help my malevolent grin as I settle back on the seat. “Matteo found Lucas Jones.”

“That’s wonderful news, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later we pull up on a street with an auto-repair shop, an electrical warehouse, and a diner closed for the night. Between the diner and the warehouse is a non-descript heavy metal door, scuffed and dented from years of patrons going in and out.

The Yancy Street club was the third one I ever opened, at twenty-one years of age. It was my headquarters for years before they moved to the more upscale Larch Avenue club, but I still have a lot of affection for this place, and the basement rooms are in steady use. I don’t like spilling excessive amounts of blood in the Larch Avenue club. It’s a bitch to get it out of the expensive carpets. But the concrete floor here? A few buckets of water sluiced over them and it’s like no one ever died.

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