Page 24 of The Prodigal

In order to know that, though, I have to pay his price. “My mom and Gerald tried to kill me,” I blurt out quickly, “by purposely leaving me in a hot car when I was six.”

Remington’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “And what? Gerald decided to regroup for thirteen years before he came back to finish the job?”

I shake my head. “No. He’s back because my mother is going before the parole board soon. He wants my support.”

“Fuck him,” Remington spits, seemingly heated over my little tale of horror.

I offer him a friendly smile. “My thoughts exactly. Now, why are you seeking revenge?” I gave Remington more information than he’s given me. It’s only fair he coughs up a few details, without me having to threaten him.

“A friend,” he starts, swallowing thickly, “was hurt by someone. I want to return the sentiment and show him how it feels to lose a future.”

“Your friend…” I hesitate. “Did something happen to him?”

Remington nods solemnly. “He died.”

My mother was right. There is far too much wickedness in this world.

“I’m so sorry.” I reach out to…I don’t know, comfort him, but he steps back, his eyes twinkling under the dingy yellow light. I think he’s about to throw me out, but he surprises me by turning around and opening the medicine cabinet above the sink.

“It’s not a bat,” he says, facing me. “But I want you to take it just in case Gerald is stupid enough to come back tonight.”

He holds out his palm, and there sits an old razor, like the ones you see in black-and-white movies, where the barber shaves a cowboy’s face. It basically looks like a fancy straight blade.

“Oh, no.” I chuckle. “I can’t take that. I’ll probably cut off my finger. You see how I faired with a picture frame.”

I hold up my bandaged hand. “I can’t be trusted around sharp objects.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” He grabs my hand, flipping it palm-side up, and slaps the closed razor into it. “If I’m wrong, you can still swing a bat with nine fingers.”

And he’s back to being an asshole again. It was nice while it lasted.

“How sweet,” I tease. “And you say you’re no hero.”

That gets his attention, as all the “kindness” he offered disappears. “Haven’t you heard, sweet Eve? In the Garden of Eden, even the purest heart was tempted by the wicked. Don’t make the same mistake she did. Trust me when I tell you, your hero is the worst kind of villain.”

With that parting—and seriously creepy remark—he steps past me and opens the door. “Lock the lobby door.”

“I can’t—”

He arches his brows threateningly, and I decide I’ve pushed him enough for one day. “Okay, I’ll lock the door.”

I don’t wait for him to agree or argue. It’s well past 1:00 a.m., and I have a lobby to clean before my shift is over. “Get some sleep, 101, before you convince me that you’re a nice guy.”

He snorts out a laugh that I ignore. No one has time to fall in love with a savior or a raspy laugh—especially someone like me. Remington is here for revenge. I’m here for as long as Gerald will let me live in peace.

Neither of us plans to stay long enough to build anything more than a friendship.

But tell that to the tingles shooting down my spine as I leave Remington’s room and walk down the darkened sidewalk. I can feel his intense eyes on me—watching every step I take. He’s making sure I get inside and lock the door like he demanded.

Maybe I don’t understand the definition of a villain, but I’ve also never known one like Remington. He threatened two people on my behalf and bandaged my hand tonight. As if that wasn’t enough, he went on to arm me with a weapon and stood watch as I finally made it back inside the lobby and flipped the lock. He’s a walking—well, smoking—contradiction that makes me feel safer than ever. Especially when he settles into that damn chair outside his room and lights up a cigarette.

What is it about that chair he loves so much? I mean, I’ve sat in one, and compared to a bed or the chair inside the room, it’s pretty uncomfortable. I have no idea why he insisted on having one. Whatever the reason, though, I’m grateful to feel those hateful eyes watching me as I get to work, sweeping up all the glass.

I don’t know how long it takes me to get the lobby back to decent shape, but it’s long enough for me to notice that my angry hero didn’t go back inside once he finished his cigarette. Not only is he still sitting in that blasted chair, but he’s asleep.

And probably cold.

But I’m willing to bet a year’s salary he prefers to be left alone.

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