Page 83 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

“Yeah. For a few weeks–”

Two things happened in fast succession.

One: the cigarette burned down to the filter and singed her.

Second: she released his cut and slapped him full across the face.

They both yelped.

Harlan clutched his burning cheek, and Dee let out a scream that was half-pain, half-anguish, and whirled away from him to stalk back across the width of the rug. She hit the edge of it, did an about face, and came marching back, kimono flaringbehind her, hands raised and curled into claws, her expression murderous.

“He sent you here, didn’t he? That little shit! That little bastard! He knows where Oliver is, I know he does, I know he–”

When she reached him, she slashed at his face with her long red acrylics. Harlan had known she would, and he’d thought at first to grab her wrists and hold her off that way. But she was a tall woman, and worked up, half-crazed, and he didn’t want to get caught in a tug of war for control of a claw and slap fight. So when she was close enough, he grabbed her by the throat, and squeezed.

Dee made a startled choking sound, and when she exhaled, he squeezed tighter, and hissed, “Don’t touch me.”

Her eyes were still bugged, but now the spark of aggression quickly melted to the bright shine of fear.

He put his thumb over her pounding pulse and pressed until he felt it stutter. She croaked out a protesting sound, and pawed at his wrist; her nails raised angry red scratches, but he didn’t feel the pain of them.

For the first time all day – indays, plural, really – he feltgood. Not slinking in the shadows trying to overhear what everyone was whispering about; not feeling left out, and confused, hoping for a glimpse of Felix; not hiding in the supply closet hyperventilating while he tried to process the fact that Remy Lécuyer and his mother were dead; wasn’t struggling to see the road through tears. When he’d walked into this bedroom, he’d stepped into a viper’s den, and found her with fangs flashing.

But with one thrust of his arm, and a tightening of his hand, he’d turned her into a wriggling, terrified worm.Hewas in control now. This washisshow, andhe’dbe the one asking the questions.

For a moment, he entertained the idea of his hand spasming. Of the veins bulging in her temples, of her pulse skipping and juddering and finally stopping. The light – furious or frightened – leaving her eyes completely, until they were nothing but vacant blue marbles in a slack, sin-ravaged face. It might even be an improvement: up close like this, in her current state, face flushing dark with backed-up blood, she looked downright ugly. Whatever looks and charm she’d used to entice Remy to marry her once upon a time, she was wholly without them now.

But, no. He couldn’t keep squeezing, because she had information he wanted.

He leaned in until he could hear her throat attempting to work, could hear the high, nasal squeals that were the closest she could come to a scream at the moment. He said, “If I let go of you, will you sit down and answer my questions?”

A muscle was flickering at the corner of her mouth, a tic. Was she having a stroke?

“Will you?” he pressed.

She couldn’t speak, but her lips formed the wordyes.

It still took him a moment to unlock his fingers; he did so love the feeling of her throat, the life thrumming inside it, in his grip. But he turned her loose – shoved her back, and she tripped on the hem of her kimono, and fell, coughing, to sit on the edge of her bed. She pressed both palms over her throat and hacked and wheezed and choked on the flood of oxygen that filled her lungs.

Harlan stood up straight, and smoothed his cut, and felt as though he grew; swore his head soared up toward the ceiling, and his shadow stretched far across the rug, and that if he were to reach for any of the items laid out on the dresser to his left, they’d look no bigger than doll brushes and mirrors in his grasp.

She was a wretched thing, fighting for every breath, hacking in choked, phlegmy bursts. Her kimono slid off one shoulder, and it was a sad, drooping movement, not alluring in the slightest.

He hated her in that moment, and he loved knowing that he was capable of making her small like this.

“What do you care about Oliver Landau? Who is he?” he asked.

Still coughing, she lifted her head and glared at him with eyes gone watery and red.

“Who is Oliver Landau and why do you care about him?” he asked. “I won’t ask again.” He had no idea where the note of authority in his voice had come from, only that it felt right and good, and powerful.

She gave one last honking cough, cleared her throat, hand still pressed to it, and gritted out, “He’s my boyfriend. Or – he was.” Her face, hectic spots of color on her cheeks from choking, eyes tear-filled, went ashen, suddenly. Her lips trembled. “I’m pretty sure Felix killed him.”

~*~

Now he wanted to speak with Felix more than ever. But the man wasn’t around, which was perhaps understandable, given he was in mourning. But wouldn’t that mean he needed the love and support of his club brothers now more than ever?

When his patience wore too thin, and that rush of importance he’d felt in Dee’s bedroom rushed to fill its place, he started asking questions.

---