Page 32 of Ruling Scar
“Did you dress up for someone special?” I keep my voice light and playful.
Inside, I am raging.
My words snap something inside her.
“Yes.” She drops her arms and straightens her spine. “As a matter of fact I did and it was awful.”
“Is that why you’re in a feisty mood?”
She wrinkles her nose. Albert bumps her hand, asking for more pets.
I shoo him away, successfully this time, and motion for the couch. She continues to stand while I sit, leaning back and pulling my drink closer. I lift it, offering her one.
She shakes her head. “No, um. . .”
“Tell me why you’re here, Leonora.”
Dilly-dallying is such a waste of time unless it’s deployed strategically. Lennie doesn’t have that gift. Her pauses and stutters come from her nervousness. She’s a cute little mouse, but her sudden arrival demands answers.
“I need your help.” She drops into a leather chair across from the couch. She’s mistaken if she thinks the coffee table between us will protect her.
“Why?”
She pauses, her eyes shifting as she rapidly thinks.
“Leonora,” I tut.
“I think I accidently went on a date with a psychopath.”
“Think?”
“Know. I know I went out with a psychopath.”
Very interesting considering I’m aware of every psychopath in this city. It pays to keep up with such information.
Her eyes briefly close and she jams her lips together. For a second I stare at the scar along her left cheek. The grooves of the white line contrast with the smooth skin around it.
By the time she opens her eyes, I’m sitting back, swirling my whiskey. Albert shuffles back and forth. On one side he’ll get pets. On the other, loyalty. He chooses wisely, hopping up on the couch and placing his chin on my thigh.
If Lennie wasn’t there, I’d probably take a picture.
“I wasn’t aware you were dating.” It’s a recent development, because I keep detailed tabs on her, not that she knows it.
She gets annoyed any time I talk to her which in itself is amusing. Since the accident, we’ve done the same song and dance. I try to catch her attention, but she pretends she doesn’t want to speak to me. But she hangs onto every word I say, her eyes floating toward me when we’re in the same space.
Some might call it a game of cat and mouse.
“That’s not really the point,” she says. Her sneakers are glued together, keeping her bare legs closed. It’s freezing outside and the opaque tights she wears do nothing against the cold. She wore a dress for this psychopath.
“What’s the point?” I ask, sipping my whiskey.
Her thumbs tap against each other. “Have you ever heard of the Stuarts?”
“They own half of London.”
“I went to school with one of them. And. . .” She’s not wanting to fill in the dots. “I need your help.”
“Why?”
