Page 50 of Brutal Devil
I glare at him. “Don’t be a dickhead.”
“Don’t push me, wife. I’d be more than happy to give you another lesson. But then, I think you might enjoy that too much.”
My nipples are hard, and I hate him. How is it possible to simultaneously want to ride a man’s dick and murder him in his sleep?
I hug myself, trying to shield my body from his knowing gaze. “Please. I need something, some sort of distraction, or I’ll go insane.”
He works his jaw, staring at me, and then he nods. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t check out his ass as he exits the room. Priest Andriani has a fine backside. The kind you want to grab and hold on to while he’s railing you.
He returns with a reusable grocery bag that he extends to me like a peace offering. “Here.”
I take it from him, not knowing what to expect. And definitely not anticipating what I do find within.
“Lorine Niedecker,” I exclaim, extracting a copy ofMy Life by Water. “How did you know to get me this?”
First editions of her poetry collections cost hundreds to thousands of dollars. They were printed in limited runs andhaven’t been available in literal decades because she passed away in 1970.
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t need to when my eye catches on the familiar, slight tear in the upper-right corner of the dust jacket.
I glance up at Priest in shock. “This is my copy.”
“It is.”
Looking into the bag, I see my hardback ofThe Granite Pailas well. “They’re all mine. How did you get my books?”
Priest doesn’t answer, so I look back at him. He’s watching me, unsmiling. There’s darkness in his eyes. Mysteries I shouldn’t want to solve.
“You broke into my apartment? When? How?”
“I didn’t break into anything,topolina.”
“One of your minions, then.” I wave my book at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Your belongings were carefully packed up and are being sent east. I took the liberty of having your books shipped faster. I thought you might want them.”
What the fuck? I know Priest is heavy-handed, but this is some next-level shit. I’m outraged.
“You can’t just have your men go into my apartment and empty it. It’smyapartment. Those are my things.” I try not to think of strangers packing up my underwear drawer. “My rent is paid up through the end of the year. I need to go back.”
“You’re not going back.”
“You don’t own me.” I start pacing. “I need access to my email, Priest. I need to ask for a leave of absence.”
“Your university has been informed of your change of plans.”
“You can’t just contact them like that.”
He stares at me, unsmiling.
Telling me without words that he can, and that he did.
I pace back toward him, grinding my molars. “I’m going back to school.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m finishing my MFA.”
