Page 50 of Leather & Lark
Lark pivots on her heel to face the espresso machine.
Silence descends. Unsurprisingly, she fills it with humming.
She grinds beans. Grabs a pink mug shaped like a skull. Pours milk into the stainless-steel pitcher and turns on the machine. She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m staring at her the whole time with my mouth agape.
“‘Multiple … deleter’?” I finally say. Lark doesn’t look up as she grins and nods. “A ‘multiple deleter,’ Lark? What in the Christ Jesus is that?”
“What in the Christ Jesus is ‘Christ Jesus’?” she fires back on the heels of a giggle as she presses a button and the espresso machine whirs to life. “Is this Jesus’s roll call in school? ‘Christ-comma-Jesus, please put your hand up if you’re in class.’”
Dumbfounded. I’m bloodydumbfounded. I don’t even know what to say.
Not that it matters, because Lark just keeps going.
“Bueller … Bueller … Bueller… nope, he passed out at Thirty-One Flavors last night.Christ … Christ … Christ …”
“The fuck …?”
“Oh myGod, have you never seenFerris Bueller’s Day Off?” Lark’s crystalline eyes shine with amusement. “Oh, a classic comedy marathon, that’s what you need to pry that broomstick out of your ass. I need to get popcorn.Immediately.I have such a great lineup in mind—”
“Back the fuck up,” I interrupt, my voice low and stern as I take a step closer. The change in Lark is instantaneous. Amusement evaporates from her expression.
No, I realize.The other way around.
It’s like a sudden fog that rolls in from the sea to obscure the sun.
Light dulls in her eyes as she squares her shoulders. She holds the pitcher clutched between her palms, the milk not yet frothed, her knuckles bleached with the force of her grip. By the look of determination on her face, I figure I’ll be wearing that milk if I take another step closer.
But it’s not just determination. I can see it in the way her pulse drums within the smooth column of her neck.
I know fear. And I know it better than most.
I try to relax my stance, though judging by the way her eyes dart from my face to my shoulders to my balled fists and back again, I’m not very feckin’ successful at coming off as reassuring.
When I struggle to keep my hands loose, I slide them into my pockets, then say, “How about we go back to the ‘multiple deleter’ part for a second.”
Lark swallows.
“How many … deletions … are we talking about, exactly?”
“Umm.” Lark’s gaze shifts to the ceiling. “I think … seven?”
“Seven?”
“No, eight. Definitely eight.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Well, there was this one guy who died in the hospital maybe, like, four days later. Does he really count?”
My reply is a silent, dead-eyed glare.
“He could have died from medical incompetence,” she barrels on, tapping her calloused fingertips on the metal jug. “Or maybe he choked on a bagel. The food in the hospital is pretty bad, youknow? Could have been anything, really. Yeah, I don’t think he counts. Four days has gotta be past the grace period.”
“There’s no grace period, Lark.”
She sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Make it nine.”
“You’re telling me you’ve killed—”
