Page 28 of The Night Shift
I’m not a violent man, but if this fucker touches Holly’s knee one more time, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.
The flickering bar lights throw fleeting shadows on her face, and I recline back into the comfort of the black leather seat, observing from a safe distance. Watching as she interacts with this stranger. He has greasy brown hair, a fat fucking nose, and is wearing a bright orange t-shirt that doesn’t go with Holly’s skin tone at all. Offensive bastard.
I take a sip of my water. My preferred drink is an Old Fashioned, though I abstain from drinking when on-duty.
The man’s hand brushes past her leg.
Her hand trails close to his arm.
And mine clenches around the armrest, frustration gnawing at my stomach like a trapped rat.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous. I don’t get jealous. Jealousy is for children. It’s illogical and futile and serves no purpose. I’m just grossly pissed off.
I am not easily perturbed, but a lack of knowledge regarding any matter pertaining to Holly’s life undoubtedly ranks among the most vexing. I know exactly what time she wakes up, where she sits to have her morning coffee, what her daily schedule looks like. I keep track of her whereabouts, her victims, I even keep track of everyone she talks to for more than sixty seconds. Although to be fair, there aren’t many people on that list. Holly isn’t fond of conversation. Actually, the only person she can probably “talk” to for hours on end is me. She really enjoys telling me to go fuck myself. The thought makes me smile, but the weight of uncertainty presses down on me, quickly wiping it away.
It’s becoming clear that despite the intimacy we share, there are still pieces of her world that remain hidden from me, and this fucking anonymous messenger is topping that list.
I racked my brain during the entire thirty-minute drive to the bar, desperately trying to piece together clues and come up with an answer.How DOES it feel? Killing someone?Want me to show you?
The only thing clear from that fucking message is that someoneknows— which, I won’t lie, is a bit hurtful since I thought I was the only one who knew about her irresistible dark side. Well, me and her little bartender friend that is.
I knowIdidn’t send her that message and I know Camille didn’t either because whoever it was, clearly wants Holly to know that her secret isn’t a secret anymore. But why? To threaten her? Blackmail? Why else would they choose to bait her instead of turning her in? Sure, it’s not what I did whenIsaw Holly kill someone for the first time, but that’s beside the point. I like Holly. Iunderstandher. This other person does not.
The nagging feeling of not knowing something about Holly’s life grows stronger and somewhere within the confines of the crowded bar, a group of women laugh at my failure.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out half expecting another unsettling text message from some arsehole trying to torment my love. But it’s just Parker sending me pictures of his cat dressed as a caped superhero. Cute. I send out seven heart emojis and tuck my phone back into my pocket.
I feel a pair of eyes on me. I look to my left and find a woman staring at me from behind the rim of her empty wine glass. She twirls a strand of her hair between her fingers and gives me a shy smile. But of course, she does. This black leather jacket complements my blue eyes quite nicely.
I flash her my most devastating smile and go back to watching Holly just like I have been doing for the past hour.
Holly’s “date” puts his hand back on her knee, over her jeans. His thumb grazes past the inner side of her thigh and white-hot rage boils in my chest. I want to break that thumb and shove it down his throat. I know it’s not real. Holly doesn’twanthim to touch her knees, her thighs, her back, her anything. She doesn’twanthim to buy her drinks. She doesn’twantto talk to him. She doesn’t even want to look at him. It’s all an act. A ploy. I know that. I knowher.
She laughs at something he said and lifts her hand, tucking a lock of her wig-hair behind her ear. Dark brown and short with bangs. I like it. It’s kinda hot, actually. But then again, Holly looks good in everything. She’s wearing a white tee with the words, STOP BEING POOR, sprawled across her chest and a pair of blue denim jeans that sculpt her ass perfectly.
Her fingers move down along the nape of her neck. Slow and treacherous, and I can't tear my gaze away. Every movement holds me captive. I’m transfixed. Time ceases to exist, the world fading away until there's only her, and me, and the delicate dance of her fingertips against her skin. She laughs once more at something he says, and a mixture of frustration and arousal burns in my stomach when her smile doesn’t waver. How canshe be so carefree and blissfully unaware of the effect she has on me? My love is a lot of things, but an idiot isn’t one of them.
She gets up and heads to the bathroom and I resist the urge to follow her. Resist the urge to place my hand on the small of her back and lead her down the dimly lit corridor. I want to push her inside an empty stall and lock us inside. I want to kiss her. I want her to kiss me back. I want to strip her down and have my way with her. After fifteen minutes, Holly walks back to the bar. Her supposed pick of the night is pretty fucking tipsy by now, but Holly insists on getting more drinks. A whiskey sour for him and a gin martini for herself. Extra dirty with eight olives. Her usual. He whispers something in her ear, and she smiles.Do that again, love. I dare you.
Her bartender friend hands over her coat, and Holly and the man exit the bar. I follow them out. It’s chilly tonight. The weather forecast said it might dip to eleven degrees Celsius. I hope her flimsy coat is warm enough. I wish I could offer her my jacket.
They reach an intersection, and Holly presses the walk button to stop the traffic. Her drunken pal leans on her for support, using the opportunity to run his hand all over the back of her coat. I rub a hand over my jaw fantasizing about all the ways I would break that hand if Holly doesn’t end up killing him tonight.
An old woman walks up next to me, selling cigarettes and a dozen roses. She points at the flowers. “Six dollars. One rose.”
I smile and buy all of them, even though Holly’s favourite flowers are red spider lilies.
The old woman pats my arm. “Sweet boy.”
I am. I thank her and keep walking, following Holly until she’s inside the man’s flat.
A few people pass by as I locate what’s quickly becoming my usual viewing spot.
She has killed on this street before. Two months back, I think. He was an NYU professor in his thirties. They were sitting side by side on the subway, he tried to cop a feel, and so she snuck into his home office later that night and slit open his throat.
The memory brings a smile to my face.
I don’t know why she has this effect on me. Maybe it’s the sound of her voice or the way her face lights up when she sticks a knife inside someone’s throat. Out of all the women I could’ve become fond of, I had to go for the one who’d much rather see my head on a spike than between her legs. One who’s more than capable of putting it there herself.
