Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (3)
A door closes in the background on his end of the line, muffling the laughter and voices and music. My stepdad’s unsteady exhalation is the next thing I hear. I can almost picture the way he’s probably rubbing his fingers across his forehead in a futile attempt to channel some chill energy. “Lark, what the fuck? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m totally fine,” I say, as though this is just a minor inconvenience despite the balled-up, bloody T-shirt I press against my hairline where a deep gash throbs. My smile must be bordering on deranged. The Harley Quinn costume and twenty layers of makeup I’m wearing probably don’t help either, so I guess there’s more than one reason to be grateful that no one is around. “I can sort it out if you just give me the number.”
“Where are you? Did Sloane do something?”
“No, not at all,” I say, my voice firm, my smile instantly gone. Though I hate that he would jump to the conclusion that my best friend is at fault, I swallow my irritation rather than unleash it. “Sloane is probably holed up in her house with a smutty book and her demonic cat. I went away for the weekend. I’m not in Raleigh.”
“Then where are you?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Goddammit.”
I know what he’s thinking, that I’m too close to home for a fuck-up of this nature. “I’m sorry, truly. The car just …” I reach for the right words to explain, but only one surfaces. “… sank.”
“Your car?”
“No. Mine is …” I glance over my shoulder toward my Escalade, the smashed headlights glaring back at me. “Mine has seen brighter days.”
“Lark—”
“Dad, I can sort it out. I really just need the number for a cleaner. Ideally one with a tow truck. And maybe some scuba gear.”
His laugh is hollow. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“About what part?”
“All of it, hopefully.”
“Well,” I say as I lean over the rocky drop to peer down at the water, “we might be able to get away with someone who can snorkel. I don’t think it’s that deep.”
“Jesus Christ, Lark.” A long-suffering sigh permeates the line. I loathe the feeling of disappointment. It’s as though he’s standing right next to me with that look I’ve seen so many times before, the one that says he wishes I could do better but he just can’t bear to break my heart by saying it out loud. “Fine,” he finally says. “I’ll give you the number for a company called Leviathan. You’ll need to give them an account code. But do not give them your name. Not over the phone, not when they arrive. They might be professionals but they’re dangerous people, honey. I want you to send me a text every thirty minutes to let me know you’re okay until you get home, understand?”
“Of course.”
“And no names.”
“Got it. Thank you, Dad.”
A long silence stretches between us before he finally speaks again. Maybe he wants to say more, to call me out, ask some uncomfortable questions. But he doesn’t. “I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”
“Love you too. And I will.”
As soon as we hang up, I receive a text from my stepdad with a phone number and a six-digit code. When I call, a polite, efficient woman answers and takes down my details. Her queries are direct and my answers are minimal. Are you injured? Not really. How many dead? One. Any special requests to facilitate cleanup? Scuba gear.
When she’s relayed all the terms and conditions and payment details, I hang up, then turn back to my Escalade where the cooling engine ticks beneath the crumpled hood. I could wait inside the vehicle, where it’s warm, but I don’t. This crash is going to take a toll on my already fucked-up sleep schedule, so it’s not like I need to sit in the wreckage and conjure more nightmares. Even still, it was worth the consequences to watch that piece-of-shit predator sink to the bottom of the reservoir.
Another locust exterminated.
When a friend from back home in Providence mentioned rumors of a pervy teacher at her little sister’s high school, it didn’t take long for said pervert to take the bait on my fake social media accounts. Before long, he was asking for photos and begging for a meetup with “Gemma,” my teenage alter ego. And I thought, Hell, why not? I can come home for a visit, party for Halloween, and get rid of some vermin. Technically, I guess I was successful, though I hadn’t really intended to run Mr. Jamie Merrick into the water. I was hoping to force him to the side of the road and shoot him in the face, find a worthy trophy to take, and then leave him there like the piece of trash he is. Unfortunately, he seemed to catch on that he was in trouble and nearly got away. I guess I gave him a big clue with my failed attempt to shoot out one of his tires when he refused to pull over. Cackling maniacally as I waved the gun out the window probably didn’t help either.
It might sound surprising, but it’s actually not that hard to get away with shooting someone on a deserted road and driving away. Problem is, it’s a little harder to cover your tracks when part of your car is imprinted on part of theirs.
On the plus side, ramming that asshole’s vehicle into the lake does have more theatrical flair.
“Everything will work out better in the end,” I whisper as I use a coin to loosen the screws from my rear license plate. The front plate is a crumpled sheet of metal—I already picked it up from the road. When I’m finished, I drag my coat out of the Escalade and pull on a pair of gray sweats over my tiny shorts and fishnet tights. With my gun safely holstered in my bag, I gather the paperwork from my glove compartment before I toss the strap over my shoulder and close the door.