Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (5)

He points the light toward his feet and goes still, as though he’s been snared by a thought that won’t let him go.

And the longer he stands there, the easier it is to remember that he’s kind of a dick.

My mind might be a little disjointed and slow right now, but all too soon I come back around to the facts—this guy is a single-word asshole who’s dropped some unqualified, grunted diagnosis on me as though it’s totally nothing to worry about.

Concussed, he’d said.

“What if—”

“Drunk?” he snarls as he whirls on me.

I blink at him. Rage kindles in my chest. “Excuse me?”

“Drunk?”

He leans forward. Our faces are inches from each other. My simmering fury becomes fucking pyroclastic when he sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

I shove him with both hands. Christ, it’s like trying to topple a marble statue. He leans back from my personal bubble but only because he wants to, not because I made him.

“No, I’m not drunk, you one-word asshole. I haven’t had any alcohol at all.”

He huffs.

“Well? Did you smell any when you were all up in my face sniffing my breath like a fucking psycho?”

That earns me a snort.

“Exactly. So thank you for your totally unnecessary judgments, Budget Batman,” I say as I flick a dismissive hand toward his neoprene unitard, “but I would never drink and drive. I’m not much of a drinker, actually.”

He rumbles what might just be a relieved growl. “Right.”

“And I’ll have you know that I’m an adorable drunk. Not an accident-inducing drunk.”

“Accident,” he grunts, and though it’s only one word, the sarcasm in his tone is undeniable. He gestures around us with the flashlight. “No skid marks.”

I snicker. “Wh … what marks …?”

A frustrated sigh spills from his lips. “Skid. Marks,” he snarls, and I clear my throat in a failed attempt to contain my amusement. “There should be skid marks from where you tried to stop.”

This time I can’t hold it in—I laugh out loud. And even though Budget Batman is wearing a mask, I can feel his flat glare on my skin.

“I know you’ve probably been living under a rock with all your other salamander kin, but it’s from a movie. Hot Fuzz. Skid marks. You know, the one with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost …? Timothy Dalton ends up impaled on the church spire in the miniature village? So funny.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“Come on. The longest sentence you string together in your whisper-growl Budget Batman impression is about skid marks and you expect me not to laugh?”

“He’s not big on talking,” another voice calls out in the night.

There’s a flash of movement to my right. Before I can even turn, Batman’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me behind him. My bag drops to the ground and my face smacks into the neoprene-coated brick wall that is Batman’s back.

“Motherfucker—”

“Put the gun down, bro. It’s just me,” the new voice says, interrupting the barrage of expletives I was about to unleash. New guy chuckles and Batman loosens his grip on me. Now that my head has stopped spinning, I make sense of what just happened. As though on instinct, he put himself between me and danger, keeping me out of sight.

I peer around Batman’s shoulder to see another masked man standing a few feet away. His hands are raised in surrender and his stance is nonchalant despite the gun my protector points at his chest.

My gun.

“You fucker, that’s mine. Give it back.”

Budget Batman scoffs when I tap his bicep as the gun lowers to his side.

“No,” he says, then walks away.

He leaves me in the dark as he approaches the new guy, my bag discarded at my feet, the contents of my unzipped makeup pouch strewn across the asphalt. The two men speak in hushed tones and I catch the occasional sentence as I gather my belongings in the dim light. Tow her vehicle … Body’s in the lake … Was probably on her phone. Just a dumb accident …

A dumb accident.

My cheeks heat beneath the cake of white makeup. The urge to snap back with the truth is so strong it chokes up my throat, but I swallow it down and drop to the ground to gather the contents of my spilled bag, shoving everything inside as I shoot glares toward the two men that they don’t see.

And would it really matter if I set them straight? These guys are professional cleaners. They fix messes for people much more creepy and dangerous than me. I’m sure they’ve seen it all, from legit accidents to torture to everything in between. What harm would it do if they knew the truth?

But it’s a confession I can’t risk getting back to my family. They might not be the squeakiest and cleanest of people, but I have a role to play, and while chaos agent might fit the bill, murderer definitely does not.

So I plaster on a sunshine smile, hoist my bag up my shoulder, and stride over to them.

“I’d hate to interrupt this little budget superhero whisper party, but we should probably get this show on the road, don’t you think? It’s four hours and twenty-two minutes to sunrise,” I say with a flick of my focus to my watch. When I look up, the new guy’s head tilts as though he’s surprised by my quick calculation. Probably justified, given the dubious first impression. When I shift my gaze to Batman, his eyes are a narrow slash behind his mask. But I square my shoulders and raise my chin beneath, armoring myself against his judgment. “Well? The sooner we fix this, the sooner we never see each other again.”