Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(23)
I part the waders with sudden force, the hangers grating against the metal rod. A man my age startles, the phone held a few inches from his face as he looks at me with wide, steel-blue eyes. “I’ll call you back,” he says.
And then a slow grin spreads across his lips.
Just to look at him, he’s handsome enough, in an unfussy kind of way. Tousled dark hair. Stubble on an angular jaw. Those silvery eyes that light up when he smiles. I’m sure he’s gotten away with all kinds of trouble with that smile. And he knows it.
“Hi,” he says, his voice rich and smooth. I give him a faint nod. He waggles his phone and gives me a sheepish tilt of his head. “Sorry about that. Work thing. You know, people not doing their jobs and stuff. Trust me, they deserved it.”
“Yeah,” I deadpan, though he doesn’t seem to notice my sarcastic tone. “I’m sure they did. Bet they won’t fuck up again.”
His expression lightens and he takes a deep breath. “I hope you’re right.” He jerks his head down to my leg. “What’d you do?”
I lean forward through the waders and cup my hand over my mouth. His eyes glimmer with anticipation of a secret shared. “I broke it trying to kill a guy.”
I wink and he laughs, delight filling the aisle. “Now that’s a story I’d like to hear more about sometime. Name’s Eric.” He pauses, as though I’m going to give him my name in return. When I don’t, it brightens the gleam in his eyes. “You like fishing?”
“Something like that,” I reply, and his lips curl.
I shrug and start hobbling my way back over to the knives. Eric follows, watching from the other side of the glass case as I turn my attention to the weapons just out of reach.
“Do you have a secret fishing hole? I could use some tips if so. Haven’t caught anything all week. Maybe you could show me sometime.”
I look up at him, tilting my head. A slow, predatory grin creeps across my lips. “I think Naomi would mind. Don’t you?”
Eric’s smile finally cracks, though doesn’t disappear completely. He scoffs, pausing as though giving me one last chance to come to my senses. Then he rolls his eyes. “Dumb bitch,” he mutters, loud enough for only me to hear.
I stay where I am, my hands curled into tight fists, my nails etching crescents into the padding of my crutches as I watch him stride toward the counter. The shop owner sets his magazine down, his expression unreadable as his eyes flick to mine. “Afternoon. What can I get for you?”
“I’ll take a box of Winchester 350 Legends,” Eric says.
The old man lets out a grunt, his eyes narrowing. “It ain’t hunting season. Shouldn’t you be getting fishing gear?”
“I am. Gonna shoot the fish right out of the river. Just don’t go tellin’ the sheriff. Not my fault if a deer gets in the way of my shot.”
With another grunt, the shop owner unlocks a display behind him to take a black box from the shelf, the ammunition inside shifting in a deadly whisper. I linger at the glass case even though the urge to jump on Eric’s back and strangle him with my bare hands breaks over me in waves. Why does a man like that get whatever he wants? Get away with whatever he wants? Hurt anyone and anything he wants? I stare down at the knives and they seem to whisper in their cases, reflecting their possibilities back at me.
It doesn’t have to be that way.
I’m still staring down into the acid-etched patterns on the steel of a hunting blade when I hear the door open and close as Eric leaves. Shuffling footsteps follow and come to a stop at my side.
“Stay away from that guy. He’s a piece of shit,” the old man says as he unlocks the glass case and passes me the exact knife I’m looking at in the row of blades, as though it’s whispered to him as much as it has to me.
“Kinda got that impression.” I take the knife he offers by the handle and turn it over to examine the swirling patterns of the Damascus steel blade. As the shop owner takes out the sheath and runs me through some of the specs, I glance through the front window. Eric is across the street, waving to a group of people our age. He opens the rear door of a black truck and tosses the box of ammunition on the back seat before he walks toward the liquor store. “It’s perfect,” I say, interrupting the old man. “I’ll take it.”
The shop owner rings up my order, and I slap down enough cash to cover the total. I don’t wait for the couple of dollars of change. With my new sheathed blade gripped between my teeth, I hobble my way toward the door at speed. The old man behind the counter must see a lot of oddities in his shop, because he merely grunts a goodbye as I limp into the merciless summer sun.
I scan the street. There’s no one around other than the group Eric just parted with, and they’re already a block away, their backs to me. No one even looks my way as I cross the road and throw open the unlocked rear driver’s side door of Eric’s Dodge Ram 1500 truck. It’s a bit of a mess, thank fuck, with a box of tools and some empty soda cans and a grease-stained set of overalls strewn across the seat. It might be a bit gross, but it makes it even less likely that he’ll notice me. I shove my crutches in across the footwells, and then I heave myself inside and cover myself with a blanket that smells faintly of mildew and diesel. I clutch my new blade to my chest, and then I wait.