“Like?”
“Like you lit a building on fire in Manhattan with a bunch of men inside of it.”
“I gave them a chance to get out,” he says. “Not my fault they didn’t take me seriously.”
“You blew up a storage building in a public park.”
“I just flicked a lighter,” he says. “I’m not the one who made the place explosive.”
“You detonated a grenade, killing most of the mob bosses in the city.”
“See, okay, that’s bullshit. They were already dead by the time that grenade went off.”
“I, uh... wow.”
I don’t know what to say.
“In my defense,” he says, not sounding like he really cares to defend himself, “they were all terrible people, so it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.”
“So you’ve never hurt an innocent person?”
A smile touches his lips. “Do they exist?”
“What?”
“Innocent people.”
“Children,” I say. “Your brother.”
I almost say me, but well, I think I’ve crossed too many lines to ever qualify as innocent.
“I would never hurt a kid,” he says. “I guarantee there’s nothing in that file that says I would.”
I look down at it, frowning, pulling out a scrap piece of paper with the detective’s handwriting on it and holding it out to Lorenzo.
Suspected to have been involved in the death of 14-year-old Sally Walters in Kissimmee.
He takes the piece of paper from me, looking at it for a few seconds before balling it up, crushing it in his palm. He tosses it behind him, onto the roof, and goes back to peeling his orange.
The fact that he’s not refuting it bothers me. My stomach gets tied up in knots.
“Is her autopsy report in there?” he asks after a moment.
“No.”
“So you don’t know she was strangled?” he asks. “Don’t know she was brutally raped before being put out of her misery?”
“No.”
But he does, and the fact that he knows it makes my head dizzy, bile burning the back of my throat. I don’t want to think he’s capable of such a thing. No, scratch that. I don’t think he is. Killing people, yes, I’ve seen him do it, but rape is different. It’s another level of cruelty inflicted by a different type of monster. I’ve met many of those monsters in my life, but he’s not one of them.
“For the record, I didn’t do it,” he says. “She was my first girlfriend. Only girlfriend. I didn’t hurt her. I just got lucky and stumbled upon her after my stepfather was through.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he repeats as he stands up. “Anything else in the book of bullshit that I should know about?”
“No,” I say, closing the file and holding it out to him. “You can have it, if you want.”
“How nice of you,” he says, snatching it from my hand, clutching so tightly the folder bends, as he leaves, slipping back down off of the roof, into the bedroom, slamming the window closed.
I touched a nerve. A bad one. And I know he’s just going to go back downstairs now, into his library, and I won’t see him again tonight. Ugh, I don’t like it. My stomach is still in knots.
I didn’t think it was possible, but… I might’ve hurt his feelings. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Pushing to my feet, I quickly make my way across the roof. I scurry down the ladder, jogging around, and shove through the front door just as Lorenzo steps back into the library.
Fuck.
“Hey, hold on,” I say, running toward him, skidding to a stop in front of the library just as the door is about to shut. Reaching out, I push it, shoving it back open before it can latch. “Ugh, Lorenzo, wait.”
He turns to me, still clutching the door. He looks like he wants to slam it in my face... or maybe, like, punch me. I don’t know.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” he says.
I take a deep breath, not sure what to say.
“Nine... eight... seven...”
“I didn’t think you did that to that girl,” I blurt out, because fuck it, he’s counting, and I know when he reaches ‘one’ I’ll have missed my chance. “I know that’s not the kind of man you are. I know you wouldn’t have done that to her. I know you’re better than that.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, right.”
He’s about to slam the door for real this time so I shove my way inside the room. There’s a flash of something in his expression. Anger. Something. I don’t know. I can’t pay it any mind. I’ve already crossed that threshold. No going back now.
“I swear to fuck, Scarlet, if you don’t watch yourself...”
“Yeah, you’ll kill me,” I mutter, grabbing ahold of him, my hands framing his face, trying to force him to look at me but he’s stubborn as shit and goes to pull away instead. “I’m serious, Lorenzo. Stop being so fucking pigheaded and just look at me.”
He looks at me when I say that. Whoa. He actually listens.
I’m caught so much off guard by it that I don’t say anything right away, just staring him in the eyes.
“Times up, Scarlet,” he says quietly.
Before he can try to push me away, make me leave, I reach up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. I kiss him, softly, slowly, my palms gently against his cheeks, holding his face there.
He doesn’t kiss me back. At least, not right away. But I can feel him relaxing more and more each time our lips touch, his anger waning.
He tastes like oranges, sweet and tangy.
My hands shift, grasping the side of his head, as I kiss down along his jawline, brushing against the scruff on his chin. I move to the other side, kissing the corner of his mouth before my lips graze against the scar slicing through his cheek.
The second I do that, he pulls his head back. He shoots me a strange look, I can’t really read it, before he moves away from the door, away from me. He strolls across the room, tossing his case file onto the corner of the table near his puzzle, before sitting down in his chair
He goes back to eating his orange as if none of that even happened. The door stays open, and I’m already halfway in the room, so I take that as invitation to come the rest of the way in.
“Senile,” he says, shaking his head. “I know that’s not what your Scarlet Letter stands for, but it sure as fuck ought to.”
I approach him. “I’m not old enough to be senile. Besides, you know, I think I’m pretty clear-headed.”
“You’re softhearted, Scarlet. Soft in the fucking head, too. It’s dangerous. You’re dangerous.”
I laugh at that, pausing in front of him, pushing his hands out of the way and shoving him further back into the chair as I climb onto his lap, straddling him. He lets out an exasperated sigh, like I’m bothering him, but I wouldn’t really call him angry anymore, so I’m chalking that up to a win.
Nuzzling into his neck, I kiss and nip at the skin, trailing my tongue along his throat, feeling it as he swallows thickly.
He tries like hell to ignore me, cocking his head away, finishing his orange in silence. As soon as he’s done, though, I pull back, grabbing his hand, wrapping my lips around two of his fingers, lapping the remnants of juice from his fingertips with my tongue. I suck on them slowly as he watches me, cocking an eyebrow, not saying a word, but I can feel him as he grows hard.
I pull his fingers from my mouth and start to say something, to tease him, but I don’t get the chance to say a word. He grabs me by the back of the head, pulling me to him, kissing me roughly.
I eagerly kiss him back.
Hands shove at clothes, pushing and tugging, doing just enough to free him as my pants are pulled down to my thighs. He strokes himself a few times before I sink down onto him, groaning into his mouth as he fills me.
He grasps me by the ass, squeezing, but his hands just rest there, not trying to take control, letting me lead. I ride him slowly, not breaking the kiss, goose bumps coating every inch of my skin.
Jesus Christ, he feels so good.
His hands start roaming, squeezing and scratching, his fingers raking along the small of my back.