Page 22 of No Control
“You should’ve been a lawyer,” I run the tip of my blade down the curve of his jaw, slicing just enough that it begins to bleed.
And Mason wails like a dying rabbit.
Jeez. Excessive.
I crack my neck to the side, placing the edge of the blade just beneath his ear.
“No, don’t,” he cries, his voice breaking into a whine.
“Come on, Mason. It’s just a cut. We both know you would’ve done worse to Lydia had you been able to get your hands on her.”
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, I saw it in your eyes.” That’s the truth, too. He had that look of desperation and rage. It’s a deadly combination and becomes heightened when a control freak loses his ability to control. Lydia stripped him of that, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d have wrapped his hand around her pretty neck…
But that’s my spot.
“Okay, fine,” Mason’s voice darkens.
I dig the blade in a little deeper, breaking skin. “Okay, fine, what?”
“I was gonna rough her up a little. Sometimes women just need to be put in their place. It’s not the first time—”
Nope.
The ringing in my ears drowns out his screams as I drag the blade across his skin, my own rage flooding my senses. Blood spews everywhere, covering me, but I still finish the job, having nearly decapitated him with the force of my anger. It's always a doozy when that carotid gets sliced.
I then step back, admiring the sight as he hangs there limp in the chair. Blood pools on the floor beneath his feet, droplets still raining down silently from his neck. I wish there’d have been more time. I’d have loved to have had the chance to crush every bone in his body, chop his dick right off…
But it is what it is.
He won’t touch you again, Lydia.
An alarm goes off on my watch, and I realize it’s time for me to go. I’ll call the clean-up crew and wash up at the hotel before I meet her. I’ll have to be quick.
Because I’d really fucking hate to be late.
nine
Lydia
I stare at my phone resting on the table of the coffee shop. It’s five minutes until ten o’clock, and for some reason, I’m starting to wonder if he’s even going to show up—would I even care?
I can’t make up my mind.
I don’t really know Henry, but ever since meeting him in person yesterday, I haven’t been able to shake him.
I’ll just tell him it’s not going to work.
It’s as though I’m breaking up with someone all over again, and I inwardly cringe at the thought. And speaking of that, I haven’t heard from Mason since he left my house. And even as much as I should have told someone what happened, I haven’t had the nerve to do it.
They’re all just going to think I’m crazy.
I mean, I shot at him—well, not at him—but in the vicinity of his feet. I think that still counts as at him though. Am I going nuts? And since when do I even do shit like this? I’m not confrontational. Did Henry flip some kind of weird switch in me?
No, that’s impossible. Fifteen minutes with someone doesn’t do that.
My forehead rests against the palm of my hand as I start to spiral again, replaying the scene with Mason as a distraction from Henry. I think he could have me charged, but would Mason do that? Maybe he’ll just sleep it off and let it go…
