Page 13 of Poison Pen

“Got it,” I called, hefting the item in question high before I let the door close behind me. Leona was the old lady who worked the afternoon shift at the liquor store down the block. She was surly, cantankerous, and down-right rude.

I freakin’ loved her.

Thinking of all the wonderfully awful encounters I’d had with the old gal in the past, I jogged down the stairs, bottle in hand, and burst out the door with a spring in my step.

Unfortunately, that spring sprung me right smack-dab into someone’s chest.

“Oof!” I grunted, bringing one hand up to rub my forehead, my eyes going a bit crossed. “Sorry, man.”

“All good, Betty.”

I froze, the sound of that rough voice getting my hackles up.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” he drawled, and I thought I caught a hint of a smirk buried in that beard.

I didn’t want to find that sexy. I really didn’t.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked, and I eyed him suspiciously.

“Why? You planning to follow me or some shit?”

The man shook his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest. As he did, the sleeves of his t-shirt rode up, and I once again found myself mentally designing a tattoo for those impressive muscles.

“If I was a stalker, I’d be a pretty bad one,” he admitted. “Besides, I already know where you live.” He tilted his head to the door I had just exited from. “Don’t need much more information than that, do I?”

“It’s weird that you know so much about how stalkers work,” I volleyed, doing my best not to smile. Sarcastic banter was my favorite hobby, and doing it with this guy was more enjoyable than I wanted it to be.

He simply shrugged.

“Not exactly a reassuring answer,” I pressed.

“If you’ve seen one true crime documentary, you’ve seen ’em all,” he replied.

“As long as you’re not starring in one, I guess,” I said, and that delicious smirk appeared again as he chuckled.

For a moment, we simply looked at each other, neither of us seeming able to break our stare-off.

Hell, I might have stood there all night, thinking thoughts I had no business thinking, if not for the sudden squawk of a siren which caused me to jump. We both watched as the fire station down the road rolled up its big doors, releasing a large red truck into the street with an obnoxious clatter.

“You ever get used to that?” he asked when the noise was over.

“Not really,” I answered honestly. “But that’s what this is for.” I smiled as I held aloft the empty bottle of whiskey.

“Jameson?” he asked, aghast.

“What?” I frowned, not liking his judgment. “It’s good shit.”

“Shit being the operative word,” he snorted.

“It’s, like, the best-selling whiskey in the world, man,” I defended for some reason; I didn’t actually give a damn, but it seemed like the only way we communicated was through conflict, so I kept it up.

“Hardly. It’s barely making the top five most years,” he insisted. “I’ll grant you, it might be the top sellingIrishwhiskey in the world, but even that’s a stretch these days, seeing as how they sold out to the French back in the 80s.”

“Wow,” I said, my eyebrows likely buried in my hairline. “You take this stuff pretty seriously, don’t you?”

“A bit, yeah,” was all he said, but I could see the way he was huffing, like the bottle in my hand had personally offended him.