Page 12 of When Sinners Fear
I’d like to say that I relaxed further into the conversation but can’t. There’s something about Knox that makes me feel anxious. He’s polite, engaging, and nothing like the kind of man I’d ever imagined being on a date with. He navigates between factual and insightful topics, comments on the state of the world as well as asking more personal questions that show me he wants to get to know more about me. So much so that when he asked for another date, I was excited to say yes. But something lies beneath that exterior as if he's offering surface tension.
“If I call you, will that cause you a problem with your father?” he asks as we leave the bar.
“No. You don’t have my number, though.”
“You called me Peyton. I have your number.”
“Oh, right. Well, if you’re free, I don’t really have a full social calendar since being back. Lunchtime or early evening like this works well for me.” I smile at him, feeling a little more at ease.
He signals for a cab. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He leans in and grazes my cheek with a kiss. The pressure is enough to tell me he means it, and I feel myself lean into him in return. The slightly sweet smell of the whiskey lingers on his lips, and suddenly it’s a drink I want to try.
“Goodnight.” I step back and try not to wring my hands and tap anything out on my thumbnail. A cab pulls up, and he opens the door for me.
“Goodnight, Peyton. Sweet dreams.”
CHAPTER FIVE
KNOX
The quiet, dimly lit room around me doesn’t stop the sounds of Carmen completing her tasks outside of it. I can sense her repeated sharpness as if that shrill voice has burrowed into me after all this time. I don’t actually hear it, more acknowledge the beat of it. It’s all staccato in nature, harsh and unyielding. Pleasant really. In some way.
I keep turning pages, trying to find a secure enough route for the next round of girls coming out of Mexico. Fourteen this time, unless waifs and strays are picked up along the way. We don’t need any more. Not unless I find a new contact in Europe to make this work. We need expansion out of the US, and less traffic on our territory. In fact, we don’t need any of it in reality. Why would we? We’re rich beyond fathomable interpretation of the word, and vile enough for no one to try taking that from us.
Leaning back from the paperwork I take my glasses off and stare into the corner of the room. My mind goes straight to a brother I’ve lost. He might have been unhinged, but he was my go-to when I overthought. He was all brass balls and hatred as if the world could burn around him and he wouldn’t give one fuck as long as we survived it. I suppose we all think like that in some respects, but Elias lived in the seconds rather than the plans. He acted, instantly. He took plans and goals and tore them to shreds, not giving a damn for Abel’s authority. I miss that about him. And with Dante gone – the only other one of us that lives those seconds, too – I’m finding myself reverting to a baser instinct to bring me home constantly. Act. Be. Kill. Fuck.
The thoughts bring visions of virginal innocence into my head, and I pull my phone from the table on automatic to call the only version of it I’m currently playing with. She answers on the ninth ring, panting as if she’s run for it – for me. “Hello?”
“Hello, Peyton.”
“Oh, Knox.”
“That sounds like disappointment.”
“Oh no. Not at all. It's just, Father Michael was going to call for my mother. I thought perhaps it might be him and … We were in the garden, and I ran to get here, to answer, you see, and …” The line goes quiet. “Never mind, I’m rambling. Sorry. What can I do for you?”
Lots of things. Lots of vile, damaging things. Things that will make her beg and cry. “I thought, perhaps, you might like to go to the Samsat Museum with me.”
“Really? Yes, that would be fantastic. I haven’t been there for years. When?”
“This evening. About seven.”
“Great, that’s great. I’d love to.”
“Good. I’ll see you there. Goodbye, Peyton.”
I end the call and keep staring at the corner of the room, still processing Elias and what his death has meant to me, let alone what it’s doing to my being. I’m frustrated with everything, and incoherent thoughts keep circulating about how best to manage that low-lying fury that I try to keep buried. Maybe I shouldn’t bury it anymore. Just let it loose more often. Intelligence doesn’t help me with that, though.
Carmen slides into the room, breaking my mused thoughts.
I side-eye her, annoyed that she’s interrupted whatever fucking sanity, or insanity, I was trying for.
“I need your help,” she says. I don’t answer. Not enough information to bother yet. I pick up my glasses and get back to work instead. “One of the girls is being difficult and she’s too much for Shaw.”
“Difficult?”
“Clever. She’s got him wrapped around her finger and we both know he’s more interested in fucking them than he is training them.”
I look back at my paperwork, unconcerned. “Give her to Ratchet for a while. He’ll deal with it.” She shifts in her chair, uneasy for some reason. My brow arches.