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For whatever reason, it seems I’m still her target.
On reflex, I open my mouth to say something, but cap it. I’m not getting in trouble for this woman. I refuse.
I finally lift my gaze just enough to see her and another woman sitting around a small table, just outside the ice cream shop next door to Rhea’s.
The woman across from her, who I’m guessing is her best friend Joan, turns her head to look back at me, pausing to lick the double-scoop dripping down her thumb. “Is that who I think it is?”
Casting my gaze from theirs, I contemplate whether, or not, to roll the window up. What the hell is taking Lucian so long?
“Who else would dress like a whore to visit a bookshop?” The derision in her voice sounds more like jealousy, perhaps brought on by the fancy car, than that of a mother looking out for her son.
I’m anxious to pull the front of the dress up to hide the cleavage she can likely spot from where she’s sitting, and I want more than anything to look up and say something. Say something, my head urges, but neither my limbs, nor brain, will act at my command, the silent warning of the last time I spoke up paralyzing my vocal chords.
“Her aunt works at the bar, right? Chatty one who reeks like smoke all the time?” Joan’s voice is louder than before, as if she wants me to hear her.
“Yeah. That’s her. Brutish one everyone calls Butch.”
The car door swings open, and I snap my focus toward Lucian, who slides the package down alongside my legs onto the floor.
Their chasing cackles don’t seem to have snagged his attention yet. Meanwhile, my fingers twitch with the prodding of my head to climb out of this car and stand up to this wretched bitch who made my life hell for all those months. But I can’t. Partly because of the dress I’m wearing that, in truth, makes me feel out of my element. A fake and a phony. The other part is because my mouth has gotten me in trouble before.
Ignore them, I can hear Aunt Midge telling me, as she always did. Which is weird, because she never ignored them herself. In fact, she got into a yelling match with Brady’s mom a few months back, when the woman accused me of being in a satanic cult. Probably based on how I was dressed at the time.
But for whatever reason, Aunt Midge insisted that I ignore them.
I suddenly wish we were back at Blackthorne, in the dark gloom where I felt shielded from all of this. It’s no wonder Lucian’s family never really venture out much. Why would they subject themselves to an entire island of ignorance and judgment?
“How much you think he’s paying her?” Joan snorts, and both women giggle at her remark. “Enough to fund another tattoo?”
Finger on the ignition button, he stills, his expression hardening, and he sits forward in his seat like he’s starting to catch on. He stares through the windshield. I wait for him to start the damn car and get out of here before I do something stupid, but instead, he opens the driver door.
I grab him by the arm and, gaze lowered, shake my head. “Trust me, retaliation doesn’t work with them. It only adds fuel.” It’s true. The last time I volleyed insults back at her, I found myself sitting across from a police officer over some harassment accusation she made up. “Let’s just go.”
“They’re talking about you?” he asks, his hand still on the door handle.
“Maybe. Maybe not, though.”
“Only whores tattoo themselves! Whore!” Brady’s mother calls out to us, the target of her insult unmistakable as she stares right at me.
Lip caught between my teeth, I bite back the urge to scream, and screw my eyes shut to the visual of her choking on that goddamn ice cream cone.
“Fuel meet fire.” Lucian climbs out, and every muscle in my body pulls tight as I watch him round the vehicle toward the women.
With the window still rolled down, I can hear snippets of their whispers, as Lucian approaches.
“Sorry to interrupt your ice cream, but my lady friend over there seems to think your comments are directed at her.” There’s an eerie calm to Lucian’s voice as he stands towering over them, while both women squint to look up at him. “If that’s the case, I’ll ask that you apologize to her for being so rude.”
“Do you even know who you’re talking to, asshole?” Joan asks, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun that must be directly in her face, maybe why she doesn’t seem to recognize him and those infamous scars.
“Any chance you might know who you’re talking to?”
Hand covering my mouth, I swallow back a laugh, watching these clueless women rile the Devil of Bonesalt.
Brady’s mom scoffs and takes another lick of her ice cream. “Tell me, so I can report your ass for harassment.”
“Lucian Blackthorne.” He bends forward, holding out a hand toward her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Both women gasp in unison.
Brady’s mom slowly lowers the ice cream from her mouth, the top scoop plopping onto her lap with her trembling. She glances toward Joan, who hasn’t moved in nearly a minute now, as if he’s already turned her to stone. Neither woman returns his shake.
“Perhaps the gossip hasn’t truly done me justice,” he says, and slips his hand back into his pocket. “Feel free to report my ass, if you’d like. I’ll give my lawyer a heads-up. And in the meantime, I strongly suggest you watch your words when you speak, or refer, to Isadora Qui
Not a word is spoken between the two women, and I’m begi
As Lucian makes his way back toward the car, I exhale a shaky breath, trying to figure out whether to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he just verbally Hulk-smashed the bane of my existence.
The moment he falls into the seat beside me, a burst of laughter escapes me, and I double over, my muscles still trembling with the adrenaline rush. Catching a glimpse of Brady’s mom cleaning up the mess from her lap, I laugh harder. “You are so on her shit-list now.”
“Whoever did her hair this morning should be, as well,” he says, throwing the car in reverse. “Where to next? The Shoal?”
“Yes. What took you so long in there? Thought I was going to have to send in a rescue squad.”
He shrugs, looking calm and collected, the way he leans back in his seat with one hand on the wheel. “Caught up in conversation. Who were those women back there?”
“Tempest Cove clowns.”
“I’m serious.”
Huffing, I stare out the window at the sidewalks bustling with tourists. Strangers who know nothing about me. Have no idea about my reputation. “Brady’s mom and her friend, Joan.”
“Why do they have a problem with you?”
Pangs of remorse still needle my gut for not having stood up for myself. If not for my desperation to get out of this town, I’d have chanced another harassment claim, just to shut her up myself. “This whole town has a problem with me.”
“I can see why.” At his remark, I snap my attention back to him, scowling and mouth gaping for something to say. “Young. Beautiful. Intelligent. I’d be pissed, too, if I looked as unoriginal as the two of them.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “I never know whether to slap you, or kiss you, Lucian. It’s the most confusing feeling in the world.”
Eyes on the road, he sets his hand on my thigh in a possessive way. “Nobody fucks with you when you’re with me. Ever.”
The Devil of Bonesalt. The Mad Son. The monster of Tempest Cove.