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“Then you’ll die from a lack of sustenance. Is your stubborn pride really that strong?”
“Stubborn pride?” She huffs out a derisive laugh. “It’s called self-fucking-preservation. You got me suspended, broke into my house, and went through my belongings—my fucking underwear. You then plied me with a date-rape concoction. Kidnapped me. Injected me with drugs and—”
“There were no drugs or date-rape concoctions.” I inch a step forward. “Only sedatives.”
“I have track marks,” she snarls.
“You have an injection site from a liquid sedative. I needed to make sure you remained asleep while we transported you.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, not bullshit. Do you seriously feel like you’ve had a narcotic hit?”
“How would I know? I’m not a user like you.” She keeps the stick clenched in her hand and her stance strong.
“You’d know. Most drug highs usually demand an adverse payment. All those good feelings are reimbursed in the aftermath when you feel like hell.”
“I certainly don’t feel peachy, Cole.”
I won’t laugh again. I can’t. I’m almost certain she will take the lousy odds and attempt a stabbing spree. “They were only sedatives. Nothing more sinister.”
“That doesn’t make what you’ve done any better. I’d been drinking. Everyone knows sedatives and liquor don’t mix. What if I was allergic? Or had a reaction? Despite you being oblivious to the severity of what you’ve done, I could’ve died.”
“That would’ve been unfortunate.” I attempt another step, not taking my gaze off her, having the perfect view of her expression-filled face as a new layer of rage seems to set in. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Nissa.”
I crouch and place the plate a few feet from the pile of sticks. She eyes the offering and swallows hard.
It’s clear she’s starving. I’m sure she’s suffering from thirst, too.
“What if I eat first?” I shouldn’t care about her struggle. Not when it’s now self-inflicted. All she needs to do is take a piece of fucking fruit. “You tell me what I should eat, and I’ll eat it.”
“How ’bout a bag of dicks?”
I grin. The constant snap, snap, snap of her remarks is a beautiful thing. “How ’bout a grape instead?” I reach for the plate and pop the fruit into my mouth. “And a cherry?” I steal another piece, chewing the juicy morsel before spitting the seed near her bare feet. “Anything else?”
She continues to inspect the plate, her tongue nervously snaking out to swipe her lower lip. “The watermelon.”
Good. Those two words are a lifeline to civility.
I obey, grabbing a chunk from the top of the pile.
“No. Not that one.” She points her stick to the opposite side of the plate. “Take one from the bottom.”
I incline my head, happy to oblige, and finish the watermelon piece in two bites. “Believe me now?”
She doesn’t answer as I withdraw, but she does creep forward to grab the plate, placing the stick under her arm for safekeeping. The cautious retreat back toward the tree is done in silence, her gaze never leaving mine.
“You don’t need to keep glaring at me, sweetheart. You’ve made it crystal clear you’re pissed off.”
She sits on the ground, her bare feet covered in dirt. “Pissed off doesn’t come close, pumpkin.”
She grabs a slice of nectarine and cautiously inspects it, her focus returning to my face as she raises the food to her mouth.
I continue to place space between us while the fruit inches closer to those lips, the slow motion fucking with my mind, increasing my pulse. I never would’ve thought healthy eating could be this intriguing, but here I am, transfixed as she takes her first bite.
The slightest glimpse of bliss crosses her features in the roll of her eyes, the closing of her lids. I wait for a moan, for a needy groan of satisfaction. I can already hear it. Right there, on the tip of her tongue.
“Don’t forget the water,” I remind her.
Those luminous green eyes snap open. “Leave me alone.”
“I wish I could.” I glance to the ground, finding a relatively short expanse of grass, then sit my ass down. “Unfortunately, we’re just getting started.”
She doesn’t respond with interest. Not even intrigue. I doubt she has any intent to listen to what I have to say, but she’ll soon learn she has no choice. I can’t let her go unless she believes my story. And she won’t believe my story unless she’s willing to listen.
“Nissa…” Where do I start? How do I start?
What she said last night was true. I’ve never interacted with a woman I couldn’t walk over. Hunter’s fiancée, Sarah, is the closest I’ve come to finding a female with balls, but she can still be tamed.
Everyone can be leashed.
Yet, this woman is different. So fucking different I struggle to predict what she’ll do next. Or understand how I should manage her. She doesn’t have clear indicators. At least not to me.
That’s why I’m not going to bother beating around the metaphorical bush.
“The only insight I had into my father’s escape came from his legal team,” I start. “And I use the word ‘insight’ loosely.”
“You’re wasting your breath. I’ve gone beyond the point of being able to listen to you.”
“I was told to keep myself busy in a public place before the court case.”
She lets out a derisive huff. “And that didn’t tip you off?”
“I made assumptions. But I didn’t know.”
“You knew enough to be held accountable for not informing the authorities.” She pops a cherry into her mouth, her expression filled with superiority. “You may not have pulled the trigger that killed the guard, but you’re guilty just the same.”
I grind my teeth at her judgment.
I think this is the only time she gets to me. Really gets to me. When she looks down at my life, I see red. Until her, nobody has come close to making me feel inferior, and I want nothing more than to prove her wrong in whatever way possible.
She thinks she’s better than me. That her way of thinking exceeds mine. That her form of justice is superior.
Like fuck.
She has no right to climb aboard her high horse.
“I said I didn’t know the details. I never said I didn’t want him free.”
“And finally, the truth comes out,” she drawls. “It’s what I’ve known all along.”
“You don’t know shit.” I force my mouth shut, clamping my teeth tight to stop another outburst.
For long moments, she taunts me with the raise of a haughty brow, popping one grape after another while I stew under her bigotry.
“I know you attack the lovely state of Oregon with your drugs.”
And here we go with the illicit-substance debate. It’s one of my favorites.
“The drug trade isn’t an attack on anyone. It’s an addiction not unlike caffeine or nicotine. The only difference is you consider it illegal.”
“It is illegal. And heroine is nothing like coffee or cigarettes. Hard drugs kill people. They ruin families and create more violence and crime. You’re literally poisoning the masses.”
“And what about the poison you indulged in last night? You had no problem throwing back that Beluga. Alcohol also kills people, destroys families, and inspires violence. But because it’s legal, you’ve got no problem with it. There’s no logic to your rules.”
Her nostrils flare. “There’s a big difference.”
“No, there’s not.” I’ve honestly never understood the distinction. “They both take away control from the user, act as a toxin against the body, and cause addiction.”
She shakes her head, her jaw working overtime. “If you ever had to make the devastating discovery of a dead coke-head’s frozen body on the streets, or had to watch a baby struggle through an addiction her mother gave her in the womb, your opinion wouldn’t be the same.”