Chapter 19 #2
"I don't know what you want me to say," I fiddle with my purse, debating if it would be worth it to pull out my phone and call someone.
But once again, these fucking Balor boys have put me in a position where there isn't much that can be done legally.
He hasn't threatened me, hasn't hurt me.
Saying he forced me into the car to keep me away from people following me would get him a slap on the back more than any meaningful consequences.
"I'm not the one continuously breaking and entering. "
"You could keep him away if you really wanted to."
I scoff, "You mean by putting up a whole security system to lock out unwanted visitors? Or by threatening to call the police?"
Finally, he casually rolls his head to face me, looking at me through impassive eyes, “Why did you come by Balor today, Brigit?"
Breathing out through my nose, I tell him what I already said to Cormac, "The hoodie."
"That's all?" he pries.
"Yeah," I lie to him and myself. "That's all."
"Then why step in and help him with the poachers?”
I spit out the excuse I was telling myself the entire time, "It was the right thing to do."
"Really?" His dark eyes swim with dark humor as the sarcastic word rolls off his tongue.
"I thought maybe he would hurt one of them," I try again.
His sardonic smile grows, "That's a better lie, at least. Are you this shitty at being honest with Fomori?"
Yes.
"I'm not lying," and in this instance, I'm not.
Not exactly. "I did think he was going to hurt one of them.
His teeth were grinding together, and even though he was shying away from them, he.
.. I don't know, he looked different. Carried himself like an animal posing to strike, not a cornered, scared man.
His eyes were dark and hazy. It took a few seconds for him to even realize I was there, fighting through them to get to him first."
"Yeah, you probably did save a reporter’s life today," he laughs. "But that can't be why you stepped in."
"Why not?"
"Because you inserted yourself right into the grip of a serial killer without any fear for yourself. And then you didn't even hesitate to protect him," he shrugs.
I groan, "What am I supposed to say?"
"You could just admit you care about him. That maybe you even like him a little bit," he suggests with a yawn. "Your denial is getting so boring and I'm sick of hearing about it."
My eyes narrow, glaring at this strange, scary contradiction of a man. His casual, take-nothing-seriously attitude doesn't match the depth of what he's getting at, and I don't know how to respond to it.
"What would it help? It wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change anything," I shrug one shoulder, pushing my hair over it.
"Okay, sure. Then why are you so fucking scared of the possibility?" he asks.
When I can't respond, my mouth opening and closing again without an argument, he grins at me like he's won something.
And maybe he has.
“Look, Brigy, Cormac is delicate right now," he warns. "I don't think even he realizes how close to snapping he is."
I swallow, "I know."
I've seen the darkness welling up, beneath the playful taunting and the endless flirting.
I saw it today, even.
"Do you?" he raises a brow.
With a nod, I take a deep breath, "I'm assuming he told you about my other visitor."
"Sure did."
"Well," I clear my throat, "When I told him, there was a split second where it was like a shadow fell over his face.
His eyes turned almost black, all the ambery gold drowned out by it.
He covered it quickly, hiding that part of him, likely not to terrify me even further than I already was.
But I saw, just for a second, the reason they gave him that awful name.
I think he was more afraid of it than I was. "
He looks down at his watch, putting the car back into gear, "Cormac is deranged. The place he goes to when he's killing someone, I can't imagine what kind of man it takes to live inside his head and remain somewhat normal. But he’s—“
"I don't think you should be telling me this if you're trying to convince me to care about him," I mumble.
He laughs, harsh and loud as he makes a U-turn. “I’m not trying to convince you of anything. You don’t need me to tell you that he’s a good person beneath the layers of unhinged, violent protectiveness.”
"So that’s the point of this little kidnapping, heart-to-heart routine? To tell me it’s okay to care about him? To give me fucking permission?”
“What do you mean?” he asks. “We're just chit-chatting until it's time to go back. And you don't seem the type to wanna talk about the weather."
I can feel my eye twitching, annoyed at his flippancy when we've clearly been having a deeper conversation than just— "You call airing out my dirty laundry and trying to pry into my head chit-chat?"
As he gains speed, he looks at me from the corner of his eye, "Yup.
If we had more time, we could talk about your mommy issues.
What is she on, husband number eight, now?
But that doesn't seem like the kind of conversation that occurs between two people who've only met a few times and one of those times was when you were getting finger fucked by my friend and watching me beat the shit out of someone.”
"Oh, my god." I bury my face in my hands.
Skyler falls into a fit of genuine laughter, adding, "Maybe next time."
"For just a minute, I thought maybe that would be something we never, ever talk about," I groan. "I hoped something would be off limits."
He waits for a beat before responding, "Do you mean the mommy issues... or the other thing?"
"Shut up."
"Listen," he taps on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. "You're not the first or last person to get off on the fights. And I'll be honest. I don't hate it. I make hundreds of people come without ever even touching them."
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"We have a whole cleaning crew that's just for bodily fluids," he grins.
I want to throw up.
"But you don't need to worry about that," he adds. "No one but you has ever been in that seat. It's reserved for you every night."
"Every night?"
"Yeah, basically since we opened.”
"Why?"
With a stuttered ummm, he answers, "I think you can probably figure that out on your own, Danaan."
The short car ride back to Mingle is heavy with silence. One Skyler doesn't seem to notice at all.
When we're only a minute or two away, I gather the courage to ask a question. "How did you know all that stuff?"
"Cormac might do the killing, but he’s not the only one with a penchant for information gathering.
We’re a team,” he explains. “I mostly work from the outside doing the techy stuff and I keep his ass from getting caught.
Cutting cameras. Destroying evidence. I can do almost everything except the whole taking a life thing.
I don't have the stomach for it like he does.
It takes an exceptionally brave person to embrace the killer inside them and be able to look in the mirror the next morning. "
"If you keep him from getting caught, how did they get him?”
For the first time, I see Skyler's face twist into something real, a deep well of guilt opening up as we pull into an alley behind the club, "They didn't, though, did they?
Nothing concrete enough to keep him. I'm more concerned about whoever got the drop on him in his own house.
Idiot wouldn't let me set up any fucking security there. "
I don't know what drives me to say it, but there's not a doubt in my mind that he needs to hear it. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yeah," he clears his throat. "It was."
Putting the car in park, he climbs out before I can say anything else. When I follow suit behind him, all signs of worry and guilt are gone, replaced with a smile. "Get home safe, Brigit. I had fun chatting.”