Chapter 14 James
James
All that bonnie softness just drifts through a world that doesnae deserve her.
The blue glow off my wee surveillance monitors casts her skin all silvery, like she’s soaking up the moon.
Right now she’s smiling at some daft wee muppet of a teenager, fumbling in his pockets for change, but the smile isn’t real.
“Steady on, Prayer,” I mutter, rapping my knuckle gentle on the screen, her face blurring beneath my fingertip. “Don’t be wasting that smile on eejits.”
My van’s stashed at the far end of the car park, away from the lamplight.
I’ve got a prime view of the wee petrol station’s doors and the side, plus three monitors all lashed up in the back—one on the live CCTV feed I spliced off the till, one whirring through old footage, and the laptop, full of photos of her.
Got another monitor perched on the passenger seat, showing my newest camera from the back room.
Set it up this early morning, seeing as the last one packed in.
The inside of my van glimmers like a shrine, like my own church.
Most of my cameras show her, my Prayer, but some in the back follow really bad sorts. I keep an eye on those too for a lot of the three-letter law enforcement agencies I freelance for.
I’ve been stuck here for, what, a solid four hours, and the night’s got a bad feel, heavy, all hush like lightning’s hiding up there waiting. Sera’s boss has been eyeballing her the whole shift. Rick, that pure tube. I’ve been keeping tabs on him watching her, and it’s getting under my skin.
The way his beady stare lingers too long. Him slinking back to his office to top up his bottle. Something’s off in his stance now, the way he moves.
I ken those signs. The predator’s baring its teeth.
Then—rap rap—on the window beside me.
I jerk up quick, my hand flying to turn the monitor screen away just in time. My heart skelps in my chest. Should’ve ken’d better, being that off guard.
It’s Sheriff bloody Vincent Harrow, his torch shining right into my face. I cannae see much—just the badge, the hat, and the shadow of a man hovering like a punter at a bookie’s window.
The same bastard that hurt my Prayer.
My insides coil, heat burning up my throat, rage singing in my skull. I want to rip that ugly mug off with my teeth. Want to pay him back for every bruise and sleepless night he gave my Prayer.
But I can’t. Not yet. No here.
Not unless she says so. That’s the whole bloody point of her being in Wichita.
I roll my window down, easy as you like, and paste on the smile I’ve practiced—half harmless, half cheeky, full Scottish charm.
“Sheriff,” I say. “Grand to see a friendly face out and about at this hour.”
His torchlight drops, his face coming clearer—chiseled cold eyes and a jaw stuck on permanent arsehole. I imagine those eyes fixed on Prayer, hurting her, and it’s all I can do not to launch straight through the window.
Still, I keep grinning. Keep my fists tight and out of sight.
“Don’t recall seeing you before,” he says, giving me the full CID stare. “What brings you to Wichita? And to this particular parking lot at”—he checks his watch—“eleven thirty at night?”
My smile stays easy, but my pulse is thumping like a ceilidh drum. This is him. The one who ruined her. The architect of all her scars. A hairsbreadth away and I can do hee-haw.
For now.
“Just passing through,” I say. “I tap into gigs on the road, ken? Was heading up to the motel nearby, just thought I’d grab some food first.” I nod my chin at the petrol station, casual. “They still serving?”
I shift in the seat, blocking his line on the chaos and wires sprawled behind me. No way am I letting him clock my collection dedicated to his victim. Not that he’d even recognise the lass he ruined—the blonde, curvy librarian from Kansas City that was my Prayer.
He tries to be sly, peering past me. “They’re open late.” He rests his elbow on my window like he owns the place, but his eyes are pure cop—alert, greedy, weighing risks. “You traveling alone?”
He’s close enough I could snap his wrist like driftwood and drag him against the glass before he gets near that holster. I could make him say sorry—proper—out loud.
I think of Prayer’s face if I did that. How she’d look at me. But this isn’t my vengeance to take, is it? It’s hers.
“Just me and the road.” I shoot him a grin.
He nods at the battered laptop on the seat. “Watching anything worth seeing?”
I give the same daft smile, even though the urge to smash his jaw on the dash is screaming in my head. “Just keeping an eye out for bandits. Been chibbed twice this year already.” I rap my scarred knuckles on the wheel. “Can’t be too careful, ken?”
He surveys me, like he can see my mind spinning. I curl my fingers tight, knuckles bone-white, and wonder what he really did to her. What words, what threats, what filth. The only honest evidence was her pain and rage, so powerful that it had leaked onto the dark web and found me there.
“Wichita’s been rough lately,” he finally says. “Murders. Other nasty work, too.”
“Is that right?” I keep my voice chipper, but in my head, I’m thinking: Wait till you see what’s coming for you.
“Yeah. So we keep an eye out for strangers.” He leans in slightly, a chilly smile on his face. “Especially ones who sit in dark parking lots for hours.”
So he’s been tailing me, the clever boy. Thinks he’s the wolf. No idea he’s the sheep here.
I laugh like I’m just a laddie on his holiday. “Well, Sheriff, I’m only looking for work and a warm bed. Not much bother here.”
All shite. I’m here for her, would follow her anywhere. Would torch half the state if it made her smile again.
Vincent straightens, maybe bored, maybe pretending. “All right, then. We close up this lot after hours, so you’ll want to move along soon.”
I give him an obedient nod. “Aye, nae bother, sir.”
Sir. That word feels like chewing glass.
He turns off, then tosses over his shoulder, “It would be a pity if another murder happened while you were in town. Things like that get tricky for outsiders.”
I can barely keep the real me from showing. Oh, it’ll get tricky right enough.
“You take care, Sheriff,” I say.
I don’t move until he’s out of sight round the corner. Only then do I let my breath out—a big, tensed-up thing, loaded with violence.
Grabbing the laptop, I spin round, fix my eyes on the only thing that matters—her.
And my blood chills. I freeze.
On the monitor, Rick’s got Sera pinned in the staff room. Her face says nothing, but her body’s rigid, braced as she bows near him, way too close. I know that posture. It’s not surrender; it’s calculation.
I stop breathing. Stop blinking.
She moves, quick as a weasel, going for her boot. Her knife whips up. Clever lass. But Rick slaps it away, and then he just wallops her across the cheek, sends her flying to the deck.
The world funnels down to this: that screen, that moment.
He’s laying hands on her. Touching. Hurting.
And the monster in my skull smashes its leash, roaring.
I’m out of the van before the door’s thudded. Nothing else matters but getting to her.
I storm through the dark, my boots crunching gravel. The night’s sharp, cold, but I’m burning from the inside out.
She’s mine to protect.
And Rick just made himself mine to break.