Page 93 of Brutal
“I don’t make scenes.”
“For your sake, I hope you don’t.”
He opens the door and gestures me inside. He says nothing as he nods to his brother and then leaves.
Samson sits behind a large desk, jacket off, no tie, and shirt sleeves rolled up showing off his impressively corded forearms. I stop my breath from catching.
He raises his eyebrows for a split second.
He didn’t expect me here tonight.
Good.
“Delaney.”
“Samson.” I walk straight toward him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t come around the desk.
I stop just short of it. I’m close but not close enough.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
I lean forward slightly and rest my hands on the edge of his desk. “No hello? No ‘nice to see you?’ No ‘gee, that was a great fuck we had’?”
He squirms—only slightly—in his chair. Good. That got to him.
“So I was looking through my notes,” I say casually.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “I’ve warned you.”
I ignore him. “And it seems like you didn’t expect him that night. Am I right?”
“Delaney—”
“You weren’t supposed to be dealing with Victor Halstead,” I continue.
“That’s not a question you should be asking,” he says.
“It’s not a question,” I reply. “It’s an observation.”
He stands.
The shift in height changes everything.
The room.
The air.
The distance between us.
I don’t move.
I don’t step back.
He comes around the desk and stops in front of me. He’s close but he doesn’t touch me.
I feel it anyway.
