Page 98 of The Carnage We Keep

“Look, I don’t want to get into it,” I sigh. “But that fucking man⁠—”

“Nope,” he grunts. “Not getting involved.”

I huff.

“And no, I must have neglected to bring a firearm with me to get boba tea,” he growls, smirking slightly.

“Damn.”

I let my gaze openly stab past Adrik this time, boring laser holes in the back of Lamiano’s skull and, hopefully, right into the vapid, pretty face of the blonde Barbie that he’s talking to.

Aka Vivienne Bellandi, the cunt he was out to dinner with that night at Christopher’s when I swung by to fuck with him.

Ah, good times.

Adrik exhales. “I’m not going to be able to stop you from barging in there without physically restraining you, am I?”

“Pretty adorable that you think physically restraining me would stop me.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his chiseled jawline. “Okay, am I coming with you?”

“Nope!” I say with thousand-watt fake cheer. “All good.”

“Bella—”

“I just have to use the ladies' room!” I shrug. “You go on back to campus. I’ll catch up with you later.”

This is why I love Adrik. If I’d asked him to come with me he would have, even if it meant doing something insane like fighting the whole bar. Conversely, he doesn’t push it when you tell him you’re fine. So after he tells me not to get arrested, he just sighs and strides off down the sidewalk back to his motorcycle.

It’s not jealousy. That is not what I feel curdling inside of me like poison as I yank open the heavy door to the old pub and walk into the dim space. Because I don’t think of him even a little in ways that would even lead to jealousy.

Obviously.

I’m positive I’ve never thought of anyone like that. So instead, I use other vocab. Words like offended. Insulted. Disrespected.

I mean, what if people found out we were married and saw him parading around town like some shameless floozy, having drinks with another woman?

Absolutely not. I have a reputation.

Like, have a little dignity, dickhead. A little restraint. Maybe the faintest awareness that you’re a married man.

But no.

Apparently, I married a slut.

It’s dark inside The Seven Bells, a couple of flickering votive candles dancing on the bar and at a few scattered tables. Damiano and his skank are sitting at the far end of the bar, in an extra-dim corner.

How romantic.

The “REE! REE! REE!” sound effect as the knife stabs into Janet Leigh during the shower scene of Psycho plays loudly in my head.

But I bide my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I glance at the back hallway that leads to the restrooms, idly wondering if it's time to change my tampon.

Then my moment arrives.

Lamiano stands from his stool and disappears down that same hallway, presumably to use the men’s room.