“Funny thing about pennies,” I muse, turning it over in my hand. “They’re everywhere, but most people don’t bother picking them up anymore. Too insignificant. Too worthless.”
Junior frowns, his unease briefly giving way to confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I hold the penny up, letting the light catch it for just a moment before I slip it into my pocket. “People underestimate the little things, Junior. The ones they think don’t matter. But they can change everything.”
His brow furrows, but I don’t give him time to respond. I step away, turning toward the other side of the yard with a casual wave of my hand.
“Watch your back,” I call over my shoulder. “And don’t drop the soap.”
CHAPTER 27
GHOST
I repress a laugh as I walk away from Junior.
Manipulating him was too easy. The lack of challenge would be off-putting if I didn’t need him. That young man is a clusterfuck of anxiety and psychosis, wrapped in paranoia. Basically, he’s an explosive waiting to detonate… and I’ve lit the fuse.
With a smile, I head toward the bleachers and shove my hands in my pockets. My fingers brush the penny, the cool metal a reminder of the tasks ahead of me. All of them leading to having Geneva in my grasp.
Heavy footsteps reach me, the grass underneath his boots failing to muffle his gait entirely. I stop, but I don’t turn around to confront the man following me. Not only is my behavior dismissive, but it shows that I don’t consider him enough of a threat to face him.
“What do you want, Skinner?”
Frank “Skinner” Burns stops walking, his voice dripping with mockery that’s as oily as his hair. “I wanted to meet the famous Ghost.”
“If by ‘meet me,’ you mean you want to put your dick in my ass, you can forget it.” I look at him over my shoulder with my brows raised. “Exit only, bro.”
His face contorts, his eyes turning black with malice. Although he leans toward me, he won’t attack. I haven’t pissed him off enough. And he hasn’t finished delivering his message.
Even so, he’s afraid of me.
I would be too. I’m fucking crazy. Not to mention, my intelligence supersedes his. It’s embarrassing, really.
“Shut the fuck up,” Skinner says.
“Really? That’s the best you can come up with?” I roll my eyes and turn to face him. “You’re a rapist, a man used to taking what he wants. Are you pissed because you’re the one who’s getting fucked without consent now? That’s pretty hypocritical.”
Skinner clenches his fists and the veins in his neck throb, rapidly pulsing against the skin.
Hmm… looks like I struck a nerve.
I quickly run my gaze over him, taking in every detail, every nuance of his body language. The ink on his forearm snatches my attention, giving me the most insight into my opponent. The tattoo is a vine that coils around his arm, with thorns that “pierce” the skin, drawing blood.
Interesting.
“I don’t need consent,” he says. “They all give it to me willingly.”
“Sure, Skinner. Sell your bullshit to someone else ʼcause I’m not buying it.” I turn to walk away but stop at his next words.
“She’ll be the next one begging me to fuck her.”
My entire body tenses with rage. It’s as though every inch of my skin is stretching, building with the need to act, to annihilate this motherfucker. The very idea of Skinner touching Geneva fills me with such disgust that I can barely fucking talk.
“Don’t.” The word comes out quiet, but it’s full of warning.
“I heard you were Dr. Andrews’s new assignment. I know she’s been spending a lot of time here, seeing you.” Skinner gives me a sly smile. “Maybe I’ll see her too.”
I draw in a deep breath, battling my wrath as it washes over me, burning me from the inside. I weigh the pros and cons of ending his life right now. Unfortunately, his death could prevent me from seeing Geneva the next time she visits. While I might not be able to attack him, that doesn’t mean I can’t destroy him right now.
And murder him later.
“Did she mention me in any of your sessions?” Skinner asks. “We have history, you know.”
When I release a deep breath, I’m completely in control, a master of my murdering tendencies. And ready to fuck him up.
I smile. His gaze flicks to my scar, the way it’s pulled taut, making it grotesque. Then he looks me in the eyes. Whatever he sees there has his pupils contracting.
“No, Dr. Andrews didn’t mention you.” I wave a hand in dismissal. “We’re always too busy talking about shit that’s actually important.”
“She’ll mention me soon enough.”
I maintain my smile while grinding my molars. “You should have a session with her. It’d be good for you to talk about how you’re a closet homosexual who rapes women to hide the fact.”
He jerks back, his dark hair gliding along his shoulders. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your tattoo. It represents your issues.”
“No, it’s not—”
“Vines are associated with entrapment. Being bound and powerless, the way you feel about your urges.” I purse my lips in thought. “The thorns are the deeply rooted pain you experienced both mentally and emotionally. Someone must’ve found out and ridiculed you for it. And the blood… That’s my favorite tell. It’s shame. You want to bleed onto your victims so they’re smeared with it too, and you’re not alone with your humiliation.”
I lean toward him, my tone filled with the same darkness that haunts him. “In reality, Skinner, that tattoo isn’t a warning for people not to come near. It’s a mural showing how fucked up you are.”
His breath comes out hard and fast, like he’s just run a marathon. The whites of his eyes are stark, and his pupils are blown wide with horror and fury.
I straighten, smiling once again. There are many ways to fuck with a person, and this is one of the more enjoyable methods.
Skinner moves with a burst of rage, his fists swinging wildly as he closes the distance between us. I step back, sidestepping his first blow with ease, my movements fluid and controlled. He’s all energy and no strategy.
“Is that all you’ve got, Skinner?” I ask when his knuckles whistle past my face. “I’m thinking it’s more challenging to fight someone that you can’t overpower with brute force.”
His growl is guttural, animalistic, as he lunges again. His fist grazes my ribs but does little more than stroke my amusement. I’m lighter on my feet, faster, and I know how to use his emotions against him.
A glint of metal winks at me as his hand dips to his waistband. It’s a crude, jagged piece of steel wrapped in jagged cloth, that’s aimed at my torso. A shiv.
Well, fuck.
I pivot sharply, the blade missing its mark but slicing into my biceps. I grunt with pain, blood now clinging to the fabric of my sleeve. Skinner snarls, emboldened by the hit, and comes at me again, slashing wildly. Men from all over the yard rush toward us, including both inmates and security guards.
“Temper, temper.” I sing-song, keeping my amused expression despite the burning in my arm. I duck under his next swing. The crowd around us roars now, a mix of jeers and cheers, their energy feeding Skinner’s frenzy.