And then Lark is sliding off the booth. She stands and hikes her ridiculously huge bag up her shoulder.
“Well, this was fun. Gotta run,” she says as she beams a smile bright as a feckin’ laser at Sloane and Rowan. When it lands on me, that smile feels like it could slash my skin open. “See you at home.”
And then she’s striding out of Butcher & Blackbird, her energy trailing after her like a comet.
Rowan laughs and shakes his head before he takes a sip of his drink. “Unless you want to be bailing her out of jail, you’d better go get your wife.”
I lean back in my seat and tap the ring on my index finger against my glass as I try not to look toward the door. My focus lands on Sloane instead, who masks her smile with a bite of food.
A sinking feeling coats my chest. “What are you on about?”
“Go get her before she knifes Claire, you bellend,” he says.
“Nah … she …” I look toward the door and then to Sloane, her eyes full of sparks. “What …?”
“Listen,” she says, laying her palm flat against the table as she finally meets my eyes. That bloody dimple flashes next to her lip. It’s like her bat signal for mischief. “Lark Montague might be cute as a button, all shiny happy ra-ra cheerleader shit, but bitch is fucking vindictive. I love her to death and beyond, but let’s just say that particular unicorn doesn’t shit rainbows.”
I still can’t reconcile her words with the woman I think I know. “That Lark …? Let’s cover everything in sparkles and sing a song Lark …? You’re telling me she has a legit spiteful streak? Like … she’s not just a walking catastrophe but on purpose malicious …?”
They both laugh. Fucking laugh.
“Lachlan,” Sloane says, shaking her head, “I’m going to give you this one because you’re hopeless and I pity you.”
“Thanks …”
“Lark Montague doesn’t just have a ‘spiteful streak.’ She takes the idea of retribution and makes it into a full-on glitter parade of vengeance.”
Rowan points his fork toward her. “She rigged a glitter bomb in my car for the time I made Sloane cry and told her to go home. I spent a grand getting the car detailed and I still find glitter on a daily basis.”
“When we were in boarding school, this girl named Macie Roberts called one of Lark’s friends a ‘skanky cum bucket.’ So Lark got into Macie’s room and spent an entire night writing I’m a skanky cum bucket in fabric paint on literally every item of clothing Macie had, even her underwear.”
“Tell him about the sequins.”
“Sequins?” I ask as the two snicker.
Sloane’s brows hike as she pushes a bit of food around her plate. “A few years ago, Lark was living with her boyfriend at the time, a guy named Andrew. One weekend while Lark was out of town, he and their mutual friend Savannah hooked up at Lark and Andrew’s apartment,” she says as an irrational tidal wave of anger sweeps through me. “A couple weeks later, Lark broke into Savannah’s house while she was sleeping and spelled cheating bitch on her face with Gorilla Glue and sequins. She stole Savannah’s bottle of nail polish remover and her phone and computer so she had no choice but to go out and buy more to get the glue off. Even once the sequins were gone, you could still see the marks. It was pretty awesome.”
I can’t deny I kind of love the ballsiness of that plan. I almost smile, but then I catch the exchange of a dark look between Sloane and Rowan. “What is it?”
“Well … Lark will neither confirm nor deny her involvement, but two months later, Andrew died in a freak fireworks ‘accident,’” Sloane says with air quotes.
“You think Lark … murdered someone …? That Lark?”
Sloane shrugs.
“Don’t know why you’re still sitting here when she’s probably slicing Claire’s face off to make into a kite, but it’s your bail money, I guess,” Rowan says, and in a heartbeat I’m halfway to the door.
The sound of Rowan and Sloane’s laughter follows me out to the street.
I lurch to a stop on the sidewalk, craning my neck to look past pedestrians. I listen for Lark’s voice, which always carries like chimes on the wind.
Nothing.
I pivot a single spin before I follow my gut and head east.
Phone clutched so tight in my hand it might snap, I bring up Lark’s number where it’s saved to favorites and tap it.
Straight to voicemail.
“Feckin’ banjaxed bollocks,” I hiss, and the memory of her laugh slaps me. She would make fun of me for saying that. Tease me until I’m forced to turn away to hide the smirking grin that begs to break free every time she pushes my buttons. Then she’d fire some snarky comment at me about Budget Batman and put her walls back up, just like I try to keep mine from falling.
But this time, the problem isn’t the barriers between us. It’s not what will happen if we let each other in.
It’s what she’s letting out.
I take off running. She can’t be far.
I don’t know if it’s instinct, or fate, or dumb feckin’ luck, but I glance down an alley and catch a glimpse of her just before I speed right past it. Lark is storming down the narrow passage, her bag whacking against her round arse.
My heart rate spikes with the thrill of chasing her down. Fortunately, it’s not hard to sneak up on her with the slew of expletives she mutters to herself as she stalks down the alley.
I grip Lark by the throat and break the cadence of her marching steps. Air whooshes from her lungs when I push her back against the brick wall, her eyes locked with mine, shocked and fierce.
“What the fuck?” Lark grips my arm and tries to pull my hand away, but I don’t budge. “Let me go.”
“I don’t think so, duchess.”
“Stop with the fucking duchess already.”
“Stop with the chasing down random women to kill them and slice their faces off.”
“Random my ass,” she snarks. Lark’s nose scrunches, her pulse a fierce thrum beneath my palm. “And she could live without a face.”
My head tilts as I take in the details of Lark’s expression, from the outrage in her narrowed eyes to the blush of her full lips to the scar at her hairline, a memento of our first meeting that carves a slice of regret into my memories whenever I look at it too closely. “I find it interesting that your first objection is about the randomness and not the face-slicing.”
“I was arguing sequentially.”
“Sure you were. And what was your plan, exactly? Because something makes me think you weren’t about to invite Claire over for popcorn and a Keanu movie marathon.”
The glare Lark drills into my eyes is nothing short of lethal. “Do. Not. Say her name. In the same sentence. As Keanu Reeves. Ever.”
“You seem to be glossing over the main point of what I said.”
“You have a point? I just thought you were being a bossy asshole.”
I manage to repress a frustrated growl, but only barely, and Lark can tell. I’m convinced there’s little more that gives Lark Montague true delight than slithering her way beneath my self-control and snapping my restraints free. “What the hell was your plan, Lark?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Maybe follow her home. Break into her house—”
“Christ—”
“Rig up a few cans of spray adhesive and put a glitter bomb in her closet I guess.” The devious glint in Lark’s eyes becomes downright maniacal. “Can you imagine that woman with a tricked-out, sparkly wardrobe? I think that would be her personal hell.”
“Actually, I can, since my brother said that you did something similar to his car recently. Seems like you have a bit of a glitter psycho streak going, duchess.”
Lark glares at me.