Mr and Mrs Sim ⋆ s.jake

Chapter 17

Niki's pov

I rode my motorcycle all night in the pouring rain.

It didn't matter that my helmet felt like dead weight or that the black dye in my hair was running down my temples. Even if the rain killed me, I wouldn't stop until I got the answers I needed.

What was racing through my head wasn't stupid emotions; it was disappointment in myself.

I never made a pact with the devil to lose my humanity. I experienced the devil's punishment and then lost it. The nuance is there.

After that, I swore on my worthless life to never feel anything again. Seven years later, I was alive and killing people for money. My life had value to me, and I was even reputed to be Satan's son. Guilt had no place in this business.

"It'll be 56 dollars."

"Here chica." I handed her three bills.

Gasoline and alcohol — enough to burn down an entire forest or, more simply, to ride a few extra miles and deal with a hangover the next morning.

She giggled as her hand touched mine. I could have sworn there were droplets of blood on my money, but she didn't notice. My eyes followed her movement as she put the bills away in the cash drawer.

"You're not underage, are you?"

"Nah." I lied.

She cocked an eyebrow. My lie seemed unbelievable. But I didn't give a shit about the rules of a girl barely older than me; all she had to do was ask before I paid. Biatch. I reached for my bottle, but she held it back. My patience had limits, especially with my dye soaking wet on my leather jacket.

"C'mon. Give it to me."

"No !" She answered with a thick Aussie accent.

A cold sweat broke out.

No, it couldn't be her; this viper looked nothing like Christopher. I was just paranoid — it was no better. But this stranger was a fake redhead with long, straight hair, just like when I'd let Yeji go.

Fuck...

My mouth was dry, and that liter of tequila seemed to be calling my name. I leaned slightly over the counter, voice lowering.

"I'm nineteen. Sounds close enough to you?"

She didn't flinch. Her fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, nails tapping softly against the glass. The vein in my neck pulsed as she held the tequila hostage. I shut my eyes. Hitting a girl was wrong by all societal codes, but I thought it was unfair and more feminist to treat women like men: by punching them when needed.

"Close enough isn't legal, mate."

Her lips curled into a satisfied, almost playful smile. She loved seeing me lose my self-control. I could feel the frustration brewing in the back of my throat. But where some would have given up, I didn't. I wasn't about to lose my cool, though.

"Look." I murmured, lowering my eyes to the right-hand pocket of my jacket. "Just hand me the bottle and everything will be fine."

The gleam of my gun held my attention and drew my hand. She sized me up, her gaze searching over the counter.

"Everything's not going to be fine." She nodded toward my jacket, pupils narrowing. "You look like you've got enough trouble on your hands without adding alcohol to the mix." The wet, dark streaks on the leather must have been obvious.

I chuckled, slamming both palms on the only physical barrier separating us. She took a step back but didn't break eye contact. I had to admit, that cashier's confidence was solid.