#Chapter6
A thick eyebrow lifted. /"Not bullshit./" He waved to the chair again. I ignored it again. /"I don't usually drink. I’d had a bad day and one too many with a friend. My judgement was clouded and for that, I will apologize. If I was in a sound state of mind, it wouldn't have happened — you were drunk. But so was I. I gave in to you and that shouldn't have happened. But make no mistake, you instigated./"
/"Bullshit,/" I repeated. /"You’re a fucking liar./"
Breathing heavily, hands balled into a fist, it was his lack of reaction that bothered me more than anything. He didn't rise up to meet my anger, as some would, or jump to the defensive. Instead, the corners of his lips tugged up into the most subtle of smiles.
/"I’m not lying and you know it. You couldn't have been that drunk. You remembered who I was. Had to, or you wouldn't be here./"
With a lack of defence for that, I glared at him. /"I left my phone at your place. When can I get it?/"
/"You left your wallet too. You need to be more mindful with your things, sweetheart./"
/"Fuck you and your pet names,/" I spat in disgust. /"Look, last night was a mistake. Nothing more. I’m not gay and you’re — well, you’re you. I just want my shit. Are you going to give them to me or are you going to be a dick about it?/"
If he was offended, he didn't show it. His eyes gained an odd twinkle. Eventually he gave a nod. /"You can either wait until tomorrow and pick them up here, or I can give you my address and you can grab them later on this evening./"
/"I need it tonight,/" I said. /"Give me the address./"
With a nod, he planted his palms on the table and rose from his seat like smoke. And he had a way of filling the room. It seemed to shrink before him, as though bowing down to him, and as his shoulders squared, hands smoothing down the front of his back button up, the atmosphere itself seemed to warp. Rippled. Charged. Polluted beneath the confidence that struck his every move.
/"I finish at four,/" he said. /"I’ll sort you the address. But while you’re here, do you want a reading? Free for you, of course./" He offered another one of those disturbingly charming smiles, waving towards the table. The candles were seated on a black velvet cloth, and in the dead centre, which I had missed entirely, sat a wooden box.
Scoffing in reply, I shook my head. /"You don't really believe in all that mumbo jumbo bullshit, do you?/"
Deacon only shrugged, but his amusement seemed to grow. /"My mother does. She taught me to read the cards from an early age./"
Which was sooo not what I asked.
/"But do you believe?/" I pressed, offering the box a filthy look. /"Or is it all just bullshit?/"
/"Language,/" he chided gently. /"But with tarot cards, it’s not so simple. They have a way of being accurate whether you believe or not. You sure you don’t want one? Real or not, they’re harmless./"
/"It’s fucked up./" I met his gaze. /"I don't want one. I want my phone and then I don't ever want to see you again. Capisce?/"
/"Okay./" Pursing his lips, he gave a nod. /"I can respect that. The offer is there in case you change your mind./"
/"I won’t./"
Making his way around the table, he brushed past me, stepping out the doorway I had just entered, beckoning at me to follow. He carried himself in such a way that he appeared much larger than he actually was, and it was only as he passed me that I realised that he was actually shorter than me. Maybe five nine, give or take?
With little choice but to follow, I fell in step behind him. His strides were long, each one woven with precision and fell without sound, and I had to double my speed to keep up with him. But then again, my body felt as though a blender had given it a whirl and then spat out the remains. A snail would have dusted me if given half a chance.
/"This is the one I told you about,/" the woman behind the desk crowed as we approached. Her eyes flickered past her son, landing on me. Her mouth formed a considering pinch. /"But maybe not yet. He’s incomplete./"
/"Mom, not now,/" Deacon breathed, rolling his eyes. Halting once he reached the counter, he held out a hand. /"Can you pass me a pen and paper, please?/"
Humming lowly, finally diverting her attention from where it had been flaying me alive, she gave a nod and reached behind her, fumbling along one of the thin bookshelves that neighboured a closed door.
/"Would you like to try our tea?/" she asked after managing to scrounge up a notepad. /"Each one holds their own unique quality./"
The disgust must have shown on my face because her eyes hardened, the lines around her mouth deepening as her mouth thinned out into a slash.
/"No thank you./" I tried for a polite smile, for the sake of the manners my mama had installed into me, but it felt faker than Barbie’s boob job. /"I don't drink tea./"
It wasn't a lie. Apart from when I went out drinking, water and fizzy pop were the only liquids I drank. Juice was rancid and tea or coffee tasted like boiling, diluted piss water. But even if I was a caffeine addict, I would have declined the offer; drinking a creepy ladies tea sounded like a great way to pass on a curse to my great, great grandkids.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Deacon cut her off, tearing a segment of paper from the notebook and flicking it against the counter. It landed with a thump. Earned him a glare, to which he flashed that endearing grin. Then he held it out to me.
/"My address is on there. You can swing by later to pick your things up. I’ve also put my number. You can use somebody else's cell to phone me before you come to make sure I’m home, if you like./"
/"Pass,/" I said flatly after snatching the paper and shoving it deep into the pocket of my borrowed jeans. I didn't want to talk to the fucker now. Why the fuck would I want his number? The prick was just damn lucky I didn't set it as an ad for granny dating in the local paper.