Page 73 of My Heart Still Beats
As much as I’ve tried to forget, the memories are fresh. You don’t forget being spattered with a man’s blood. You don’t forget the sight of human teeth in a fucking plastic bag.
You don’t forget the sight of someone plunging a knife into a man’s stomach.
You don’t forget the gasping sound of a man taking his last breath.
And you don’t forget the smell. The smell of death.
Not of rot. That comes later.
But death itself has a scent—a sickening, nauseating scent.
That’s some serious shit that brands itself into you, becomes a part of you.
No matter what you do, how many drinks you have, how many women you fuck—that stays with you forever.
I shoot my Wild Turkey and push the glass toward the bartender. “One more.”
The barkeep raises his eyebrows. “How many have you had, Mr. Black?”
“Does it matter? I’m paying premium price for it. Give me another.”
I down it and push the glass toward him again.
“Mr. Black?”
“What?”
“There’s a woman here—one of the bachelorettes.”
“So?”
“I think I know her. A tall drink of water with dark hair, looks Latina?”
Tessa Logan. He’s talking about Tessa Logan.
I absently curl my hands into fists. “What about her?”
“She’s one hot piece of ass.”
I rise then, grab the bartender by the collar. “You don’t talk about her that way. You don’t talk about any woman that way, but especially not her.”
His eye twitches. “What do you think you’re going to do about it?”
“I’ll fucking bury you.”
“We may not be in the U.S., but we still have laws here in Jamaica.” He keeps his voice steady, despite the fact that I’m still holding his collar.
“Do I look like I give a damn about laws?”
“I know you don’t.” He smiles—fuckingsmiles. “In fact, Mr. Black, I know a lot of things.”
Jesus fuck. Who is this guy?
“Enlighten me.” I loosen my fist from his collar and let him go. “What do you think you know?”
“I know you’re not the philanthropist you claim to be.”
I scoff. “We give our fair share to charity, but I never claimed to be a philanthropist.”
