Torture to Her Soul(39)

I park the car in the closest spot I can find, just down the street, and feed some change into the meter when I get out. Karissa sits in the car while I do it, like she doesn't plan to come with me, but after a moment she gets out, her expression unchanged.

"We don't have to be here if you don't want to be," I say. "I'll take you home right now."

Part of me hopes she'll agree to that.

I've endured enough shit this week to go through this on top of it.

But no such luck.

"No, we're already here," she says, waving all around her. She has no idea where here is. "We might as well stay."

"If you're certain."

"I am."

I wish like hell I was.

Pressing my hand to her back, I lead her down the street, slowing as I approach the familiar deli. My eyes studiously scan the outside, instinctively searching for anything that changed since I was last around, finding it just as I remember. I reach for the door, tugging it open, the obnoxious bell on top of it jingling as I motion for Karissa to go inside.

It grates on my nerves.

The inside is unassuming—checkered floor, a dozen wooden tables, dim lighting and tall, winding counters. Glass cases take up half the front beside the register, filled with meats and cheese, a cluttered handwritten menu board hanging above it all.

A young guy tends to the lone register, helping those waiting in line, while a man steadily cuts meat a few feet to the side, his back to the customers. He's sturdy, six-feet of solid mass covered in leathery skin, his dark chaotic mess of hair flecked with quite a bit gray.

He moves fluidly, despite his age.

Cool.

Confident.

He owns the place.

He whistles loudly as he works, like an oversize dwarf right out of Snow White, the off-key tune the only noise in the place above the chatter. There are no televisions, no music, no Wi-Fi.

Just a man whistling Johnnie Ray's 'Just Walking in the Rain'.

I haven't heard the song in ages…

Karissa strolls through the deli, taking the place at the back of the line. I join her, wordlessly waiting, the sound of the casual whistling clawing at me. Every second that passes makes my knees weaker, my vision hazier, my head a throbbing mass of pain.

I'm sweating.

Aching.

I shove my hands in my pockets.

This was a bad idea.

A fucking terrible idea.

Neither of us talks during the wait. She reads the menu, scanning the dozens of options as we slowly, steadily move closer to the front.

It only takes a few minutes.

Everyone's cleared out ahead of us, only two or three waiting behind us. The guy working the register looks up. He can't be much older than Karissa, and he seems to only have eyes for her. He grins the kind of grin that says he'd like to take her to dinner then have her for dessert afterward, as he says enthusiastically, "what can I do you for?"

I want to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat, rip his fucking voice box out for even talking to her.

In another place, I might.

At another time, I probably would.

I would gut the boy for having the balls to even think about flirting with her.

But in my state, the pesky little punk could probably take me out.

Pathetic.

Karissa returns his smile before glancing my way, expecting me to answer that question. I stare at the guy working, watching his expression change when he takes note of mine, and clear my throat when I turn to Karissa.

I wipe the sweat from my brow. Here goes nothing. "Order whatever you'd like, sweetheart."

The words aren't even entirely from my lips when silence falls over the deli, the meat slicer pausing mid-stroke, the whistling halting in the middle of a note. I can feel the abrupt shift in the air, coldness sweeping through, like the sun vanished behind some thick clouds, blanketing the world in the kind of shadows where men like me live.

I shiver.

I can feel eyes on me. I don't move from where I'm standing, merely shifting my gaze down the counter. Lips that whistled so exuberantly a second ago are now pressed into a thin line of contempt, like the man's forcing them together to keep from saying something.

His back's no longer to me.

I can only imagine what he's thinking. His eyes are harsh and critical, the recognition running deep but none of it is sentimental.

Karissa obliviously starts ordering—an Italian sub special for her—before she addresses me. "Naz, what are you getting?"

"Nothing," I say, staring at the man a moment longer before turning to the guy at the register. "Nothing for me, so just her Italian."

He rings it up and I quickly pay, not waiting for my change. I just slap a twenty down on the counter before turning my back and shuffling away, slipping into the chair at an empty table in the middle of the deli. Karissa joins me, not saying anything, until her sub is ready and it's set in front of her on the table.