The dimensions of his pupils are enormous. On top of being an idiot, he’s a druggy.
I level the blade. “Mate, pick—”
In one quick thrust, the man pushes his eyeball into the razor. His body goes still as the blade no doubt cuts through the few brain cells he has.
My eyebrows stitch together. “Och, that was unexpected.”
I remove the razor, and he slips to the ground.
The barber’s gaze drops from my eyes to the straight razor in my hand.
“I’ve known ya for years.” I brush a hand over my beard while the blade drips a red liquid in my other hand. His reflection stands behind me in the mirror while I crane my neck and inspect the half-complete job.
Barber forks nervous fingers through his disheveled hair. “He threatened my life if I talked.”
I open the silver top off the Barbicide and grab a clean razor from the blue disinfecting liquid. “Figured as much.”
I wait a few beats.
Justice taught me that too.
To be patient—to get my heid outta my fecking arse—is wit she said. To apologize, she said.
That word was never a part of my vocabulary until she came colliding into my life.
The ginger hesitates. As I’ve said, he’s known me five solid years.
His Adam’s apple bounces. “I’m sooorry.”
“Nae, ye’re not a sorry lad. Unlucky. Not sorry.” Craning my neck, I inspect the barber’s craftsmanship while pawing my beard. A jagged line arcs up, ruining the clean edge. The hair around it is sparse and uneven.
“I’m sorry,” he says over and over while I shear the entire length of my jaw. Goodbye, old friend, I tell my beard, I’ll be seeing ye again, though.
“Should I?” The barber juts his chin toward the clean blade in my hand.
“Nae.” I glare at him through the mirror. A few minutes later, I run my palms over my smooth face, giving a nod of satisfaction. I open a plastic compartment where he’ll often grab a steamy, hot towel to wipe my clean-shaven face.
“Feels good,” I sigh, turning around.
“Brody, I’m truly—”
My barber’s last bout of apologies dies. With the precision and swiftness of a cobra, my hand strikes out. The razor glides across his throat, and he drops to the floor. As the barber chokes on blood, I mutter, “Ye’re not a sorry lad, just unlucky and deid.”
Damned this messy business. My DNA is all over. I toss both bloodied straight razors into the Barbicide—that’ll combust. A fire will do. I reach down again to the dead stranger and search for his wallet.
“Did ye wait for me to arrive, aye? Or did my mate, here, feck me over?” I’m a creature of habit, only relaxing around my clan—or Justice.
Whenever I’d visited the barber, I gave him approximately twenty minutes to clear out the place. He was paid well for this.
I pat down the druggy. There’s nae wallet in his jeans. I press my fingers into the pocket of the stranger’s linen shirt and pull out a photo that’d sober the town drunk—a picture of me—and Justice.
“Shite,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Who sent ye?”
Is the stranger from Justice’s past, or have I tangled her into the clan’s trouble?
Nae hesitation, I’d die for my clan—Erika MacFarland included. But for a pretty face, nae. I can’t say that I’ve ever met a lass who differed much from the one before her. On occasion, I have played the knight when I saw a guy roughing up a woman. That’s just tossing my weight around. For a pretty face, I’d take a hit to the beard, followed by claiming the life of the guy who tested me.
But I reckon I need to reevaluate a few things, assuming this dead bampot, the idiot, had a target on Justice too. Granted, the bonny lass is different than any other woman I’ve crossed. Not saying I’d die for her. She ain’t clan. But for Justice, I’d take a bullet. Maybe even two.