The Bride Collector Read Online Free PDF Page B

boy was deeply disturbed. Perhaps mentally ill, though more likely just rotten to the core. An intervention
     was both reasonable and necessary if the boy was to have any hope of entering adulthood well adjusted.
    Quinton stuck his hand out and prevented his escape. “Not so fast, young lad. I asked you a question and I do expect an answer.”
    He shoved the boy back, gripping his shoulder.
    “Ow! Let go!”
    “Don’t be a baby,” Quinton said calmly. Then he added, “lad,” because the English word gave the whole sentence a proper ring.
     And this was a very proper occasion. “Tell me why you thought you had the right to cry. If you give me the right answer, I
     might let you off with a warning.”
    The boy struggled against Quinton’s grip. “Let me go, you freak!” The boy’s mouth twisted. Did he have no sense at all? Did
     he possess even the faintest awareness of whom he was dealing with?
    Quinton squeezed hard and leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to yell. He spoke in a stern whisper. “Someone’s going to
     put a bullet in your head one of these days. I would, under different circumstances. You’re not the only snot in the world,
     and the truth is, most people would rather kill you than listen to your whining little hole.”
    The boy stared up at him in shock. A dark circle spread over his groin. Apparently, he hadn’t drained his bladder quite so
     completely after all.
    “Be very careful what you tell them. They won’t believe I hit you anyway, your face is already beet red from acting like a
     baby. But if you do go out there and tell them I hit you, I might sneak into your room when you’re asleep and pull your tongue
     out.”
    But the boy did what most humans do in times of crisis. He became himself. He started to scream bloody murder.
    Quinton’s hand moved with calculated strength, slamming open-palmed against the noisy brat’s jaw. Had he not been gripping
     the boy’s shoulder, it would have been enough force to send Joshie across the room, but not enough to break his jaw or neck.
    Crack!
    “Bless you, boy, for you are a sinner.”
    It was enough to shut the boy up. And shut him down. He shoved the boy’s limp body into the corner, wedged between the wall
     and the urinal.
    Satisfied that he’d gotten through, Quinton crossed to the mirror, adjusted his collar, tugged each cuff so that his shirt
     showed just the right measure of white at the cuffs, smoothed his left eyebrow, which had somehow ruffled during the commotion,
     and left the bathroom.
    No one in the noisy restaurant gave him a second glance. The whole room might have stood and cheered to learn that Joshie
     had fallen asleep at the urinal. If they all kept their fingers crossed long enough, the boy would one day fall asleep at
     the wheel, crash through a bridge railing, and plummet into a river to meet an icy death.
    Quinton felt doubly good with his accomplishment. Although he hadn’t been able to eat every bite of his steak, he had been
     able to help both Joshie and the rest of the brats in this establishment without so much as raising an eyebrow from one of
     them. Except Josh, of course. And he’d raised more than an eyebrow on the lad.
    Quinton walked between the tables, gathering only the casual looks of appreciation offered to the best looking. So few realized
     just how many psychotic members of society walked past them at the grocery store or through a restaurant each and every day.
     What would frighten them even more was how many ordinary people were mentally sick and didn’t know it.
    Quinton winked at the waitress on his way out, then thanked Anthony for the wonderful meal. The hostess greeted him kindly
     at the front door.
    “Was everything to your satisfaction?”
    “Yes. Yes, Cynthia, it was. Do you happen to have any sanitized toothpicks?”
    She glanced at the clear dispenser full of toothpicks, then reached under the counter and pulled out a box in which each toothpick
     was