“Husband?” Greasy interjects. “I didn’t see no ring on her finger.”
I turn to him, making sure he catches the full force of my glare. “Spent a lot of time looking at her, did you?”
Greasy goes pale, and he actually takes a step back. He must be older than me. Closer to forty than thirty. But he looks like a scared child who knows he’s in trouble.
“Jesus,” Milson snaps at his son. “Get it together, Peyton.”
“It ain’t a crime to look,” he protests.
I take a step forward without ever breaking eye contact. “That depends on whose woman you’re looking at.”
My intention is anything but.
“I didn’t m-mean any d-disrespect,” Greasy stutters.
“Glad to hear it. Now, be a good boy and run along while I speak to your father.”
It’s an insulting dismissal for a grown man, but he’s smart enough to
