“I will get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.”
If it was the last thing he did, Tate would see to it that Evan got his. He wouldn’t be nice about it, either. No siree, Tate was a dirty fighter with a bloodthirsty streak a mile wide. A nightstick up the ass or stun gun to the nuts wouldn’t satisfy him. No, he’d go for Evan’s jugular. That wasn’t some fru-fru dog named Toto. It was Vita, his precious Vitamix blender. And as far as Tate was concerned, Vita wasn’t the only one on a trip to Fuckedupsville. Sam was going along for the ride. He just didn't know it yet.
Sam made his way toward the back of the car. Smart enough to not open door, he ducked his head and stared at Tate through the window. “Yes, Baby Face Dawson?”
“I would not fuck you.”
Sam shrugged, grinning. “My fuck card is plenty full, Tatey-boy.”
“I would not fuck you, Sam-I-Am,” Tate repeated, his jaw like stone, his teeth packed tight. “Not in the hall or against the wall. Not in your car or beneath the stars. Not in a club or in the tub. Not here or there. I would not fuck you anywhere.” He, however, would kill him…with a rope or poisoned soap, with a pill or with a drill, with a claw or with a saw. He’d kill him here. He’d kill him there. He’d kill him pretty much everywhere.