If you hit someone in the back of the head hard enough, you can pop their eyeballs right out of their face.

Or at least, that’s what I read somewhere. And that’s what I’m thinking as I shuffle my tarot deck, glaring at the sketchy-looking asshole thirty feet away as he pours alcohol from a flask into his soda and takes a long gulp. He wipes away the excess from his chin with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. A burp quickly follows, and then he shoves half his hot dog into his fuck-ugly gob before he takes another swig.

I could whack that big ol’ egghead so hard his marbles spring right out of their sockets.

And the woman sitting across from me? I bet she wouldn’t mind one bit.

I tamp down a dark grin and hope to fuck she hasn’t noticed the devious glint in my expression. But even despite the murdery vibes I’m probably giving off, and the distractions of Silveria Circus beyond the open door of my tarot tent, her attention seems stuck on the cards, all her concentration glued to them as I shuffle. There’s no light at all in her eyes, one of them rimmed with a fading black bruise.

Blood surges in my veins as I force my gaze not to creep back to the man. Her man.

When her attention finally lifts from the repetitive motion of my hands, and she starts twisting in her seat to catch sight of him, I abruptly stop shuffling to slap the deck down on the table. She startles more than seems normal, just like I thought she would. Just like I hoped she wouldn’t.