by RC Boldt
Out here, amidst the surveillance and in the world of facial recognition, I’m easily dismissed. A still tipsy sex worker poses no threat. Especially one with blue hair, wearing a black minidress the size of a Band-Aid and gloves in the same color that reach her elbows, along with sky-high stilettos.
It’s the funny quality about humans. We often don’t detect what’s right in front of us, especially when it’s blatantly obvious. We tend to overlook those who don’t appear they’re trying to hide anything. The ones who seem to be the most conspicuous.
The elevator pauses at the ninth floor—one below where I’ve departed—and opens to reveal a slightly older couple. The woman, in an expensive copper-colored pantsuit paired with black designer slingback heels, gapes at me. Her husband, on the other hand, tailored from head to toe in Tom Ford, regards me much like I’d imagine a starving lion might regard a wounded gazelle.
It would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetic. Money might bring fame and allow many to remain untouchable for their sins, but it doesn’t guarantee happiness. Contentment.
Once the doors close and the elevator shifts to descend, I exaggerate my surprise at the movement, lurching unsteadily in the man’s direction.
“Oops.” I let out a giggle and snap my gum. Splaying my palms against his chest, I fake an attempt to steady myself. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Hands moving to my hips, he lets them linger far too long. His wife huffs in irritation yet doesn’t say a word. What a testament to the holy sanctity of marriage.
“Had quite a night, huh?” His question is directed to my cleavage.
“Hmm, you could say that,” I say coyly. I pay close attention to the lights indicating our descent by floor levels as they’re reflected on the metallic wall at his back.
When the elevator dings, alerting us of our arrival on the lobby level, I wobble again, and his hands tighten on me. “Why don’t you let me help you out, at least until you feel steady on your feet?”
“Harold, I hardly think—”
He cuts his wife off with a sharp glare before turning back to me. I trace a gloved finger along the buttons of his shirt and coo. “And they say chivalry’s dead.”
I allow him to guide me out of the elevator, positioning myself just so to prevent the cameras in the elevator from detecting my features. The distorted reflective walls won’t be enough for anyone to go on if—and it’s a big if—they decide to investigate Hesson’s death. It’s doubtful, though.
The bastards who run in these circles prefer to lie low. When one of them bites the dust, regardless of how suspect the circumstances may be, they’re more likely to grease the necessary palms to classify it as a clean-cut suicide or innocuous death.
As Harold guides me toward the lobby doors leading to the lamplit sidewalk, I murmur, “Maybe I just need some fresh air.”
“Harold—” The wife starts yapping again, but he ignores her as he guides me through the doors and into the crisp night air. His arm at my back, hand low on my hip, he grazes his fingertips over my pelvic bone.
“Thanks,” I say, drawing in a deep exaggerated breath of air. “I think I’m good now.” I detach myself from his hold, sure to face away from the mounted surveillance at my back.
“Yes, you are,” he murmurs softly.
I give him a finger wave. “Night.”
“Wait.” The sudden urgency in his tone has me pausing. I already know how this goes, and he doesn’t disappoint in the least when he drops his business card in the gapped opening of my purse. “Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime soon.” Heady lust gleams in his eyes.
I back away, my voice teasing. “Maybe so.”
I amble off as he and his wife get inside the town car waiting at the curb. As soon as they’re out of sight and I’ve put enough distance between us, I duck down my chosen alleyway and veer behind the large dumpster.
It smells so rancid my nostrils sting, but I merely need a minute. I whip out my knee-length zip-up cardigan sweater-wrap that serves to cover my barely existent dress. Once I pull out my black flats and tug off my boots, I sigh in relief the instant my feet sink into the more comfortable shoes.
Stuffing them inside a plastic bag before removing my wig and freeing my ponytail, I remove my sunglasses and shove them in the bottom of my purse. Lastly, I remove my gloves even though they’re a favorite of mine.
Because where I’m going next, I won’t need them. I’ll need my hands free of any covering to be able to feel the flesh beneath me.
Zipping everything up, I rearrange the straps to transition the purse to its other form—a backpack—then I sling the straps over my shoulders and head on my way.
I need to burn off this excess energy that always lingers after a kill.
Which means I need him, and I need him now.
Chapter 15
Kennedy
“Fuck,” he groans against my neck while his hold on my hips borders on punishing.
Panting breaths are all I can manage as I ride his cock, gripping the back of the chair for leverage.
My sweater is carelessly strewn on his hardwood floor along with my panties, mingling with his shirt. His jeans and boxers are at his ankles because I was in such a hurry.
It’s per the usual. When I come to Tim, it’s after a kill, and it always plays out the same. I shove him in the chair and ride him until I come, which sends him over the edge. It’s like clockwork.
He never pushes for more, thank fuck, and sticks to the silent agreement that formed between us from the very start.
No kissing on the lips.
No sex in a bed.
Nothing remotely romantic.
I’m always on top and in control.
It might sound boring, but I’m really good at fucking.
What I’m not good at? Anything pertaining to romantic affairs of the heart. To be specific, I’m not good at them, nor do I aim to be good at them. Relationships simply aren’t for me. But when I crave another person’s touch, Tim’s the only one I trust to do it.
A sheen of sweat clings to his firm, lean chest, and for the briefest moment, I have the urge to shove my dress down and press my bare breasts against him. But I don’t. It’s too risky and might give way to the pesky little things called feelings.
To clarify, I’m not concerned about developing feelings for him, but more about him having them for me.
It’s better this way, and he hasn’t complained yet.
Grinding against the root of his cock offers the perfect amount of friction over my clit, and I grow slicker around him. His head is bowed as he rakes his teeth along my collarbone before darting his tongue out to taste my skin.
Mumbling against my shoulder, he grunts, “Sofuckinggood.” His thrusts grow wilder and more desperate, sending me over the edge.
I gasp right before my entire body shudders and my pussy clenches around his cock. Tim punches his hips upward three more times, then erupts inside me. I slump against him, my forehead braced against his shoulder, my breaths ragged.
His palms glide over my ass, but when they slide along each side of my spine in a caress that’s far too gentle for my liking, I know it’s time to move. I ease myself off him even though my legs aren’t the steadiest right now, post-orgasm.
Heavy-lidded blue eyes regard me with an expression I can’t quite decipher, yet something about it has the fight-or-flight urge rising within me.
Hurriedly, I tug my dress down and pull on my sweater, zipping it up. Grabbing my panties from the floor, I hike them up my legs hastily before smoothing a hand over my hair. Avoiding all eye contact is best, so that’s what I do. I don’t need him thinking I’m encouraging anything. I’m not girlfriend material, let alone wife material, for fuck’s sake.
Using the little decorative mirror on the wall, I quickly finger-comb my hair. The sound of Tim taking care of the condom and pulling on his jeans alerts me to the fact that I need to fucking hightail it out of here.
Stat.
�
�I should get going.” I reach for my backpack purse that sits on the other chair—one we didn’t defile this evening—before forcing myself to look at him.
He tips his head toward the small kitchen. “I was about to throw something together since I worked up an appetite.” A ghost of a smile teases his lips. “You could stay.” He pauses before adding, “You know…change things up.”
But I can’t because that’s how trouble starts. Though that’s not what has me remaining silent in confusion. It’s because he’s never asked before.
As soon as I part my lips to refuse, he answers my silent musing. “I never ask because you’re usually out the door before I can get my damn wits back.” His sheepish grin would be endearing, except that I can’t let him soften me.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to do better next time.”
“Will there be a next time?” He slowly advances, and my nerves go haywire. I’m not fearful of him hurting me, but I sense that he’s about to cross the line we’ve drawn.
The line we never even dare to venture close to.
“Will you stay?”
Tension riddles my body. “I can’t.” My tone is firm, decided.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
His eyes search my features, and when he finally speaks, it’s not at all what I’m expecting.
“Why won’t you let me kiss you?”
Fuck. He’s doing it. He’s going there. Goddamn him. I wince, and his expression darkens. He crosses his arms over his broad, bare chest. One that still displays a slight sheen from our exertion a moment ago.
Wariness takes hold, but my voice remains calm. “Don’t do this.”
Resignation etches his handsome features, and my stomach drops. “We’ve been doing this for three years, Kennedy. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
His eyes bore into mine, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking years ago when I picked him up in that bar. A former Army Ranger sniper, he’s used to studying his surroundings and picking up on the slightest of nuances.
There’s not a chance in hell he doesn’t at least know something about me. Maybe not all the details, because if he did, I don’t think for a minute he’d still be doing this with me and not turning me in. After all, he’s the same man whose resumé also includes a position with the FBI. This was before he decided to go into the private security sector and do contract work, going wherever is required—stateside or overseas.
Those jobs mean he’s not always stateside, which is perfect for me. He’s not around to wonder where I’m at. Not around to ask additional questions or prod into my life.
It’s worked well…until now.
“You let me inside your body, but you won’t let me kiss you?” His forehead wrinkles in confusion and disbelief…and perhaps frustration as well. “After all this time, surely you can tell me what the deal is, right?”
Not once does he raise his voice. No traces of anger are evident. Yet it incites fury within me because who the hell is he to suddenly change things up?
Lips pressed into a firm thin line, I shrug. “I have to go.”
A flicker of what looks like hurt crosses his face, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with disappointment. I can’t help but wonder if he’s simply disappointed that I won’t stay or disappointed in my lack of answers.
Blue eyes study me for a beat before he nods. “If that’s what you want.”
I spin around and reach for the door, but as soon as my hand settles over the deadbolt to unlock it, his voice stops me. Though I have zero desire to hang around and prolong this awkwardness with his emotions, his particular tone has me freezing in place.
It’s rife with affection he’s been careful to avoid with me. At least until now. “Promise me something before you go.” He tacks on a quick, “Please.”
Without turning, I murmur, “What kind of promise?”
Silence hangs between us for a beat before his voice drops, turning gentler. “Just in case I don’t see you again, promise me when you finish things—whatever the hell kind of ghosts you’re battling—that you’ll finally let yourself be happy.”
Defensiveness surges to the forefront, causing my tone to be flippant yet challenging. I turn my head to the side to eye him sharply. “What makes you think I’m not happy?”
He heaves out a heavy breath as if I’ve disappointed him. “If you won’t promise that, then at least promise you’ll call me if you ever need anything.”
I shake my head and stare at the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”
That’s the best I can offer.
“Later, Tim.” I tug the door open and slip out while the knowledge lingers that I’m really saying goodbye.
He doesn’t stop me.
He doesn’t come after me.
He lets me go.
I know it’s for the best. He deserves more—better—than I could ever offer.
That’s not to say it doesn’t sting like the time I got tangled up with a nasty Portuguese man o’war in the ocean.
Because I’m leaving behind the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in years.
Chapter 16
Kennedy
Three weeks later
Oswego, Illinois
Not guilty.
Not. Fucking. Guilty.
“Could you tell me the jury’s reasoning, sir?” My voice never wavers from its calm quality, and it’s merely pure control on my part. Inside, however, I’m raging with fury. “Was the evidence submitted not convincing enough?”
I need to know because I can’t afford for any future cases to be compromised.
Judge Macon shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say that while they found your evidence compelling and the science convincing, they determined that Jacob McConnell did not appear genuinely distraught enough in his testimony to be truthful.”
Not distraught enough. The motherfucking nerve of those bastards on that jury. Judging a child who insisted on testifying against his own stepfather and had the courage to relive the horrors he endured.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Alexandre.” Sincerity shines in the judge’s eyes behind his thick glasses, but it doesn’t matter.
Sincerity is fucking useless.
I clench my jaw and offer a curt nod. “Thank you, sir, for that information.”
Exiting his chambers, I stride down the courthouse hall and weave through a congregation of lawyers until I spot exactly who I’m seeking out.
“I can’t go back with you!” The drone of other conversations and sounds of bustling employees nearly swallow the boy’s cries. “Why don’t you believe me?! He’s been doing it all along!”
Embarrassment and anger mottle his mother’s features. Wrenching his upper arm in her grip, she yanks him closer and hisses, “Get yourself under control.”
Jacob visibly trembles, and tears track down his face. He jerks his arm from her grasp and swipes at his tears. “I need to use the bathroom.” Rushing off before she can respond, he darts past the water fountain and makes a beeline for the restroom doors.
His mother straightens and runs a hand over her clothing, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Glancing around, she appears relieved there aren’t any prying eyes.
I suppose most everyone here has seen it before. A crying child. An upset parent. They so easily dismiss it in order to avoid any awkwardness.
It’s not their problem. The biblical love thy neighbor shit is dead and gone. There are no Good Samaritans out there anymore. It’s every man—or woman—for themselves.
So, they ignore the scene before them, too preoccupied with their own lives.
The mother pulls out her cell phone and begins swiping, seemingly unconcerned with what just transpired.
Fucking enabling bitch.
Withdrawing what I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to, I palm the small paper and wait. Perched casually across from the men’s restroom door, I keep an eye out for the boy. The moment he exits, his eyes immediately lock with mine.
People at the opposite ends
of the hallway pay no attention of any kind to the poor kid. No one cares that adults were provided evidence, and they chose—they fucking chose—to allow a child to be victimized further. Instead of protecting him, they’ve abandoned him. They determined, with their verdict, that he should endure more abuse.
It didn’t matter that he recorded the abuse on his computer, with the glow from the light on his white noise machine providing illumination.
Only ten years old, yet he acted with bravery. A child should never be put in this position. And now, the justice system has failed him. He’ll be subjected to living with that same monster who will likely take out his anger on him in retaliation.
I tip my head to the side, gesturing for him to follow me around the corner. Wide-eyed, he glances over to where his mother still stands, completely clueless and uncaring about her son. The defeat on his face guts me, but it makes me that more determined.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.
Taking a quick left, I stop at the roped-off section beside the posted sign indicating renovations are underway at the end of this particular hall.
When Jacob turns the corner, expression wary, I wait for him to draw closer.
I bend my knees a bit to be eye level with him, and the desolate, defeated look in his big brown eyes nearly has my legs giving out.
I remember seeing that in my own eyes. And even though it’s been years, it still feels like yesterday. It will forever be a memory in the forefront of my mind, like wounds that never heal.
“I need you to be strong, okay, Jacob?” My whispered words are hasty because there’s no telling how long I have to speak with him before his mother sets out searching for him.
Extending my hand to him, as soon as he accepts my offer of a handshake, I sandwich it with my other hand. Because if anyone is watching, it will appear innocent. Like I’m wishing him well and bidding him goodbye.
“Take care of yourself.” I release his hand, and he immediately stuffs his hands in his pockets.
