by Kenya Wright
“My poor baby.” She gripped the meaty length.
I grunted and thrust my crotch up. “Are you sure you have to go to this event tonight?”
“Yes. For once, it’s for a good cause.”
“Not healthy cigarettes this time nor a gyrating-no-talent rapper?”
“No. It’s a celebrity fundraiser for L.O.V.E. It stands for Let Our Voices Emerge. This organization is spread all over the world. They take care of traditionally unprotected groups like the poor, elderly, children, animals, struggling parents, LGBTQ rights.” Pure excitement blazed in her eyes. “They try to help everyone. I’ve been watching them for several years now, hoping to at least mirror their work with my own organization or even…unite with them.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to start a nonprofit.”
“Yeah. I’ve always loved public service and research on those matters.” Still rubbing my cock, she turned and looked out of the window as if not wanting me to see her face as she confessed a hard truth. “I should’ve stayed dedicated to just finding a job in a field that I loved. But I wasn’t willing to sacrifice. I kept looking at the money instead. I worried about how I would pay my bills and take care of myself.”
“You could’ve asked me for money. You know I would always take care of you.”
She turned back to me. “I know, but I wanted to do it myself.”
“And now?”
“Now, this stalker has made me rethink all of my life choices.”
“Your life choices didn’t cause him to stalk you.”
“True, but…the stalking made me really look at what made me happy. And I found out that I don’t get any joy from modeling, not like the others who do it. I can tell a lot of my friends have been dreaming about photoshoots and ads and…this whole life. This is many people’s passion. It’s not mine. And I don’t like the things I’m selling. I don’t like who I am by being involved in this illusion.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“This isn’t your passion.”
“Exactly. And, there are other paths in life I want to explore now.” She gripped my cock harder.
“We’re not going to this event.”
My temptress moved her fingers down the length and tugged at the tip. “We are. I told you it’s a good cause.”
“Keep holding my cock this way and I’m going to fuck you right in the center of the ballroom.”
She laughed and let go. “Just make sure I give out the award first.”
“Who’s getting the award?”
“Stone Mason.”
“He’s the one hosting the party.”
She shrugged. “He’s also bringing the organization tons of money tonight by just having his name on the invitation.”
“Whatever, I’m fucking you after you present the award.” I licked my lips and tried to focus on the road. “Stop teasing me.”
Giggling, she muttered, “You’re the one that put my hand on your cock. How could I not play with it?”
It jerked in my pants.
I gritted my teeth.
Focus.
While I hadn’t known about the organization’s nonprofit activities, I knew everything else. It was a glamourous dinner with a celebrity hook. Award-winning actor and social activist, Stone Mason hosted the ritzy 150-guest dinner. Each plate cost $45,000. The guest list boasted award-winning stars. Celebrity chef, Teegor Sparks, would prepare the five-course meal. And the event would be held in Mason’s sprawling Tudor-style home—110 acres, pool, movie theater, tennis court, helipad, and massive ballroom.
Mason had an exorbitant amount of security. I’d checked out the company. They’d been in business for forty years. I’d worked with some of the guards on earlier jobs in my career. I’d even called ahead and talked to Mason’s head of security. They were aware of Zola’s stalker situation and would have their eyes and ears open as well. The last thing they would want was a famous model being shot in the middle of their charity event.
Personally, it was a better situation than all the others these past weeks. With such a high level of clientele, every guest would have their own bodyguards. The place would be packed with highly focused people, constantly searching the space and ready within seconds to pull out their guns.
Tell me, you bitch ass stalker, are you bad enough to come out tonight?
Baptiste, Meridian, and Stark would be there too.
There was no time for slacking. We had to get this guy. Opportunity was running out. All his earlier gifts and soft attacks had been him playing around. Soon he would want to end the games and get to his true goal.
I just didn’t know what that would be. He had chances to kill her, but he didn’t.
Why? Are you trying to prolong the moment? You want to savor her death?
Zola brought me back to the car. “Hunter?”
“Yes.”
“You look worried.”
“I am.”
“I trust you.” She placed her hand back on my cock.
I grunted.
“You’re my protector.” Over my pants, Zola flicked her thumb along the mushroomed tip, causing it to jerk. She jumped a little in surprise and then began rubbing it some more. “I think that…we won’t stay long at this event tonight.”
I licked my lips. “No, we won’t.”
Lusty heat radiated from her palms as she rubbed her fingers along the ridge of my cock. Moving my hand, I pressed her palm harder against me, and she gripped me firmly. It was all I could do to keep the car on the road.
Thank God we got there in no time and dropped the car off with valet.
I guided her down the red carpet. Paparazzi barreled her with questions. She kept her head straight and moved forward—cool, competent, and tuned out.
Stone Mason’s opulent Upper East Side mansion oozed elegance and money. The 19-room mansion had been designed by a French architect fifty years ago who’d needed a nice place for his mistress in America. When the architect died, a tech-billionaire owned it for a while and then lost it, after being convicted of fraud. Later, Stone Mason bought the place for a steal at eighty million.
I guided Zola into the massive ballroom the size of a small museum’s first level. Tables filled the place. Top celebrities and New York politicians packed every inch. Everyone had already been seated. Event staff guided us to Zola’s seat. I remained standing by the wall barely five feet away from her. My gaze remained on her most of the time.
In the background, a string quartet played, filling the air with a slow rhythm classical song. A small stage had been positioned near the musicians. I knew from the event planner’s notes that Zola would hand out the award on that stage.
I took in everything else. Sterling silver clinked against fine china. Ice jingled in crystal. A few giggled. Others laughed. People enjoyed their evening everywhere I looked, even my lovely woman who kept glancing my way every few minutes.
I was impressed by the way Zola wooed her table. Many smiled as they looked her way and talked. Several times, she had them laughing at something she’d said. Two of the men had definitely focused a lot of their attention on her.
I’m definitely tearing that gown off tonight.
She grinned at me as if knowing what I was thinking.
Okay. Stop thinking about her pussy and back to business.
I tuned out the chatter and music around me, scanning the space and checking each exit.
The waitstaff moved throughout the room, dressed in black and white.
Where are you?
I checked everyone’s faces, burning them to my memory. Zola’s stalker could be here, sitting right next to her or even watching me.
This ends tonight. Show me your face.
Until I found him, I would be suspicious of every person that came near her.
29
And the Mission Was Death
BROKENHEARTED
Tonight, there would be no more questions. No more hiding or running away from
the truth of the mission at hand.
The mission was death—pure relief from a life that didn’t have her in it.
The death would need to be swift—not with a gun but a sharpened knife, dotted in the blood of a newly sacrificed goat.
And the death would need black candles and ancient chanting and the tears from one who loved the deceased.
The tears were the most important.
They had to be bottled up and kept for thirty days, fill the jar. The tears would need to be real. True sorrow. Serious heartbreak.
The tears sealed the dead one’s desire as they sat in their jar on the windowsill right as the new moon went up. Those tears would need to remain there—on that windowsill—for all the phases of the moon.
One didn’t half-ass these things.
On the full moon, the mourner would drink what was left of the tears, and they would light the last candle.
So much detail.
So many things that needed to go specific ways.
I’ve been ignored enough now. You have your love, now let me have mine! Where are you?
Tonight, the truth would come.
Soon, the dead would be reunited.
We just needed death,
and then tears.
30
Mask Off
Hunter
The event began.
Stark, Meridian, and Baptiste had not shown up.
Where are they? It’s not like them to not report. Something’s wrong.
I kept my gaze on the crowd throughout dinner and assessed any number of variables that might present a threat. I studied each of the guests’ faces, searching for body language that appeared guilty or with evil attentions directed Zola’s way. No one looked like an obvious enemy. Not that I thought it would be easy to find the stalker this evening.
My body remained tense due to my missing men.
Where the fuck is Meridian? Baptiste? Stark?
I pulled out my phone and dialed all three of the men. No one answered. Sighing, I texted them all.
What’s going on?
A minute later, Stark was the only one to reply.
Stark: I had to leave. It’s an emergency.
Leave New York?
That didn’t make any sense. I’d had Stark’s back since we’d known each other. There was no way he would run off from helping me, unless something had spooked him. I wanted to go outside and call him, but the award part of the charity event was starting.
The lights dimmed. Zola would need to go on the stage soon.
I can’t leave here by herself.
I typed into the phone.
Me: What about the results on the paint?
Stark: This is a very uncomfortable position for me.
What the fuck?! Do you know who did it?
My heart hammered in my chest. I had to maintain my composure as Stone Mason got up on stage and began doing a speech on his commitment to humanity.
I typed again.
Me: If you know anything, you need to tell me now.
I didn’t want to threaten Stark, but I had to. This was about Zola, and no one would bring her harm.
I gritted my teeth and typed some more.
Me: If something happens to her, I will kill you Stark.
Stark: Hunter.
Me: Don’t fuck with me on this.
Stark: Damn it. You can’t tell him.
This wasn’t good. Stark was terrified. Besides me, Meridian and Baptiste were the only men that scared him.
No. All this time, Zola’s stalking was really about me? Why?
Me: STARK!
The crowd laughed.
I jerked my head up, scanning the space and trying to calm myself with this new possible revelation—that one of my own friends was trying to hurt Zola.
My phone buzzed.
I turned my attention to it.
Stark hadn’t sent a text. Instead, he delivered an image of the results. I lifted the phone closer to my face and zoomed in on the picture. Stark had written notes on the page in blue marker.
I read the note. “This is the same paint from Hunter’s training sessions.”
My training sessions?
I thought back to the first year of my company. I’d just been starting. At the time, I only could afford to do obstacle courses in my huge backyard. There, I trained my men, having them hide in the trees, teaching them how to snipe and watch someone without them knowing they were being watched.
My training?
I’d used this red paint the first year to serve as a mark for a person that was killed. I’d stopped using the paint due to Nakita having a skin reaction and breaking out in hives.
Nakita.
My ears rang with the memory. It was a funny moment. Nothing sad about it. It had only been Stark, Nakita, Baptiste, and I. Four people fighting and shooting around a regular backyard like crazy people. But they took a chance with me. They believed in my dream even though they couldn’t see it.
I typed into my phone.
Me: Stay at the airport.
Stark: I don’t want to get killed.
Me: You won’t. Stay there.
Stark: Okay.
I put my phone back in my pocket.
The audience laughed.
Think.
Nakita was dead. I’d seen parts of her body, but especially half of her smashed in face. While I would’ve been happy at the thought of Nakita somehow being resurrected and stalking Zola for some odd zombie vendetta, I knew it wasn’t her. I would’ve loved to see Nakita—walking dead or magically alive. But Nakita was dead, and Stark had flown out of New York, scared as fuck.
And Baptiste was here.
In fact, he’d always been here.
Goddamn it.
Zola rose from her seat and began to walk up to the stage.
It was Baptiste the whole time? No.
With this new knowledge, I wanted her out of this place right now. Slowly, I followed her. She continued toward the stage. I kept my pace next to her.
People clapped.
I held my hand out and guided her up the stairs to the stage.
No. It couldn’t have been him. Think. I’m missing something.
When we stepped on, I stayed right behind her, scanning the audience.
The ballroom lights dimmed more. A spotlight shone on Zola as she began talking about the organization. While I would’ve loved to pay attention to her address, loving to hear her voice when she went full-geek, I had to pay attention.
My nerves flared on edge.
With the brightness down, the entire ballroom was almost dark but for the candles on each table.
But everything is pointing to Baptiste. Stark wouldn’t have run, if not for him being involved. So, why would Baptiste do this?
While I’d blamed myself for Nakita’s death, it hadn’t been my fault. And Baptiste wouldn’t have blamed me. He was too superstitious to gain bad karma out of unnecessary negativity.
But if Baptiste was Zola’s stalker, it made no sense at all.
The whole time, Baptiste could’ve killed her. He’s never missed. He always gets the person he wants.
I thought back to all the letters the stalker had sent Zola with the word mine written all over it. I considered the recent ones that the stalker had signed as Brokenhearted.
But Baptiste doesn’t want Zola, and he doesn’t blame me for Nakita.
I knew Baptiste too well. And even though he’d just fucked my mind with this shit, I understood the very core of his soul. We’d killed together. We’d almost died together. Many, many times. One couldn’t fake in those moments—when the heart went sluggish as the body gasped on what was assumed to be last breaths.
No. If this is Baptiste, then this is something crazy. Something out of this world. Something I can’t comprehend.
Regardless, rage blazed through me.
All this time, it was him? All this time? No.
Zola smiled and gestured to Stone Mason. Another girl w
alked on the stage and handed Zola a glass plaque. In my head, the past days, weeks, and months spun through my mind.
Think. Think.
Before Nakita had even died, Baptiste had asked me about Zola on the day he wanted to retire. I thought back to that moment.
“What about Zola?” Baptiste had asked.
I rose from my desk, already done with the conversation. “I told you. Zola’s my sister.”
“Only from adoption…”
And then Nakita died. What had changed in his mind about Zola and me? How mad had he become? Or was I missing something more? Was this about something else?
While Nakita had died two months ago, Baptiste and I had started killing the Carrillo Cartel members a month ago. The same time Zola’s stalker appeared.
So, if Baptiste did it, then he started stalking Zola right when we began avenging Nakita’s death? Why? That doesn’t make sense.
When Baptiste and I killed the main Cartel members, we’d flown to Montego Bay, Jamaica to bury Nakita’s remains. The night after we put her into the ground, York had called about Zola. It was all well-timed and perfectly planned.
But this wasn’t about revenge. When Baptiste went eye-for-an-eye, he did so swiftly, never dragging it out. This was planned and slow. This situation held purpose to him.
What the hell does he want? And is he going to hurt Zola?
The whole time I was in New York, Baptiste had been my main man on the investigation. He’d told me he took an early flight, but I had no idea when he’d really arrived. For all I knew, he’d headed to New Yok the same time I did.
It gave him hours to ransack her apartment, before I arrived.
Baptiste had even handled the lab results on Zola’s place. He’d been the only person that truly did an assessment on Zola’s close friends. The whole time, he’d turned me this way and that, never letting me get to close the truth.
Why did you do it?
I held no confidence on Baptiste’s involvement, but it was the closest I felt to the truth about Zola’s stalker. The psycho had shot paint at her in perfect precision with the same red paint I’d used.
Baptiste did that. It’s his kind of shot. He could’ve executed it with no problem.
