Cruel: A Dark Psychological Thriller: (A Necrosis of the Mind Duet 1)

by Trisha Wolfe

  I take out my phone. It’s darker in this part of the club, making my display a beacon as I tap the app and hurriedly run the scanner. Now, it’s much more difficult to scan for SIM information as phones are digital and signals are encrypted. However, there is a flaw in the system, and if one knows how to exploit that flaw, it’s still very possible. In highly public places—such as a night club—analog stations are used as backup to help with overflow.

  With the right software, one can target a cell phone and collect its identifying information.

  The VIP lounge accommodates its exclusive patrons with private restrooms. I spot Lilah coming out of the women’s bathroom and head in that direction. The narrow hallway is set back from the main area, offering the illusion of privacy.

  “Lilah—” I call out. When she doesn’t respond, I put myself right in her path. “I didn’t think that was your name.”

  “You’re a clever one.” She tucks her clutch under her arm and squares her shoulders. “None of the girls go by their names.”

  None of the girls. As if she’s just simply one of them. “What is your name, then?” I demand.

  “Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she fires back.

  My mouth slants disapprovingly. That line doesn’t work for her. My presence here is bothering her. I’m an interference for some reason.

  I step closer and slip my phone into my front pocket. “I noticed you don’t seem too bothered to entertain your clients.”

  “You seem to notice a lot,” she says, her gaze tracking over me deliberately. “I notice a lot, too. Like the fact that your name isn’t Lawson. Not according to your credit card, Alex.”

  A heated spark shoots up my back, a current of electric excitement. She just ticked up the score a notch on her assessment.

  “You’re extremely observant,” I say. “Maybe I wasn’t comfortable enough to give my real name, either.”

  Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me. “Look. My time is better spent entertaining in private. That’s what my clientele pay for. Which”—she makes it a point to look at my clothes—“I’m sorry to say, is very out of your price range.” She levels me with a severe glare. “You should leave, whoever you are.”

  Those eyes…that stare… It’s unnerving.

  I lean in toward her and lower my voice to an audible whisper. “You’re not a whore.”

  Her blood-red lips tip upward. That smile is disarming. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “You’re not an escort,” I clarify. “What are you, undercover? FBI? Trying to take down an escort ring, underground MMA fights? Or does it have to do with Ericson and his firm?”

  The value of a predator is unrecognized, unappreciated. I am not one to take predators for granted. Her skills far outweigh those of one simply offering physical indulgence. Whatever this woman’s purpose here tonight, it’s not to bring pleasure to men. In truth, I’m probably doing Ericson a favor.

  Our moment is disrupted as a guy comes around the corner. Lilah uses the opportunity to inch closer to me. Her body presses against mine, her curves mold perfectly to the contour of my form. She’s a distraction in all the wrong ways, and she knows this. She uses her body as a weapon.

  “Whatever your kink is,” she says, “I’m not into it. Maybe Sophie or one of the other girls would be interested.”

  “I don’t think Sophie is my type.” No—none of them are the type I need. I’ve found what I’m looking for.

  The first step in the scientific method is to identify, and I’ve just identified my new subject. A thrill courses my blood as I stare into the eyes of a psychopath.

  She’s the one.

  “Trust me,” she says. “I’m definitely not your type.” As she turns to walk away, I grab her arm, and that’s a mistake.

  The realization comes with a shock—a literal electric shock that sends a pulse of 20,000 volts into my body.

  I hit the floor, my body convulses with spasms. I stare up at her, noting the small Taser in her hand too late. Christ. That was unexpected. Every muscle in my body seizes with intense cramps. The sudden and immediate sensation of needing to vomit follows the pain. Then, just as suddenly, the torture subsides.

  As my muscles begin to relax, I breathe through the wave to catch my breath, and think about getting to my feet, only my reaction time is delayed. She’s on me in seconds and a biting pinch stings my arm.

  The beauty with lethal moves looms over me, those intense green eyes peering down with callous disregard, before the world dims black.

  Cock-blocked

  Blakely

  Asshole.

  Dragging a corpse is a lot more difficult than one imagines. The VIP lounge floor is carpeted, making the task of moving this guy’s lifeless body nearly impossible.

  No, he’s not dead—but I wouldn’t feel any remorse if the dose had stopped his heart. Just to be certain, I press two fingers to his neck and check for vitals. His heartbeat is steady as it pulses against my fingertips.

  I stuff the mini stun gun and syringe into my bag and drop the clutch on top of his chest so I can grab both his ankles. “Come on, you ass—” I yank hard and gain an inch. By the time I get him near the men’s bathroom, I’ve taken too long, but I don’t need Ericson or anyone else discovering him this way. This guy—whoever the hell he is—has already botched tonight pretty good.

  Why is he here? What does he want? Who sent him? A previous target bent on revenge? Ericson’s wife checking up on me?

  No time to investigate now. I just need him to shut up and go away. I find a storage room next to the men’s bathroom that’s used for toiletries and cleaning supplies. I push the door wide and use my heel to roll him into the small storage room.

  He lands on his side, arms and legs sprawled. Checking my vicinities, I do a quick sweep, then hunch down and rifle through his pocket to look for an ID or phone. I want to know who this Alex creep is, since I was only able to make out his first name on his card.

  I feel something….and pull out a silver pocket watch.

  It’s old. An antique, maybe. I shrug and drop it into my clutch. Consider it asshole tax. Before I can manage to flip him over to search the other pocket, the restroom door swings open. I push the closet door closed and straighten my top. Smile at the guy who shamelessly checks me out.

  I toss a look back at the closet. Dammit. Ultimately, I decide the job’s more important. My target doesn’t need to start asking questions about his missing escort.

  As I head into the main lounge, I slow my steps, giving myself time to revise my plan. I have to get Ericson away from the club. Since I can’t have that asshole waking up and crashing our party, it’s best to move the party elsewhere. I search my clutch briefly and dig out the vial. There won’t be another opportunity to spike Ericson’s martini tonight.

  The syringe I plunged into Alex’s arm was a very potent backup measure for Ericson, just in case. As I no longer have that, I’m counting on the GHB cocktail in the vial to be enough.

  I have to move forward, or abort.

  The first part of the plan should’ve been completed already, but I couldn’t slip the drug into Ericson’s drink, not when that guy wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Which makes me wonder again just who the hell he is and what he wants.

  I palm the vial as I glide behind the seat and drape an arm around Ericson’s broad shoulders. “I’m getting restless,” I whisper into his ear, my voice seductive.

  He sets his martini glass on the divider between seats and touches my arm. “We’ll leave when I’m ready. Try to amuse yourself.”

  My shoulders tense. After the altercation, I’m less inclined to maintain my docile façade. I lean against him and press my lips to his neck, all the while keeping my gaze on the others in the lounge. Then I deftly slip my hand over his martini glass and release the contents of the vial.

  “All right, baby. I’m ready when you are.” I push away, taking a few seconds to compose myself before I return to my seat
next to him.

  Ericson should start to feel the GHB in a few minutes. It’s a strong enough dose that he’ll simply appear inebriated to his friends, but will make him very suggestible. I’ll lead him to his office where I can gain access to his computer and other company systems.

  I could bag the whole charade and just break into the building, but I like to keep my jobs on the legal front, for the most part. Saves a headache with police and court proceedings.

  I glance at the time on my phone screen, recalling the watch in my purse. During Alex’s lap dance, I noticed his reaction was protective. This object is important to him. While Ericson is observing two of the escorts grinding against each other to the beat of the house music, I slip out the pocket watch and click it open.

  It’s a basic watch face with pewter hands. The secondhand ticks away. There’s nothing special about the watch that I can tell, but what do I know about watches or even antiques? I’ll search the Internet later.

  Ericson’s head starts to sway, his eyes glassing over. I tuck the watch into my purse and slide his way, run the tips of my fingers along the nape of his neck. He revels in the stimulation, the drug that courses his veins makes every touch heightened, pleasurable.

  He reaches over and palms my thigh.

  Knowing what I do about this guy, his touch should repulse me, and it does on some surface level. But this is work. Luckily, I don’t have to battle emotions to stay focused on the job. That’s what makes me good at what I do.

  “I want you.” I say it loud enough so he can hear me over the music and his drug-induced state. His hand starts to creep upward, and I halt his progression. “Not here. Let’s go.”

  After a moment of coaxing him to follow me, we leave the seating area of the VIP lounge. My hand firmly gripped to his, I steer him toward the stairs…where he pulls me to a stop.

  He tugs me into an alcove between the VIP section and the balcony. It’s private—too private. This isn’t good.

  “I love this hair.” His fingers crawl into my hair and he grips a thick hank, giving it a firm tug.

  “Ericson…” I coo his name as he presses me against the wall. “Take me somewhere we can be alone.”

  He drops his head to my neck, kissing a sloppy trail along the hammock of my neckline and shoulder. “We are alone,” he insists.

  Not wanting to make a scene, I plant my hands on his chest. “More alone,” I stress.

  His body goes rigid. His grasp around the back of my neck clamps tight. My thoughts turn to the switchblade I carry in my purse for added protection, and the syringe…that I may have wasted on the wrong man.

  His eyes find mine, and there’s a molten anger swirling in those light hues. His fingers burrow into my skin as he wrenches my head back. “Do what I say, bitch.” His free hand tears at the hem of my dress and drags it upward.

  The GHB was supposed to subdue him. Either it wasn’t potent enough, or Ericson is having an adverse reaction—like it’s unleashing an even more sinister creature within him.

  Regardless, this can’t happen.

  His fingers clumsily seek between my thighs, and I fight back. I let my clutch fall to the floor as I raise my hands to break his hold. I windmill my arms and collide against his iron hold.

  He shoves his knees between my legs and flattens his body against mine, preventing a second attempt. “Oh, you like it rough, baby. I can get rough.”

  Completely inappropriately, I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. What’s worse than a rapist? A rapist who quotes clichés.

  He slams the back of my head against the wall, and my vision wavers. I feel the material along the slit of my dress rip; his greedy hands fondle my ass. I should find a way out of this situation that doesn’t jeopardize the job, but my self-preservation rears.

  I wedge my hands up to find his face and dig my thumbs into his eye sockets.

  He howls and stumbles backward. As he tries to clear his vision, I move in and knee him in the balls for good measure before I retrieve my purse and escape.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  I exit the VIP lounge and weave through gyrating bodies, not looking back.

  It’s fucked.

  Before I leave the club, I glance back once in the direction of the VIP. I don’t spot Ericson, nor do I see the damn asshole that cock-blocked my target to begin with.

  I’m tempted to march right to the closet and demand answers. Or drive the three-inch heel of my Louis Vuitton pump into his balls. Both would give me equal satisfaction right now. But that’s not part of the contingency plan.

  My hard rule is always to abort. Anything goes wrong, get out.

  So that’s what I do.

  As I take a turn around the bend of a corner grocery shop, I adjust the torn skirt of my dress to be less noticeable, then I dig out the pocket watch. I click the top toggle and it springs open. The flashing marquee lights glare against the glass face.

  I slow my steps as I rub my thumb over the pewter. On the back of the cover is an engraving. I bring the watch closer, using the neon light as an aid to read the inscription.

  To my brother, the only other mind I admire.

  Curious. A little clue about my stalker. Who are you?

  I hold on to the watch as I navigate the sidewalks toward my loft. The crowd swallows me quickly, and I disappear into the sea of people walking the streets.

  Collect

  Alex

  I’m not sentimental by nature. A lifetime of study in biochemistry and biophysics has taught me that nothing is static. Everything around us is in a constant flux of evolution.

  One cannot get attached to inanimate objects when one understands those objects will tarnish and degrade. Gears and spring mechanisms will rust and break down. Glass will crack.

  And yet, that doesn’t stop the irritating need to touch my pocket watch. I feel as if a part of me is missing. My mind can’t focus on work. The niggling desire to hear the secondhand ticking is a constant distraction.

  Memories—that’s the root of the issue. As long as I breathe, as long as my mind is intact, my memories are what bind me to my sentiments.

  The object itself is insignificant; it’s what the watch represents that matters.

  And she stole it.

  I push the bridge of my wireframe glasses up my nose and refocus on the laptop screen. I typically wear contacts while out, like last night at the club. Glasses are too distinctive; they create a persona of intelligence. People assess and judge a person within a span of five seconds.

  It works best if I appear unassuming, unremarkable. I could have Lasik, but I actually prefer to wear glasses, which shields my eyes from the blue light of the screen that I stare at for hours every day. Plus, as my eyes are vital for my work, I don’t trust anyone to stick a sharp object anywhere near them.

  That thought sparks an idea, and I quickly jot down a note in my journal before I resume the program update. I coded the program myself, as I require software that’s untraceable and performs specific functions for my needs.

  The second step in the scientific method is to collect data. Gather information, record facts and findings. In order to do this, I must locate my subject.

  The sly one who carries a Taser.

  Who masquerades as an escort.

  Who stole my watch, just because it’s in her nature to do so.

  I sync my phone to my encrypted network and run the updated program.

  She Tasered me. Not only that, she drugged me. This woman has a serious dark side. Once I got back to my lab, I tested my blood. The results showed low levels of GHB, otherwise known as liquid Ecstasy, with a high amount of rohypnol, the date-rape drug.

  She didn’t just want to escape; she wanted me put down. Out of the way.

  I’m still wrapping my head around that fact. But, while I was convulsing like an idiot on the floor, my phone was busy doing some gathering work for me.

  Before I confronted her, I started the scanner on my phone. It used to be that analog syste
ms used CDMA technology to transmit a phone’s ESN and MIN when a call was made. Now, with digital systems in place, a phone’s IMEI—or equipment identity—is required. Capturing this data was once fairly simple, then all one would need to do was flash a blank phone to create a clone. IMEI is a little trickier. Once you capture the data, you need a SIM reader/writer to clone the SIM.

  All that tech jargon simply means is that my mystery woman gave up her IMEI data, and now I’m using it to clone her phone with my hardware.

  After a few minutes, I insert the SIM and I have a duplicate of her phone in my hand. She has her GSP tracker turned off, but lucky me, she uses apps that record GPS location covertly. It’s not much, but there’s enough data to work with.

  Her phone’s last pinged location was pinpointed at an apartment building in Tribeca. She’s in this location a lot, which leads me to deduce it’s most likely her home.

  Pricey. Trendy. Tribeca is not the type of neighborhood where the typical escort would live…I don’t think. To be fair, I haven’t done much research into the profession, and I don’t think Pretty Woman is an ideal basis for a theory.

  I recline back in my desk chair. Stare at the large whiteboard along the wall. At the top, circled twice in black, is the word unnoticed.

  I don’t keep much at my apartment, only the basic necessities of my project. Reminders, half-hatched theories and notes. Nothing that could tie me to my main working space—and that is exactly what unnoticed reminds me.

  Just how important is my mystery woman?

  How unnoticed is she, if at all?

  For the next hour, I scour her phone, digging through emails, combing through texts, appointments, web searches. She’s gone to some length to hide her identity. I wonder if she keeps a second phone with more personal information, but I find enough metadata to build a general person.