by Trisha Wolfe
The building where he lives is nice. Not as nice as my place in Tribeca, but I would’ve pegged him to live in a more minimalist apartment. Something stark white and sterile, like a science lab.
I set my coffee cup on an end table. As I take in the space around me, I note all the little details. Warm beige and earthy tones. Regency artwork leaned up against the wall. Not a Jackson Pollock or any other abstract art in sight. There’s one dark-gray couch and one armchair. The apartment is an open floorplan like most city lofts, but he’s divided the rooms well with strung material, making the whole thing feel cozy and spacious.
Alex offloads his backpack onto the wood desk in the middle of the living area. “What? Not what you expected?”
I set my camera case and bag on the armchair. “I’ve learned not to make assumptions about people,” I say. “Although, I didn’t peg you for a Regency fan.”
He walks around the desk, turning on monitors. He has three. “I’m not, really. The paintings were my sister’s.”
I feel validated that I haven’t lost my touch at reading people. I wait for him to say more, but when he doesn’t, I mute my phone and slip it into my bag. People have a bad habit of interrupting. Rochelle especially. And I don’t want to be interrupted.
I watch as Alex readies his equipment. He’s a different person in front of technology. Efficient, quick, dexterous. I can imagine him sitting in front of his screens for hours, the world moving past all around him as he’s zoned in on his work.
“Oh,” Alex says. He looks up from his screen. “Pull up a stool from over there”—he nods toward the kitchenette area. “I imagine you’re interested to see how this is done.”
I am, of course. I work mostly with software; hacking, websites, social media. Hardware is a different capability—one I just might have to get better acquainted with.
I set the stool beside his chair and anchor my boot heels on the lower bar. “How long will this take?”
He links a USB cable to a port in a crude device with cables that looks like a bare-naked computer board. “It’s a prototype that I designed myself,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I don’t like the idea of purchasing this type of hardware from someone.” He adjusts his glasses.
“Like a hacker who could use it to steal your information,” I interject.
“Precisely.” Alex presses a couple of keys on his keyboard and a Dos-simulated page pops up on the screen. “I run everything off the Command Prompt.”
He issues a series of commands, and within seconds, the card reader/writer is fast at work cloning Ericson’s phone onto a chip.
“I’m really impressed.” I watch him insert the chip into a phone. “And I say that rarely.”
He smiles. “Not sure what I’m going to do with the device,” he admits. “I don’t like the idea of selling it to hackers, but not sure who else would be interested in the application.”
Curious. “Then why did you code it to begin with?”
He pauses to look over at me. “There was a question of whether or not it could be done, and I had to answer it.”
He says this like it’s the most obvious thing. I suppose to a scientist, who deals in theories and solutions, maybe it is. Still, there had to be some forethought. It’s possible this is where we differ. I’m just not a believer in action without motive.
Once he has the cloned device ready, we spend a few minutes searching Ericson’s texts. We uncover deleted messages between Ericson and Brewster, and the most recent thread discusses an upcoming underground fighting event.
Tomorrow night.
My head is already fast at work devising a plan—but it’s Alex who speaks up.
“Oh, no,” he says. “I can see your brain spinning, and this, right here, is a bad idea.”
I turn toward him on the stool, my expression resolute. “I didn’t ask for your input. You’re not here to decide what the plan is. You’re only option is whether or not to back out.” I arch an eyebrow. “Are you ready to back out, Alex?”
He releases a tense breath and drives a hand into his hair. He stares ahead, at one of the Regency paintings along the wall. “I’m in,” is all he says.
I study his profile, again wondering just what he’s getting out of this. He claims he wants to liven up his dull life, and yet I’ve learned through my intense study into the human condition that people rarely give the whole truth.
How long ago did he lose his sister? Was it recent? Maybe her death is what triggered his sudden urgency to experience life. Alex’s tip of the iceberg is innocent enough, but what about the mass beneath?
Alex turns to face me, his body leaning in closer to mine…
“You want to fuck me,” I blurt.
I expect him to scoff, or pull an offended expression, or deny my claim. He does none of the above. Instead, Alex meets my unwavering gaze with a challenge in his pale-blues. “That would make this the most insane and desperate attempt to get laid.”
I shrug one shoulder. “I’m not here to judge. But we did meet in a club where you were looking for some action, and you did try to buy me for a night.”
The corner of his mouth hitches into a smirk. “Touché.” He removes his glasses and places them on the desk before he leans in, placing himself mere inches from my face. “What if I am attracted to you, Blakely? Is that really such an unreasonable idea, the two of us together?”
This bold and cocky side of Alex is interesting. I’m not sure if he’s simply trying out a new experiment or testing a theory, but it feels convincing. And I enjoy sex. I imagine I’d enjoy sex with Alex. In the event he makes it through this job unscathed, I’m sure there will be some intense, heated moments that are met with carnal response.
I push in closer to him, so he can feel my breath against his lips. “Don’t disappoint me…and don’t die. Then we’ll see where this goes.”
I brace my foot on his chair, right between his legs. His nostrils flare, those blue eyes darken with desire…right before I give his chair a hard push backward. The chair coasts a couple of feet, and he chuckles. “Cruel,” he says, shaking his head.
I stand and grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder. “What’s that?”
“You’re a cruel woman, Blakely Vaughn.” His eyes squint with his grin. “But I can be patient.”
“Don’t you know anything about postponed gratification? The reward is always so much sweeter.”
An intense, knowing smile steals over his face. “I’m counting on it.”
Test
Alex
The sharp scrape of the blade across the granite block skitters down my spine. It’s an electric feeling, a tingling sensation, with every pass of the blade as I grind the hunting knife to a razor-thin edge. It’s also a brainless task. Necessary but tedious. Giving my mind the opportunity to wander.
To her.
Blakely’s fierce green eyes. Her sensuous mouth. That rare laugh that bursts free unexpectedly. Those sexy legs as she pushed me away…
It would be arrogant of me not to consider her a physical threat. She’s strong, has obviously dealt with unsavory types in her line of work, so I have no doubt she’s acquired the skills necessary to defend herself.
To wit, she has no apprehension about tonight’s task. She decided to crash an underground MMA fight with zero hesitancy. Her psychopathy dictates her fearless nature. She doesn’t experience fear the way most do. Rather, she observes it, as if it’s a secondhand emotion, only there to sharpen her senses.
I blow the debris off the knife. The four-inch steel doesn’t appear deadly—but the damage it can inflict is lethal. I flatten the blade against my forearm to test the edge. Shave off a layer of hair and dead skin cells. Just like that, so mindlessly, my DNA becomes a part of the room. Dead cells shed to make way for new growth.
How much of Blakely is dead?
Tonight, I test a theory.
Hypothesis 1: Faced with violence, Blakely will a) resort to violence herself, and b) will use me as an instr
ument for that violence.
Assessing the outcome will help me gauge her ability and the preparation I need to make.
I sink the hunting knife into the black leather holster and strap it to my ankle. A couple years ago, the thought of violence in any form would’ve made me cower. I was repulsed by the Neanderthals that demonstrated this kind of barbaric retaliation.
But…life has a way of testing us. Making us reevaluate our belief systems. I’ve embraced a primitive ideology that the strong devour the weak. Survival of the fittest. And any other cliché that fits.
A text from Blakely appears on my screen: Time to go. Meet me at the station.
I pocket both phones before I head toward the door. Tonight, I make a detour. Before I touch my twin sister’s picture, I pause at the armchair. I bring the pillow to my nose and inhale deeply. Blakely’s fragrance of sweet coconut milk and bergamot consumes my senses. I can taste her on my tongue as I leave my apartment.
Vengeance has a scent, and it smells like Blakely.
Rust claws up a gun-metal gray warehouse set along the East River. Lights from the prison on Rikers Island glow in hazy blooms of yellow and orange against a midnight-blue sky. The earthy aroma of fresh rain and acrid mildew mix with the night air to ground me in the moment.
It’s quiet here on the edge of the city, denoting a sense of solitude, even though a herd of people gather in front of the meat packing warehouse.
Before we arrived, Blakely and I waited near the number 2, growing impatient when Ericson still hadn’t received a text for the fight location. It finally came through fifty minutes ago. According to Blakely, these fights change location, never happening in the same place twice in a row.
We took the train to The Bronx, then a cab dropped us off one street over. She wanted to get a look at the place from a distance, watch people as they arrive. We stand across the street now as Blakely eyes the cut bouncer standing guard at the entrance to our destination.
Tickets for the fight are sold in advance through covert channels—channels we don’t have access to. “What’s the plan to get inside?” I ask.
She scans the crowd, then nods to a guy wearing a puffer jacket standing in the back of the forming line. “Let’s talk to him.” She sets off, but abruptly stops and holds up her hand. “Wait.”
She faces me and places her hands on my chest. She’s a few inches shorter than me, even in heels, and that distinct fragrance that is all her envelops me. A distraction I try to overcome as she moves her palms down my body.
“You change your mind quick,” I say, affecting a smug tone.
Then I realize she’s patting me down. I try to step away, but she drops down and hikes up the cuff of my jeans. With deft reflexes, she snatches the holster off my ankle. As she gets to her feet, she unsheathes the hunting knife. “Christ. Who are you, Rambo?”
I tense at her chiding remark. “I thought we might need protection.”
She arches an accusatory eyebrow. “I am the protection,” she says. “Besides, you can’t take weapons into a place like this. They search you. And when that meaty bouncer over there finds this knife, he’ll toss you out…very painfully.”
“Duly noted.” I watch her discard my knife in a trash bin with a sharp stab of pain to my gut. “How did you know I was carrying?”
“Carrying?” Her full lips twist into a sardonic smile. “You’ve been walking odd tonight, favoring one leg. And you kept looking down at your ankle on the ride here.” She shrugs, like this skill is nothing at all.
But to me, it’s everything. It’s a part of the equation; one of the necessary variables to help solve the problem.
She hovers close to me, and I’m drawn to the hum of her skin—that crackle of chemistry between us. “You wore your contacts,” she says. “Good.” Then she drives her fingers into my hair to muss it up. “But better. Now untuck your shirt.”
With barely constrained resentment, I do as instructed, trailing behind her as she approaches the lone straggler at the back of the line. I’m supposed to be playing this part…the shmuck…and yet, Blakely makes the role feel all too real.
“We need tickets,” she tells the guy.
He scoffs and looks around. “Sold out, baby.”
“How much?” she insists.
He sniffs hard and sinks his hands into his oversized jacket. Then he looks her up and down. “I only have two,” he says, “five-hundo a piece.”
Blakely doesn’t blink as she reaches into her cross-shoulder bag and produces a zip pouch. She counts out the cash, and the guy reaches for the wad. “Show me the tickets,” she demands.
He shrugs into his jacket and pulls out two tickets which, surprisingly, look to be professionally printed. They make the trade.
As we move toward the line, I look at her. “How did you know he had tickets?”
“Shit, you ask a lot of questions.”
I do. I make a note of that, as I don’t want her to get even more suspicious of my motives. “Just curious.”
“You just get to know these things when you deal with people,” she says.
I’m sure this is true, to some extent. But there’s a reason why certain people take particular career paths. Detectives, investigators, politicians. They have attuned instincts, and an innate ability to read people.
Empathy plays a part.
For Blakely, this skill isn’t so much innate as it is learned. Developed and honed.
There are two kinds of empathy: cognitive and emotional. Cognitive empathy is the ability to understand what others are feeling. Emotional empathy is the capability to feel what others are feeling.
There’s a decisive difference.
Cognitive empathy in the hands of a psychopath is a dangerous device. They can read a person, suss out their vulnerabilities, and use those vulnerabilities against them.
From what I’ve observed, Blakely has remarkable cognitive empathy. So remarkable, in fact, she’s able to use people’s emotions to manipulate them and the situation.
Mary had journals filled with insight into this characteristic, and I’ve studied them cover to cover. My sister was an expert in her field, much like I am in mine. I never appreciated how much psychology and science intersected until she was gone.
It’s too late to tell her now.
We reach the front door of the warehouse. The burly bouncer with a neck the size of my thigh winks at Blakely as he accepts our tickets. He overlooks me and talks directly to her. “You want to be a card girl?” he says to her. “We have an opening.”
I might as well not exist. That, or these men don’t find me a challenge. I’m not any sort of imposing obstacle to Blakely.
“I have a job, thanks,” she says. “Just here to enjoy the bouts.”
He grunts and nods at her, apparently approving of her response. Maybe it was a test; has she ever been to a fight before? As I scanned the crowd earlier, I mentally calculated around sixty people. People that are probably return customers.
The bouncer pushes the warehouse door open for us, and there’s two more beefy guys waiting to pat us down before we enter into the dark underbelly of the city. Packing boxes and assembly machines have been cleared to make room for a caged ring in the center with limited standing space surrounding it.
We cluster into a throng as people vie for the best position to view the ring. Since we’re not here to actually watch the fight, I take Blakely’s hand and steer us through the crush of bodies to a less crowded area.
An octagon ring made of wire mesh and chain-link fencing has been erected in the middle of the building. Crowd control barricades surround the arena itself, and gym mats layer the cement floor.
Just like at the nightclub, there’s a VIP section here—a place for the wealthy and elite to view the fight unobstructed.
I nod toward the makeshift bleachers, and Blakely understands my signal. She starts weaving her way there. Once we’re situated right below, she whispers near my ear, “When you spot Ericson, do nothing
. Don’t even look.”
I squint at her, as if that will help me decipher her code. “What do I do, then?”
She sweeps the area, then pulls the hoodie of her jacket up to shield her face. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”
“Of course.”
The differences between Blakely and I are too many to count. I rarely, if ever, go into a situation without a plan. A carefully constructed and tested plan with contingencies. Blakely shoots from the hip…for lack of a better comparison.
This might be the most dangerous aspect of all about her.
Where I depend on structure and routine, she’s able to improvise. This needs special consideration before I get to the testing phase.
A piercing whine of feedback cuts through the warehouse, quieting the crowd considerably. A man wearing a black suit stands on a crate as he talks into a headpiece microphone. He’s the promoter of tonight’s show.
According to him, tonight will host fifteen bouts. The first bout, the promoter says, is between Lucky Vince and Mike the Truck, to settle a beef they had over a girl. Each bout will last three minutes. He goes on to ramble out a list of rules.
I did a little Googling on the subject of MMA fighting before we got here, just to be prepared. Mixed Martial Arts. Pretty much, anything goes in that ring. A few minutes might not seem long, but when you’re locked in a barricade and there are little rules to follow…the sport turns into a bloodbath. Unless a contender taps out or there’s a knockout, the winner is chosen by the roar of the crowd.
As the promoter wraps up, I note the medical personnel along the sidelines.
“There he is,” Blakely says.
I follow her line of sight to where a group of suits are being led to the top of the bleachers. Ericson is amid them, followed closely by Brewster.
A band of apprehension threads my spine as I realize I’m the one up now…until I remind myself that this is all a farce. Unlike Blakely, I’m not here for Ericson. He’s not my concern. His wife isn’t my concern.
Blakely is all that matters.
