by Trisha Wolfe
The lights of the warehouse blink out, quickly followed by dim emergency lights flashing on. A spotlight circles the ring as a card girl wearing a blood-red bikini walks the length with a sign held high announcing the first round.
The sudden uproar of the crowd announces the contenders as they enter the caged ring through their gates.
Blakely turns my way. “We need to get closer,” she shouts.
I nod in reply.
Moving away from the center is easier as bodies push forward. Like cattle, we’re being funneled toward the back of the warehouse. Blakely decides on a spot right near the first row of bleachers. As the crowd oohs and cheers in response to a fist landing a punch, I consider now might be the time to broach the topic of head injuries. It’s a segue even my less than tactical self can manage.
“They’re fighting bareknuckle,” I remark. When Blakely doesn’t comment, I add: “I wonder what their brain scans look like.”
She glances around the crowd. “Probably like mush.”
“With your line of work, have you ever gotten into any fights? Any brain injuries with the job?” Maybe too blatant, but I’m running out of time to get my answers.
She doesn’t seem to notice, however, as she distractedly searches for her target. Then her eyes land right on me. “Are you asking me if I’m brain damaged?” She doesn’t give me time to respond as she returns to scanning the crowd. “No, Alex. I’ve never suffered any brain injuries. Satisfied?”
Very. I turn my attention to the ring, where the fighters are exchanging blood with each brutal punch. I have to take Blakely at her word on this and hope it’s the truth. There’s only one other way to discover that truth, and by then it will be too late.
As I turn to face her, a chilling look in her stone-cold eyes stops me dead.
“I hope you can get over this,” she says.
“Get over what?”
Her elbow connects with the back of the guy’s head in front of us. As he whirls around, face carved in sharp, furious angles, Blakely shoves me forward. Her foot springs out to trip me the rest of the way into the already pissed-off patron.
Shit.
A loud growl emits from his clenched teeth, then I’m yanked up by my collar before his meaty fist plows into my jaw.
10
Outsider
Blakely
I shove my way through the crush of the crowd as people circle around the impromptu fight. I’m not big on being a part of the action. Hey, that’s Alex’s deal—what he’s seeking. He can’t say I didn’t give him exactly what he asked for.
I’m more of an outsider, a watcher. I prefer to observe my targets…until it’s time to get close and complete the job. Once I reach a side emergency Exit of the warehouse, I climb a tower of crates to see over the horde and do just that; observe Alex and my target.
Amid the chaos, I catch sight of Alex’s light-gray Oxford button-down, which is currently being wrenched in the thick paws of the guy I picked a fight with. Shit, I hope he survives this. The bouncers can’t let it go on for long. The fight is distracting from the money inside the ring.
Come on. Come on…
I look to the bleachers. Money is being exchanged, men laughing and pointing as they take bets on Alex’s fight. Then finally, Ericson descends the bleachers. He’s recognized Alex.
Alex takes a hard hit to the stomach and crumples over. Damn, that probably hurt.
A foghorn blares. More brawny men break through the crowd to separate the fight. Nearly as quickly as it started, the altercation is broken up.
He’ll live. I jump down and head for the main entrance. As I near the door bouncer from earlier, he gives me a curious frown.
“Not my scene,” I say as I pass him. “Too violent.”
I cross the street and find a spot in clear view of the warehouse. Not sure how long I’ll have to wait, I pull up Lenora’s contact and use the time to place a call to my client.
“Lucy—?” Her tone is frantic as she answers. Lucy is the name I gave her. “What happened? I haven’t heard from you since last week…and I thought—”
“Everything is fine, Lenora,” I assure her. When clients don’t hear from me, they assume I’ve vanished, along with their money. It’s a risk they take. “I did run into a snag with our original plan, so I had to improvise.”
“Oh.” Her voice drops an octave with her relief. “So everything is still happening.”
“Of course.” I crane my neck as I keep watch of the warehouse. “You’ll hear from me again once it’s done.”
“Wait—”
“What is it?” I’m anxious to get off the line. I don’t like talking over the phone for long periods. Also, I might need to check on Alex; make sure he’s not strung up on a meat hook.
“I found something…”
The unsure waver of her voice captures my full attention, and I turn my back to the warehouse. “What did you find, Lenora?”
“I wasn’t snooping,” she says, trying to convince me. “I was actually using Ericson’s tablet because my phone died…and it was just there. He leaves it out, knowing I have no reason to spy. I always do what you say. Never let on that I suspect him of anything.”
I nod a few times, mentally hurrying her along. “You don’t have to apologize for looking through your husband’s things. They’re your things, too.” I’ve never understood the big privacy deal in relationships. The understood rule carved in stone. I feel like it was an invention of men during the turn of the century, when women were coming into the workforce. A way to keep them complacent, ignorant. Because before then, there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have her privacy invaded by every man in her life.
The whole privacy thing is probably one of the reasons I don’t do relationships. I’m not interested in “sharing” my life. I’m content, and comfortable, with myself.
“Just tell me what you found,” I urge her, then soften my voice. “It’s all right.”
“I think… I mean, it could’ve been porn. Some amateur, raw footage…” She trails off, and I suspect where this is going. “Oh my, God. It was so violent. Torture. Force. The woman…she was pleading his name…for him to stop…”
I make out each word through her choked sobs. She’s obviously distraught, as I figured she would be should she ever discover her husband’s extra-repulsive-curricular activities.
“Lenora. Breathe.”
I’m not built for this. I didn’t want her to find out, but not because it would distress her. Selfishly, I didn’t want to be here, in this position, trying and failing to console this woman. I just wanted to punish the fucking son-of-a-bitch and collect the rest of my payment. Move on to the next job.
Alex. He’s the reason I’m here. A sudden bout of frustration grips me and my jaw tightens. His involvement has prolonged this job longer than necessary. Maybe a few knocks to his head isn’t such a bad thing.
A wracked sob from Lenora cuts into my thoughts. “Who did I marry?” she asks. “Who the hell is he? A freaking psychopath?”
I try not to feel insulted. It’s a common misconception. “He’s a liar,” I say to her. “And a deviant. He manipulated you, Lenora. But you’ll have your revenge soon. I promise.”
Her voice clogs on a muddled reply, and I hang up before more sentiment is required of me. It’s not that I don’t feel badly for her—I do, on some surface level, I understand her hardship.
But, the longer I try to console her, the more tedious and redundant my replies become, and that’s not helpful. To her, or to me. I’m sure she has friends or family who are better suited for that job.
I need to take action. To make things happen. That’s where I’m best utilized to help her.
After nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, my patience is gone. I glance around the parking lot of the warehouse. Everything is too quiet, still. In keeping my word to Lenora, I decide to make something happen. Not soon…but now.
Pocketing my phone, I jog through the parking
lot, making sure I’m not noticed. By now, Alex should’ve obtained his directive. He’s had enough time to either convince Ericson of his worthiness, or he’s been pummeled into minced meat and stuffed in a freezer locker.
What we don’t have time for is Ericson to question Alex—to figure out that he’s an imposter.
Rounding the corner of the building, I search the rusted corrugated metal for the sprinkler system. It’s close to midnight, and I use my phone as a flashlight. On old warehouses like this, the piping system is usually visible, the plumbing not updated to code. I walk the perimeter and locate an exposed pipe running along the gutter.
Of course, it has to be completely out of reach. Venting every curse word in my vocabulary as I drag discarded pallets to the corner of the building, I stack them on top of each other until I’m tall enough to grab hold of the pipe.
I yank down hard on the pipe, not budging it an inch. I hoist my whole body up in a pull-up and then hike my boot up to kick the butler. A few wild kicks, groaning my aggravation. More acrobatics than I was prepared for today, but it works, and the rusted pipe finally gives way.
Water bursts from the broken seam, spraying the side of the building.
I let myself drop to my feet, wipe the sweat and rust particles from my forehead. No one inside will be aware that a sprinkler line has just burst, but alerting them isn’t my intention.
Even on an old, outdated system like this the fire department will be notified.
I return to my post across the street and wait. Within five minutes, the firetrucks arrive. Two of them blaring horns and blocking off the entrance to the warehouse. As people start to exit the building, I search for Alex. I watch him emerge—alive and apparently in one piece—and I make sure he’s alone before I send him a text.
Me: Across the street.
He whips out his phone from his back pocket and then looks up, his gaze hunting for me. As our eyes connect across the distance, I start toward him…until I notice something appears off.
He storms toward me with fierce murder carved in his expression.
“Well, shit.”
11
Chemistry
Alex
If Blakely has a sliver of cognitive empathy in her being, she’s doing a poor job of employing that capability now. There is absolutely no compassion in her eyes, her expression more condescending than sympathetic. I wasn’t prepared for this reaction from her.
My hypothesis wasn’t only correct, it was alarmingly accurate. I was the sacrificial lamb she literally pushed onto the altar.
I was expecting her to portray some semblance of remorse. Which I could use to springboard to the next stage. Every time I think I know what I’m dealing with, that I’m prepared…she surprises me.
Surprises aren’t good. Not in this context.
So I resort to the easiest emotion to manipulate: anger.
When confronted with a situation that is out of our control, a centric, no range emotion such as anger masks any uncertainty. I’m sure Blakely is well aware of this ploy herself.
“You could’ve gotten me killed,” I say as I approach her, my expression contorted. “You almost did.”
“Walk.”
Her response catches me off guard again. Despite my resistance, I keep moving, trailing behind her as she dips between buildings.
“You need to stop.” I halt in the middle of the alley. “What you did back there…” I grit my teeth and stare down at the oily pavement, summoning the ire I need in this moment. The light from the lampposts reflect in the sludge, shimmering in iridescent colors in the motor oil.
Blakely faces me, expectant. Truthfully, I’m trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. For the most part, I can hold my own. I was unprepared for the brute attack earlier, yes—but I could’ve defended myself instead of letting that guy use my face as a butcher block.
That’s not a detail Blakely needs to be made aware of yet, however.
My only alternative was to mitigate the damage as best as I could. I took two direct punches to the face and a blow to the stomach before I tucked myself into a ball and waited for the bouncers to intervene.
Any other “man” would consider my actions weak, pathetic. I have a bigger goal in mind than proving my worth as a man, though. My ego is a small price to pay for the greater good.
From the heat pulsing on my right upper cheek, I know a bruise is forming. Also, Blakely’s gaze is assessing that spot right now.
“Your cheek is swollen,” she says, her tone sterile and unaffecting.
I raise my eyebrows in mock astonishment. “It’s like I got into a fight or something.”
She ignores my sarcastic disdain. “What’s that stench?” Blakely wrinkles her nose and leans in close to me, then promptly backs away.
“The smell of raw herbivore flank used as an inflammation depressant.” At her impatient glare, I add, “Ericson thought it would be amusing to offer me a slab of steak for my bruised face.” I touch my eye and wince.
Blakely’s expression shifts slightly, opening up. She again steps toward me. This time, not letting social boundaries interfere with her examination. “You’re shaking,” she says.
“Adrenaline,” I say in answer. “The whole thing… The fight. The bouts in the ring. Being on guard around Ericson…” I shake my head. “My adrenaline is still pumping hard.”
Her nostrils flare, her stormy sea-green eyes wide as her gaze flicks over my face searchingly. “What does it feel like?”
I release a clipped breath. “Don’t change the subject. You threw me, quite literally, to the wolves. At the very least, you owe me an explanation.”
She shrugs. “It was the most logical way to gain Ericson’s attention without you being the one to approach him directly and raise his suspicions.” Her mouth twists into a sly grin. “Besides, you seem to take a beating pretty well. Did that before, have you?”
Well, actually, her plan worked, and it was a plan contrived—as far as I know—in the moment. She’s sharp. She’s resourceful. And looking at me the way she’s looking at me right now, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever been this close to.
I breathe her in as I hold her penetrating gaze. “It feels exhilarating,” I admit.
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, and my gaze follows its alluring path. “What else,” she demands.
I tilt my head, wondering if she’s trying to distract me or if her desire to understand my emotions is sincere.
“I see and feel everything,” I say, giving her what she wants. I reach out and take her hand, turn it over. I trace my fingers up her inner forearm, marveling at her smooth skin, the near transparency of it in the moonlight. The light dusting of freckles. The slight blue-green veins beneath her skin. The rushing blood.
I press my thumb over the pulse in her wrist. Her heartbeat doesn’t match mine. My pulse is racing where hers is steady.
“There’s this heightened awareness,” I continue. “Things that should be important just aren’t. Like how long we’ve been standing here…I haven’t counted…I don’t care.” I meet her eyes. “All that matters is right now. This moment. It feels like…”
“What?” she presses.
“Like life. The reason we live.”
She’s looking at me like she wants to devour me—but it’s not me she desires, it’s her craving for this feeling, these elusive emotions, that she wants to experience for herself. It’s like trying to explain the taste of the sweetest frosting to someone with no taste buds. An impossibility.
Blakely will never be able to experience these emotions.
Not without me—not if I don’t succeed.
“That’s intense,” she says, a delicate curve lifting her lips. “We should get out of here—”
“Wait.” I grasp her hand tighter, lace our fingers together. “Just a while longer. Stay with me in this moment.”
I expect her to mock me, deride me in some way to cheapen my sentiments. Because for a person like Blakely,
it’s her only defense. Being this close has to make her uncomfortable. Only what I glimpse in her expression isn’t derision; it’s pure curiosity.
She allows me to keep her here a moment longer, just us, the sounds of the city muffling the constant ticking in my head, her strange draw tamping down the urge to check my watch.
As I stare into her eyes, I could get lost. I’m being drawn into her, her gravity so strong it’s the equivalent of being drawn in by a black hole. A cold and hollow void with no light and no warmth, a place where time doesn’t exist. And in that void, I would lose any will to care.
This is the moment I know she’s perfect.
12
White Rabbit
Blakely
During his encounter with Ericson at the MMA fight, Alex was able to secure an invite to the attic of The Plaza for tonight.
I was as shocked as he was about this development. What is it about Alex that people like Ericson Daverns gravitate to? Is it his vulnerable nature? Neurotic tics? His apparent cluelessness? Is Ericson so bored by his privileged life that he feels Alex will be an exciting challenge, or does he really enjoy his awkward company?
It’s an enigma to me, and maybe that’s why I’ve kept Alex around also, to study his peculiar behavior, to figure out this mystery. It’s rare when I meet someone I can tolerate longer than the minutes necessary to get what I need—and Alex presents an opportunity for insight.
He doesn’t restrain his emotions. He’s honest with them. An even rarer ability, as I’ve come to understand.
Or maybe it’s all just a gross fascination—one I’ll become bored with as soon as the job is done.
Let’s hope.
I look across the living room at Alex now. Head dipped toward his laptop screen. Dark hair messy and flopping carelessly. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he concentrates, making a dimple pop. Every so often, he checks the time. Not on his phone like a normal person; some compulsion forces him to look at his pocket watch.
