I toss the paper onto the table with an amused scoff. That money isn’t from that asshole Lamott. It’s his money, sure…or it was until Blue cleaned out his safe. The fact that she fucked us over? I was pissed as hell at first, ready to tear the world apart to find her. But now? It makes my dick harder. She’s not just a thief; she’s a goddamn avenger, taking from pricks like Lamott and spreading the cash to families he screwed. Those Seattle payouts? That’s her trying to find justice, her middle finger to the system that let them down.
We now know for sure it was more than just a con for her, it was personal. Blue's mother was up on that wall just like so many others. Blue’s real name, Demi Barlow, was listed inthe woman’s obituary as the sole surviving family member. Her real name made it a little easier to start tracking her, mapping out where she’s been and where she was heading to. A gust of cold December wind rattles the window as I stare out of it and whisper her name, “Demi.”
We’re chasing the ghost of a righteous woman, tracking her digital breadcrumbs across state lines. The rusty sprinter van was surprisingly easy to spot on low-grade traffic and security cameras once we had her license plate and a clear color description. She was good, but she was still a one-woman show. We were better. We were a system.
We had traced her movements south down the coast, mapping out where she’d been and where she was heading. We know she’s in California now but before we go after her, we want to know why she’s there and what we’ll be walking into.
“YES! I know what she’s doing!”
Red’s shout from the office snaps my head up, and a slow grin tugs at my lips as I head that way. He’s hunched over his laptop, brown hair a mess from dragging his hands through it, the dimples flashing in his cheeks like he’s hit the jackpot. Green’s leaning over his shoulder, muttering about IP addresses and the cost of the private investigator we hired.
“Where?” My voice is low, controlled, but my blood’s pumping, imagining that sassy smirk when we finally corner her.
Red spins the laptop toward me, his movements jerky with excitement. The screen displays a grainy photo of a redheaded woman in a cream jumpsuit leaning against the sprinter van. It’s her. The curves, the posture, the defiance, even with the new hair color, it’s impossible not to recognize the fire in her stance.
“Santa Monica, California. This was in a parking lot near Ocean Avenue, yesterday. She’s using an alias and posing as an event planner for some insurance asshole named VictorHensley. He’s throwing a big Christmas gala in a few days and she’s planning it.”
Green nods, his emerald eyes glinting under the brim of his baseball cap. “This can’t be legit. There’s no way Blue did what she did on Halloween and then decided to start a new life as a fucking party planner. It’s got to be another con, right? So I dug a little deeper on this Victor Hensley and surprise, surprise…his company was the one that denied Demi’s mom’s insurance claims.” He frowns at the computer screen with a hint of sadness for a moment before looking back up to meet my gaze. “She’s not done making them pay, yet.”
Anger flares under my skin thinking about how much pain she must have been in, how hopeless she would have felt knowing her mom was going to die because of rich picks like these. I get exactly why she’s doing what she’s doing but that doesn’t change what she did to us.
I flex my hands, picturing a bright red handprint on her ass. Not from the night we spent with her, but from the night we are going to have when we find her. She’ll pay for running, for stealing, for making us want her so bad it hurts. And she’ll beg us not to stop.
But more than that, I want her with us, not just for a night, but for good. She’s a match for our chaos, our hunger. That note she left, “Thanks for the treats, sorry about the trick.” That was a challenge, and I’m done playing nice.
The rage is gone now, replaced by a cold, surgical plan. I point at the grainy photo. “Hensley is a healthcare insurance denier. He targets people just like her mother. This isn't just a random hit; this is personal for Demi. It’s her vengeance mission and we’re going to make sure it goes exactly as planned for her.”
I look at Red and Green, knowing the silent order is already understood. We’re not going to stop her. We’re going to help her.
“Book the flight. We’re crashing her party. Time to show Blue what happens when you run from us. And time to show her what she can do when she’s running with us.”
Red’s grin widens, all trouble and charm. “Oh, it’s gonna be a merry fucking Christmas.”
Game fucking on, Blue.
Blue
The Pacific Ocean sparkles under a late afternoon sun, all gold and blue, like it’s showing off just for me. I lean against Betty’s rusted side, parked in a cramped lot off of Ocean Avenue, and sip a too-sweet iced coffee that’s more sugar syrup than caffeine. Skipper sniffs at a palm frond that’s fallen nearby, her tiny sheriff badge still clipped to her collar from that damn Halloween costume.
My now red hair is tucked under a wide-brimmed hat with the extension pieces flowing down my back in soft beachy waves, and I’m rocking a backless, cream linen jumpsuit that screams “I belong in this bougie Santa Monica neighborhood.” It’s a lie, of course, but lies are my currency, and I spend them like a high roller at a Vegas blackjack table.
I let out a breath, the small sound swallowed by the coastal wind. Loneliness is a constant companion lately, a dull ache I usually manage with adrenaline and the satisfaction of a job well done. But since that night, since Black’s rough hands were wrapped around my throat, since Red's cock was in my mouth,since the shuddering relief when I came while wrapped tight by all three of them, the loneliness has sharpened into a need. A need for the chaos they brought and the desire I saw in their eyes.
Stop it, Demi. That was a game.
It was a game I’d won—twice. I’d secured my exit and snagged their haul, the little "tax" I charged them for the experience. The thought of their faces when they woke up to the note and missing money still makes me laugh and cringe a little at the same time. I’m sure they were furious, sure they wanted to track me down to take back what I stole. If I let myself look underneath at the unsettling, terrifying truth? Part of me wants them to.
It’s the worst kind of foolishness. Attachment is a weakness, and I can’t afford weaknesses. I survived my mother’s death and rebuilt my life on two principles: absolute self-reliance and the pursuit of justice. The grief and rage over her unnecessary loss are the only things keeping me moving, the only feelings I trust. The sexual bliss the men gave me, the feeling of connection when Black’s eyes met mine, yeah, that's dangerous. That’s a detour back to vulnerability, and I’d die before I go back there. I toss my hair to clear those thoughts away.
Santa Monica’s buzzing with Christmas cheer that feels like a Halmark movie in sixty-degree weather. There’s twinkling lights draped over palm trees, pop-up ice rinks that look absurd next to surf shops, and rich assholes pretending they care about charity while they sip overpriced holiday cocktails at rooftop bars. The whole phony scene makes my teeth ache.
I'm here for one of those assholes, Victor Hensley, the for-profit healthcare insurance denier who built his empire on crushing people like my mom. His company uses AI algorithms to flag “unnecessary” treatments. Polite talk for denying claims for life-saving drugs and surgeries. Hensley is part of the samecruel system that allowed Chad Lamott to buy up the patent for a necessary, common drug and price-gouge it until it was out of reach.
We fought for months, appealing, begging, selling everything from our car, our furniture, even my high school laptop, to try to pay out of pocket for the medicine his company wouldn’t cover even though we had paid the premiums every month. It wasn’t enough. She died in our shitty Tacoma apartment, gasping for air, her hand cold in mine. I was nineteen, alone, and so fucking scared and angry I could’ve burned the world down. I channeled that fury, spending the next four years finishing my computer science education and learning all I could about hacking and the dark web with the sole, burning purpose of making them all pay.
The adrenaline rush from the Halloween con only sated the rage for a moment. Hensley is the next name on the list, the next architect of systemic cruelty and greed who needs to see the consequence of his misdeeds and I’m just the girl for the job.
Hensley’s got a digital safe in his cliffside mansion stuffed with crypto keys worth millions and files proving his deliberate claim denials. I’m here to take it all and hand the evidence to the authorities, making sure his ruin is absolute. At his elaborate Christmas gala, I’m Sapphire Blake, an event planner hired to handle the party of the year. With my computer skills, building fake Instagram and LinkedIn profiles and adding in social proof was child’s play. I filled my feeds with yacht parties, celebrity weddings, all the glitz a vain prick like Hensley eats up. And I made sure the top I wore gave him a nice view of my tits when I “accidentally” bumped into him at his favorite coffee shop last month, spilling a little of the latte I was holding on his Armani suit and fluttering my lashes in apology. Idiot.
