“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. One of my clients owns Spa-la-la in Shelton, and they gave me this gift card. I think it’s good for at least a couple of treatments. I’ll never use it—I’m pretty picky with who gets to touch my body—so figured you might like it?”
“Oh, wow! Thank you!” I take the card, genuinely grateful,trying to ignore the ick factor of him talking about people touching his body. Mom loves spas; we can do a girls’ day. It’s a way fancier olive branch than a lemon cake.
And maybe we’ll be able to reconnect after we’ve relaxed.
“Enjoy,” he says.
Then I watch him turn and beeline toward a booth called Cock, Paper, Scissors, which looks very BDSM. Well, whatever gets you off.
Thirty-Three
Axe
The day has finally arrived. I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat as I settle into the driver’s seat of my cherry-red convertible McLaren 720S Spider.
The roar of the engine is pure music.
All week, when I wasn’t working with the tech team, tinkering with our haptic suits, or thinking about Josie—who am I kidding? I’m Axe MacKenzie, I can do both at the same time—I’ve been digging deeper into von Graf. Cracking his password-protected files delivered me a treasure trove of gruesome information about Primogen Capital’s dealings—if not a peep about his family or personal life.
I shift gears, blow past a clown car full of teenagers and a station wagon with aCoexistbumper sticker. The top is down, and I can feel the wind ruffling my hair. I can’t deny that I felt an urge to wear driving gloves—the McLaren practically begs you to go ninety—but I settled for badass sunglasses instead.
My mind spins through von Graf’s files as I drive, a grim catalog of evil. There’s no doubt from the nature of his businesses—import/export, private security firms—that von Graf is a sex trafficker. But I’m surprised by the extent of his operations—thisman is truly the Devil incarnate. This bastard has recruiters in twenty different countries and buyers from everywhere. He holds monthly in-person, high-end parties for the world’s richest and most debased men at remote locations. (I have not been able to nail down where yet.) He even has a dark web auction site, where he sells off his girls to the highest bidders.
Once Strike and I identify each and every person involved with his enterprise, we’ll dismantle his rotten operation piece by rotten piece. As much as I want to—and believe me, my mouth is watering at the idea of carving out this wanker’s heart—we never move fast. We are deliberate, careful, sure not to leave any stone unturned.
The last thing I did before I slung my bag into the trunk was send over the newest files to Strike so he can cross-reference them with the names that popped up with Petrov. One common point of interest—Petrov’s wife, Veronica. Just as dangerous as him but in a completely different way. She keeps herself planted in the public eye, all smiles and charity events, using her good works to cover the quiet deals and favors she hands out behind the scenes. And if her name keeps springing up, it means this mess is bigger and nastier than we thought.
Good. I am ready for it. Hell, I was born for it.
Then, like the pop of a champagne cork, Josie’s text pings on my screen.
Bikini might be overly optimistic, but it’s packed—I hope you’re bringing an umbrella? The official forecast is rain.
We’ve been texting all week, pretending it’s about work, but veering wildly off topic, revealing bits of ourselves that neither ofus expected to share. It’s madness how easily I can talk to her about everything—except, of course, what’s really on my mind.
I picture Josie wearing a bikini, and my thoughts spiral. Not just at the idea of seeing her in that way but at the possibility of this weekend taking us somewhere new. I’m truly unsure of where this will lead. I’ve imagined so many scenarios, each more distracting than the last, and it’s becoming difficult to focus on anything else—and now my dick is pushing up against my zipper.
I dictate a text to my phone:Be there in five. If it rains, I’ve got a whole plan B. And a playlist that will blow your mind
She responds almost instantaneously:I hope T. Swift is on there
I can’t help but grin as I Voice to Text:I’ve got the full Eras experience
She shoots back an immediate reply:Wait, like—you know all the words?
Quickly I dictate:Every bridge and key change, lass. She’s a great storyteller. I could practically go on tour
Her reply makes me snort:I’m so on for us belting All Too Well for the data minions
I hit back with:Try for a She’s the One—popstar experience?
Josie:Go big or go home…
The light turns green and I step on the gas. My speed climbs, and it takes all my willpower not to push a hundred. I’ll be there soon enough.
Need to hide at least a bit of my eagerness.
A weekend of pretending to fall in love—what a daft idea. And yet the only reason I’ve not swapped myself out with someone else is because this has been the most fun I’ve had in…hell, longer than I care to admit. Christ, I’m in trouble.
