No promises.
I toss the phone aside and sit on my porch with my coffee, same as always.Except nothing’s the same anymore.Not now that I’ve touched her.The first text was curiosity.Everything since has been, is, hunger.And God help anyone who tries to touch what’s mine.
The office is too damn bright and the scent of citrus cleaner clings to everything.Glass walls, brushed steel, perfect angles.Adrian’s design, not mine.He says it puts clients at ease.Makes us look legit.Professional.Like any other top-tier security firm.Which is rich, coming from a man who hasn’t seen decor—calming or otherwise—in three years.I strip off my jacket, hang it neatly on the rack, and join the others in the conference room.A new client is already seated.Clients never spend longer than a second looking at me.Staff, other than my family, don’t look at me.Not ever.The client across from us is Hector Ganton, uncle of one Felix Ganton.He looksthroughAdrian.Past Caleb.And locks eyes with me.He doesn’t blink.But I can feel his body locking up.A fraction of a second.That’s all it takes.He’ll sayyesto whatever we offer.BecauseI’min the room.And death never feels far.
I sit at the end of the conference table, suit pressed, tie knotted, hands still.I've always hated suits.Never had a favorite until this tie.The one she dared me to loosen.It sits at my throat, a secret only we know, and I see her undoing it with my name still on her pulse.Adrian’s doing most of the talking, as always, Caleb chimes in when numbers get brought up.Atlas isn’t here.Smart kid.
Fuckface Felix handles VIP travel coordination for his uncle’s firm.A perfect job for a man wanting to move bodies.Teenage girls.Fresh-faced boys.Ships them across borders like freight.Freight with heartbeats.One of them never made it to their destination.She happens to have a father with money.And that father is sitting across from me this morning, pretending to need the protection ofAshenheart Defense Agency.
I’ve been around a lot of fucked up shit, but selling your cousin is the icing on the sicko cake.
Across the table, Caleb flips open a slim black portfolio and pulls out two photos.Slides them forward.Calm, almost surgical.The way only Caleb can be while tearing a man open with subtlety.
“We run all our clients through internal clearance,” Caleb says, his voice smooth.“One final step.”
Hector glances down.The first photo is aged, but high quality.A five-year-old girl with big eyes and pink cowboy boots, smiling because she didn’t know the world could be cruel yet.The second photo is a rendered one Uncle Leven had done by the top forensic artist in the country.London at twenty-five, or what shemightlook like.
Caleb taps the edge.“Have you seen her?”We ask every client.Iask every mark.No one ever says yes.
Hector barely spares it a glance.“No.Sorry.”
I watch his pupils.The way his throat moves.I listen for the lie.
There isn’t one.
Adrian booked this dog-and-pony show to get a name.One name.A name I could’ve gotten without having to put on a goddamn tie, but Adrian wanted to meet this guy in person, hack his shit, in case he can lead us to others.I could probably find that out faster too.Screw this, I pull out my phone.
How do I live through this meeting?
Lindy Girl:
Think of me.
Define “think.”
Lindy Girl:
My mouth at your ear, telling you to behave and to pay attention to the room.
I’m failing.Spectacularly.
Lindy Girl:
Why’s that?
Because when I think of you, the room disappears.
Caleb clears his throat.I pocket the phone and lift my gaze.He’s assuring Hector we’ll save his daughter, if she’s alive to save, but that’s not why any of us agreed to this meeting.It’s sure as fuck not why I agreed to put on a suit and share a table with this prick.He nods along the entire time, eyes darting between Adrian and Caleb.His gaze slides past me like I’m furniture.He can’t stop wiping the sweat off his brow.
He’s not sitting there about to shit his pants because of the amount this will cost him.Or because of the scope of the job.It’s because he knows something’s off.He felt it the second he stepped into this room with me.People always do.They don’t know what to call it.They’ll say “vibe” or “energy” later, maybe “intimidating.”They won’t say what it really is.
Fear.
The kind that takes root in your spine, before your brain catches up.
He won’t ask me a single question.Not that I give a fuck, he gives me what I need less than three minutes into this stupid meeting.
My pocket hums.I angle the screen in the table’s shadow.
