On a brisk night, I stand outside the condo, leaning against the wall while waiting for Charlie to arrive. And while I wait, I cross my arms over my suit and stew over all the bullshit Charlie has brought my way.
I’ve been angry about it since the moment I found out about her, and each day, each hour, every minute, it only gets worse.
She’s a liar. She lied about where she lived, lied about her last name, and, to top it off, she’s a cop. I understand that this business comes with a certain level of secrecy, but hers only serves to piss me off.
Everything about her spells disaster for me, and yet, here I am, waiting for her to arrive so that we can go to the gala. We may have been told that we both had to go, but no matter how angry I am, how much I hate her in this moment, I still can’t stop that excitement in my chest thatI’m going to see her again tonight. It only adds fuel to the fire that’s raging inside me because I shouldn’t want her as much as I do. I shouldn’t need her like air.
What the hell does that make me? Where does that leave me? Who am I becoming? Protecting the very thing that could destroy me and my life is a death sentence. Covering for a liar, killing for one. . .
It makes me hate her for changing me. For altering my plans. For threatening me. For forcing me to want her in more ways than one. In truth, if I dig deep, I am not afraid of the war she’s going to bring, of the judgment day for my sins. I’m afraid of who I am when that day comes because I can feel myself changing.
And I hate her for that too.
Leaves rattle against the pavement as they skitter down the sidewalk, and I watch them pass by in the gentle breeze. My car is started in front of me, warmed and waiting for her to arrive.
I check my watch, and as I do, a cab squeals to a stop behind my car. I flex my jaw, knowing who is in it and hoping that I don’t hate her so much that it makes the night miserable.
The door opens, and a thick leg with the expensive heel I picked out is placed on the pavement. A thigh follows, and Charlie steps out of the car, stealing the breath from me.
She looks expensive in her white dress that glows in the moonlight from above. It flows in all the right places and hugs every single curve I want to devour. I did a good job picking out the dress. Maybe too good because I know tonight’s attendees will eat her up like a mother-fucking snack.
Her hair is curled and piled on top of her head in a way that makes me want to let it loose, grab it in my fist,and plow into her from behind. And her makeup isn’t too heavy, but it brings out the shade of her eyes in a striking way that causes me to push off the wall and stand at attention.
I hate her for that too, for having such an effect on me.
Thanking the driver, she brings her gaze to mine, and a soft smile takes over her full lips. After she shuts the cab door and he drives off, she does a little spin, and I get a glorious view of her ass. She’s facing me again and asks, “Do I look okay?”
The anger inside me banks and then flows like an ebbing river. A cop. She’s a cop and has been untruthful this entire time. I’d do well to remember that.
So, instead of answering her, I head to my passenger side and open the door for her. I stare straight at her, watch her frown, and try like hell to keep the rage from my face. It wouldn’t do well to tip my hat that I know everything about her now. She climbs in without my assistance, and I shut the door before heading to my side and getting inside. The way I shut the door is a little more forceful than necessary, and it only serves to deepen her frown.
We’re silent for a good few minutes as I stew and drive. I don’t know if she knows I’m angry, but she seems to get the hint . . . until she can no longer stand the weight of my mood. “You know, I really don’t know anything about you.”
“You don’t need to,” I gruffly answer. She doesn’t. She may be here to earn money, but if it came down to it, she’d arrest me for anything and everything I tell her.
“I’ve sucked your cock, Nix. I deserve something.”
“And you get something,” I reply, gripping my steering wheel. “I believe it’s sitting in your bank account.”
My standoffish behavior is completely ignored, and shepresses on like it doesn’t exist at all. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No,” I grind out, and I don’t know what possesses me, but I add, “Just a cousin.”
“Oh?” She turns a little so she’s facing me better, and it doesn’t go unnoticed that her dress rides up her thigh. My palm itches to run up the skin there, but I won’t. I won’t touch her tonight. I won’t give in to that urge. I don’t consort with liars. “Are you two close?”
For a moment, I tell myself I’m not going to answer, but her waiting gaze on the side of my face bends me against my will. “She and I were.”
“Oh,” she breathes. “She’s dead?”
“Probably.”
“Probably? I don’t understand.”
I force air out through my nose to stave away the pain carving itself in the scars within my heart. “She was kidnapped. Sex trafficked.”
She shifts uncomfortably but whispers, “That must have been horrible for you. How old were you?”
I glance over at her, and – I’ll give her credit – she doesn’t cower under my angry expression. I don’t like this conversation, and I sure as shit don’t like giving her this information. So then why am I doing it? “A lot younger.”
