“I bet you will.” I finally reach my car and open the door, but the horror before me rips the smirk right off my face. Every inch of my car is filled to the brim with sparkly pink glitter that rushes out and covers the street.
Kiara’s howling laugh rumbles from behind me, and as I start to scoop the pink shit out of the car, being covered from head-to-toe, it dawns on me: I like this girl, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t do whatever it takes to ruin her fucking life.
CHAPTER 6
KIARA
Pride swells through my chest as I collapse against my couch. Did I need to tell the whole street that he has a small dick and likes to be pegged by mega dildos? Absolutely not, but was it some of the best fun I’ve ever had? Damn straight.
It’s barely eight in the morning, but already, today has been a day of wins for me.
Not only did I get to publicly humiliate Raiden on the street and fill his car with a ton of bright pink glitter that he will never get rid of, but I also gave him a taste of his own medicine.
Being woken to the sound of your neighbor getting off is never a treat for anybody, and I made sure to put on one hell of a show. Is a portion of my back already starting to bruise from how thoroughly I was throwing myself against the wall? Sure, but was it worth it? Damnstraight it was.
He’ll never know that it was just me alone in here. I’m too good at my own game, and now he’s going to spend his day wondering what this other mystery guy has that he doesn’t. Ahhhhh, it’s only too easy to get inside his head and mess with him. But hell, when he’s losing his mind and being driven insane with someone else’s late-night sexcapades, he’ll have to remember that he asked for this.
Sure, I have much better things to do with my morning. I should have headed out for a run and then spent a few hours training, but when you give someone a tranquilizer and also have morals—despite those morals being somewhat questionable—it’s important to make sure the moron you knocked out doesn’t accidentally swallow his own tongue and suffocate.
He was fine, though, just lying there for almost two days with his soft dick flopped out onto his thigh and the used condom struggling to hold on. It was impressive. Most guys, it would have popped right off, but not Raiden. Even unconscious, he still managed to hold on to his dignity. Mostly.
The thought has a laugh rumbling through my chest as I reach for my laptop and get comfortable. I’ve been neglecting my blog too much over the past few days. Comments have gone ignored, and that’s not me. I’m not the post-and-ghost type. I like my followers to feel my presence with them. My blog isn’t just where I post my travel pics to brag about where I’ve been in the world; I’m a real person wanting to share the beautiful hidden gems across the globe.
I spend an hour working and am just about to hit accept on another post about my beautiful, picturesque beach vacation to the South of France when the buzzer for the main door sounds through my apartment.
My brows furrow, and I get up off the couch, cutting to my front door and pressing the button on my intercom as I glance at the little screen, showing me who stands on the stoop of the apartment complex. “Hello?”
“Delivery for Kiara St. James,” a dude in a delivery uniform says while holding a large box, his hat pulled down just enough to conceal his face and send a wave of unease pounding through my veins.
I’m not expecting anything, and as far as I’m aware, I haven’t bought any random weapons off the black market recently. Besides, when I do, I have them delivered to my warehouse, not directly to my front door. But the curiosity eats at me, and I buzz the delivery driver in, needing to know what’s in that package and if my cover has been blown. This could be someone’s attempt to eliminate me.
As the driver makes his way through the main door of the apartment complex, I prepare myself, pulling on a pair of sneakers in case I need to make a break for it and grabbing the gun I keep stashed under the hallway entry table. Then, striding into my bedroom, I grab Spikezilla, who sits happily in her new pot, and hurry right back out.
With Spikezilla in one hand and my gun in the other, I prepare for the worst, having everything I could possibly need to start a new life right here in the palm of my hands.
A wave of calm washes over me just as it does every time I’m on a job, only this time, I’m potentially the target. Sure, roles might be reversed, but there’s nothing I love more than a little roleplay. Who doesn’t?
Counting down the seconds until the delivery driver appears, I settle myself just to the left of my door until I hear footsteps pacing down the hallway toward my apartment.
I listen intently, figuring out exactly who I’m dealing with by the sound of his footfalls on the old carpeted floor. He’s got to be just under two hundred pounds, has a slight limp on his left, and from what I could tell from the security feed at the main door, he has to be just shy of six feet. Not exactly a hard target. So either this guy really is a delivery driver, or whoever sent him has disgustingly underestimated me.
The driver moves in front of my door and knocks three times, but instead of peeking through the peephole and risking a bullet to the chest, I watch the shadows beneath the door.
There’s too much movement. He’s not a trained killer.
An assassin would be motionless, standing with exact precision, not positioned directly in front of the door, shifting around like he’s about to shit himself.
Reaching for the door, I unlatch the chain before turning the handle and slowly pulling it open. A seventeen-year-old kid with a massive gift-wrapped box in his hand steps forward awkwardly. “Kiara St. James?” he questions with a monotone voice, clearly wishing hecould be doing anything else but this.
“Yep,” I say, discreetly putting my gun into the waistband of my pants as I place Spikezilla down on the hallway table. Clearly this isn’t about to turn into a wild shoot-out, and Spikezilla and I get to live another day. Hell, I can almost imagine what Raiden would have thought coming home after work to find me dead in my apartment. He probably would have continued his nightly Fuck-lympics and assumed I broke down and got a hotel room. I don’t want to think about how long it would have taken him to notice my rotting corpse next door.
“Sign here,” the kid says, indicating with his chin to the device balanced on top of the massive box.
Grabbing the device, I quickly sign for the package, and he awkwardly tries to hand me the box while I juggle the device. After what feels like way too long, I finally have the package in my hands.
The delivery driver skulks away, dragging his feet back down the hallway without another word, and I kick the door closed before dropping the massive box on my kitchen counter. Not loving the feeling of having a gun stashed in the back of my pajama shorts, I put it down beside the box and look over the baby purple gift wrapping.
There are streamers and mini balloons sticking out the top in every shade of purple, and it’s clear that whoever put this together put a lot of effort into it.
