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1
Her
The weight of a psychopath’s gaze rests heavy at the back of my neck. He’s watching me, stalking me, probably already fantasizing about how my bones will break under his fists.
I fight to contain a smile and cross my legs, allowing the hem of my skin-tight skirt to hitch higher along my thighs.
Every move I make is strategic, every slow blink, every bated breath, every swipe of my lace glove-covered fingers along my exposed neck.
I’ve practiced this a million times. I always do, because this needs to be perfect. Second chances are for the unprepared, and I’m anything but.
My auburn wig is for his benefit—the brown contact lenses, bright red lipstick, and fuck-me boots, too. Tonight, I’m an actress, and my role is that of a novice escort—his ultimate temptation.
I stir the toothpick-speared olive around in my martini glass, feigning loneliness.
My mark, Dan Roberts, has to be beside himself with interest, salivating, his palms itching, his cock hardening. He’s picturing his hands around my throat, anticipating how hard he’d have to squeeze, and for how long, before I lost consciousness.
I know this because I’ve watched him for weeks. He’s become predictable. All those nights spent in the shadows, stalking him as he stalked other women, has paid off. And it could’ve been just as easy for the local Portland police to track his crimes, if they’d bothered to take the word of numerous beaten women over the statement from a rich senator’s son.
Only they didn’t.
Their pockets had been lined with so much green that the evidence didn’t matter anymore. Fake alibis were taken as legitimate accounts. Photographs of beaten, bruised, and broken bodies were discarded, just like good ol’ Da
This man is a criminal.
A vile waste of oxygen.
A pathetic piece of garbage.
And apparently, I’m the only one with enough devotion to take out the trash.
From the corner of my eye, I see him approach, stopping directly beside my perch on a cracked leather stool. He jerks his chin at the young female bartender and slides his hand over the scratched wooden bar. “Whiskey.” His voice is loud, with an undertone of control.
He loves control.
Lives for it.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see no beauty in what people have described as a handsome man. His pale skin is smooth, his raven hair clean-cut and combed. Dark eyelashes frame what I know are deep brown irises, and his lips are lush and inviting. Or they would be, if I didn’t know he was a few Froot Loops short of a carton.
I scoot forward on my stool to place my drink on the bar, but deliberately miss my target. The glass topples, the liquid racing toward the man’s hand.
I lunge for his wrist, pushing it out of the way to save his immaculate suit, and exaggerate my loss of balance. I topple, my shoulder ramming into him, my stool knocking his. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.”
He turns, those strong, destructive hands clutching my upper arms to stabilize me and my seat. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I lick my lower lip, quick, panicked, and nod. “I was trying to stop your jacket from getting wet and made an even bigger fool of myself.”
“You’re not a fool.” He releases his grip and rights my martini glass as the bartender mops up the mess. “Let me replace your drink.” Dan turns to the woman behind the bar, not waiting for my response. “When you’re done, can you get her another martini?”
“Sure. Just give me a few seconds.”
I remain still, the screaming euphoria of celebration contained to the i
“Thanks.” I grin. “That’s kind of you.”
“Not entirely. There’s a catch to my generosity.” He shoots me a glance, his lips kicked at one side. “You have to promise to sit with me until you finish your drink.” His gaze slithers down my body, curving over my breasts, my hips, then lower, all the way to my exposed calves.
I will my cheeks to blush. I will them and will them, but alas, I’m not that fucking demure. Instead, I lower my gaze and bat my lashes. “Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m…working.” I hitch the strap of my small clutch higher on my shoulder. “It’s my first night. I was told to always stay near the bar unless I have an offer.”
His thoughts practically crackle in my head. He’s thinking how easy this is. How perfect. How serendipitous.
You bet it is, buddy.
“Working?” he muses, palming the two drinks the bartender slides toward him.
“Yeah.” I nibble my lower lip, exaggerating my vulnerable, virginal escort role. “I bet everyone can see how nervous I am.”
I glance around the dilapidated bar. Nobody pays me attention. It’s like my favorite drinking hole on the other side of the city—frequented by depressed drunkards too liquored to notice if it’s day or night.
“Maybe a tiny bit.” He chuckles, and I try not to cringe at his equally fake facade. “Come on.” He swings out an arm, his whiskey pointing the way to one of the free booths in the back corner. “It’s only one drink. I won’t take up too much of your time.” He winks. “Unless you want me to.”
I continue to devour my bottom lip. It’s my go-to move. And from the way he keeps glancing at my mouth, it must be working a charm.
“I guess one drink can’t hurt.” I scoot from my stool, grasp the martini glass he offers, and saunter myself to our private destination with the predator close at my back.
My skirt hitches higher with every step, the material creeping teasingly closer to my lace panties, until I slide into the booth.
“Get yourself settled.” Dan places his whiskey on the table, his free hand twitching at his side. “I need to excuse myself for a moment.”
“Okay.” I sip from my glass, watching him over the rim as he strides to the restrooms.
He may be heading for the bathroom, but I know his main objective isn’t to use the facilities. He needs to calm himself. To lessen the adrenaline spurring him to make snap decisions.
Day to day, he can fool the average Joe. From my time watching him, I’ve learned he gets careless when close to obtaining a fix. He turns into a stereotypical addict—jittery, breathless, and unable to control the need to rush to the finish line.
I’ve triggered his game.
There’s no turning back.
He wants me. Needs me. He’s hungry for my screams, and that’s okay, because I’m just as hungry for his.
This man, although vile and psychotic, is actually quite special. He’s not just the focus of another one of my retribution projects. He’s more. Much more.
This smug piece of shit could be the key I’ve spent ten years searching for. He could quite possibly be my Holy Grail.
With a lazy glance around the room, I open the tiny baggie stuck to the inside of my blouse cuff and rest my fingers on the rim of his glass. Fine white powder falls over my palm and into the liquor, the Rohypnol dancing through the liquid with such choreographed perfection I can’t hold back a smirk.
The sight is beautiful. Peaceful. Karma in motion.
I dust my gloves gently, brushing off the evidence, then bite the olive from my toothpick and give the concoction a stir. In seconds, the betrayal disappears, dissipating into sweet nothingness.
Every inch of me thrums, pulsing and throbbing from the inside out. The enjoyment only increases when the door to the men’s bathroom opens and Dan strides forward with a wicked grin.