They all grin. Blondie even giggles, swaying like she’s sucked down one too many Cosmopolitans.
Any other time, I’d seize this opportunity and take at least one of these women to a hotel to let off some steam.
Tonight, I merely nod, zip up my bag, and ease back into the flow of foot traffic.
Behind me, the women dissolve into whispers and laughter.
As much as I’d love a good orgasm or three, I don’t have the time. My life has been a mission of self-flagellation ever since I figured out what I was. What I’d always be.
I can’t fix what’s broken. Can’t undo the damage or go back in time. That’s why I allow my job to consume my life.
In this line of work, you can either be the horror in the world or let it consume you.
I choose the former. I live for the next target. The next assignment. The next moment I serve a useful purpose by being exactly what I am.
A weapon.
Up ahead, a hotel entrance catches my eye. Glass doors open to the elements, bright lights spilling onto an awning-protected red carpet.
Couples, groups, and a few singles in cocktail attire file in.
A banner stretches overhead, flapping in the wind.
Stein and Frank Foundation Annual Charity Auction & Gala
Perfect.
I pull out the simple black clip-on tie I keep for exactly this kind of situation. By the time I reach the red carpet, I fit right in.
In the lobby—a maelstrom of warmth and noise—at least a hundred people mill about, checking coats, greeting each other,and advancing toward the ballroom. The body heat has me longing to remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves.
Glittering chandeliers and a pristine marble white floor chase away the gloomy night. Bored-looking teenagers staff a reception desk at the far end built from heavy wood. Garlands wind around floor-to-ceiling columns. Wreaths the size of tractor tires hang on walls. Centerpieces rise from tables in explosions of red, gold, and white.
Santa and his elves line the perimeter, smiling and waving people over to the event space. A registration desk sits to the left, staffed by a woman in a blue blazer who’s checking names against a tablet.
As people shuffle in, I scan the crowd behind me, searching for white hair. A tactical jacket. Anything that indicates Nika’s caught up.
No sign of her yet.
Maneuvering through the throng, I head toward the event registration desk between the costumed ushers. I position myself near an older couple, a younger man, and a woman, all of them dressed to impress. They’re loud, talking over each other, and laughing at a comment one of them made.
The matriarch addresses the blazered woman with the tablet. “The rest of our group is coming soon. He’s just parking the car.” She gestures toward the door. “We’re the Edwards party.”
They’re probably a major donor with a reserved table and guests drifting in and out all night.
As I wait, the crowd shifts and flows around me. I keep my expression neutral and my body language open, like I’m waiting for someone. Like I belong.
Minutes tick by, and uneasiness creeps over me. She should have arrived by now.
Did she lose me? Doubtful. She’s too good for that. Did she abandon the chase? Possibly. She could’ve evaluated the risk or exposure as too high.
Or maybe she’s lurking outside, ready to ambush me the moment I exit.
Another fifteen minutes elapse as I scan my surroundings while trying not to think of a hot meal and a warm bed.
Finally, I spot her tucking herself behind a middle-aged couple coming in from the cold.
In place of the tactical gear, she’s donned a sleek black cocktail dress with a high slit that shows off one long leg. The neutral stockings do little to hide her pale skin. Shiny red stilettos add a few inches to her height. Her white hair’s pinned up in an elegant twist.
