Her hands shook. The left gripped her right wrist, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again.
She turned at the sound of the door opening. Her eyes tracked meslowly as I removed my boots. Then her shoulders dropped. She breathed out, a relief so obvious it was embarrassing.
"You can still change your mind," I said past the sudden knot in my throat that had nothing to do with any kind of allergic reaction.
"I won't."
"You're shaking," I pointed out.
"It's not fear." She laughed. "It's the shoes. They're extremely uncomfortable."
I rubbed my forehead with my index and middle fingers, unsure of what to say. This was a dumb idea. If she got caught trying to get in, it would be the end of the entire operation. And most likely the end of the job.
I didn't want to think about the consequences.
I crossed the room, grabbing a chair on the way and dragging it to the window. She smelled like drugstore perfume and nerves when I approached.
"Sit," I said, setting the chair in front of the mirror. She perched on the edge of it, braced her palms against her knees and waited.
I pulled out the pendant from the inner pocket of my jacket and showed it to her.
The jewelry looked like something a tourist would buy in an airport gift shop—huge fake crystal strung on a gold-plated chain. Hidden inside the crystal was a camera.
"This is on at all times," I said. "You can't turn it off. It's going to record both audio and visual. The device won't stream or transmit video in real time. The club has a tight security system and jammers, but we managed to find a workaround to transmit audio."
She nodded, looking at the device first, then at my hands.
"I'll be able to listen in, so I'll know if you're in danger," I said, moving to stand behind her. I didn't tell her that Viper would be the primary person to monitor the audio feed. "You remember the code phrase?"
"Blue ballon is tired."
"Good."
Kimmy didn't reply.
My gloves came off. I tucked them into the back pocket of my pants and I gently pushed the dark fake hair to the side and over her shoulder, then looped the necklace holding the pendant around her neck. My knuckles skimmed the edge of her jaw, soft as a nerve ending. Her skin was hot—feverish, almost.
I felt it in every fiber of my being.
I remembered how I'd jerked off in the shower the other day, fantasizing about her. I was an absolute asshole. Now that she was this close, I had a hard time keeping myself in check. All I wanted was to press myself to her, smell her real hair, and kiss her lips again. Kiss them properly.
Fuck. This was not how I intended for things to unfold. I planned on removing all thoughts of her from my mind. Our time would come to an end soon.
I almost dropped the pendant as I fumbled with the clasp. Then one end of the necklace slipped from my grasp and fell down onto her upper back, right above the edge of the dress. I reached out to grab it, and for one dumb second we both just were there, frozen by the contact. The tips of my fingers didn't want to leave her skin.
I saw the jump of her pulse at the corner of her throat, like a moth slamming itself against a porch light.
My own chest felt tight and full and I couldn't breathe. "Sorry," I muttered just to break up the tension of the moment.
I fastened the clasp and stepped back, needing to put a distance between her and me. I'd never experienced anything like this before. This inexplicable pull to a woman. According to Father, women were just a means to an end or fun one-night-stand company.
But Father had lied to me all my life about my own identity. He probably lied about women too.
I cleared my throat and said, "Try not to touch the pendant itself. We need for the image quality to stay sharp."
"No fingerprints. Got it," she replied, scanning her reflection in the mirror. Her knees bobbed, knocking together in silent, anxious percussion.
I hated it. I didn't want her to go, but somehow I couldn't tell her no. Her logic made sense. If she helped, this job would be over before her mother's return and before her other siblings got involved.
