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So I opt to get out and change the scenery.
Preferably by fucking someone.
It’s the best way to get rid of accumulating tension, but there’s one tiny problem about that.
Ever since I fucked Anastasia three weeks ago, I haven’t had the appetite for anyone else.
It’s not that I don’t want to fuck. It’s that I want to fuckher. No one else but the lying, conniving thief that I should’ve outed by now.
The background check Daniel did on her is squeaky clean, which is suspicious as hell. Just like her.
And I’ll handle it.
I just haven’t figured out how. Because every time I see her, I picture my dick in her mouth or her tight pussy.
And that’s not very productive. Or maybe it is, depending on which angle one looks at it from.
I leave my briefcase in my office and take the lift to the car park. Someone stops it a floor below, one of the assistants. She smiles and I fake one right back.
It’s easy now, to pretend that I’m normal, that I can automatically smile upon seeing another human instead of having nefarious thoughts about throwing them from the highest floor.
I might act friendly, but I don’t trust people. Not after the kindest-looking ones made mine and my sister’s lives hell.
The rotten people looked posh, elegant, and had all the right connections and money to hide their nefarious tendencies. They used their power to prey on the vulnerable and feed their fucked up animalistic urges.
Which is why I made it my mission to make them pay any chance I got. The press and everyone in the law circuit says I’m picky, but they don’t know the actual reason behind that.
I refuse to represent a person if I doubt they’re rotten.
They have a stench—the rotten ones—and I can smell it from a mile apart. It’s a sixth sense that I’ve had ever since I was a child.
Don’t get me wrong. That doesn’t mean I give a fuck a fuck about justice. At least not in the traditional sense.
If a woman comes to me because she murdered her abusive husband, good for her. I’ll get her out of prison in a heartbeat.
If a man killed his gold digging, emotionally abusive wife, good for him, too. I’ll give him a new page so he can start over.
Yes, I get murderers out of prison, but not any murderers.
Not any abusers.
Just the ones I don’t smell that rotten stench on them.
When the lift is about to close, I spot a very petite and very familiar woman walking at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.
I don’t even think about it as I hit the button that opens the doors before it closes. This is not the IT department, so what’s she doing here?
That girl is shady as fuck, and today, I won’t let it go.
I follow after her, keeping a safe distance. She doesn’t notice me, though, since she has that nerdy way of being so focused either on her computer, or on her feet, like right now.
She’s carrying her laptop case and lowering her head as she cuts the distance in record time. She’s fast, but not forceful, almost like a breeze passing through.
Her destination is, apparently, a staff supply room that’s rarely used. She stops in front of it and checks her surroundings like a thief before breaking and entering. I hide around the corner until she goes inside.
I wonder what the little daredevil is doing on a floor that shouldn’t concern her and in a supply room. I doubt it’s because a tech was needed here.
Instead of following right after, I wait five minutes. I need her to be engrossed in whatever her task is so she doesn’t get the chance to hide.
