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One drink. One drink to give in to the temptation to stay, then I’ll talk to Jade and head back to help Devan with his research.
One drink.
And the road to hell is paved with equally good intentions.
NINE
gabriel
Lack of sleepis a health concern for normal men.
It’s a fucking death sentence for me. There’s too much at stake if I’m not working at optimal capacity. Too many threads to grasp to let any of them slip.
I close my eyes and it’s not my palm that’s wrapped around my cock. It’s Layla, panting as I touch her, the look in her eyes as much loathing as desire. The combination is better than any sort of blue pill and I wonder what kinds of hateful things she’ll tell me once I slide between her legs.
Because at this point I’m sure—it’s going to happen.
I’m entirely too caught up in her and it’s going to get me worse than dead; it's going to compromise my ability to do my job. More assholes on the streets. More psychopaths running wild.
And the delectable detective at the center of it all with her enticing mystery.
I need to leave it alone and stop fantasizing. I’m not the fantasy type. It doesn’t matter as I stroke myself to completion, coming all over my own chest and working myself until the last bit of jizz drips out.
Cold hard reality is the only world available. People are shit, their motives are fucked, and a little kindness is normally wasted on the unworthy. The lighter, the symbol, the Syndicate…
I push to the side of the bed and grab a towel, wiping myself clean.
The burner phone on the nightstand bleats out a text alert and I glance at the screen. An address, from another burner number. Pushing aside my exhaustion, I focus on the number and memorize it before deleting the text, stretching my neck from side to side.
This distraction isn’t good.
The building pressure needed a release, though, an outlet. Fucking Jade did nothing to help the knots inside of me. Even my balls are still tight. I need sex or death, somewhere decent to bury myself.
The latter will be more accessible, considering the text.
Another mark.
This one doesn’t have to be a statement, at least.
Pushing up from the bed, I’m feeling a thousand years old. My bones ache and my muscles cramp. Mechanically I shift to the closet and press the button keeping my weapons hidden. The panel slides open. Coat, check. Knives? I slide them into special holsters built into my belt, around my ankle, under my arms, and at the small of my back.
Not even the barest minimum of excitement for this kill, which isn’t normal for me.
It’s got to be Layla I sink into before this is done.
The thought gnaws at me and I shake it right out of my head. I push my hair out of my face, behind my ears. I’ve never needed a specific pussy before. Just a willing one. It makes no difference to me usually, and I’ve got no damn clue why it does now.
Getting old.
Gettingtooold to keep fucking around like a guy in my twenties when I’m thirty-three.
It’s easy enough to drive to the specific address from the text, glancing in my periphery at the abandoned gas station. I pull to a stop and stare at the pumps. The entire place has fallen into disrepair, the owners either foreclosed or unwilling to do anything with their investment.
More than likely the owner would rather not be known.
It needs to be condemned or torn down. There are too many hiding places, inside and out, dual alleys providing plenty of cover. Taking a breath to steel myself, I stare at the building and mark the exits, the chain keeping the front door locked and the plywood covering a broken window.
So this isn’t a butchering, then. It’s a meeting.
