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“Yeah, what I could find, I have. I’ll shoot it to your e-mail?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks. This is between you and I, Trevor,” I remind him. Not that he’s ever broken my confidence. I think his gut tells him that’s a bad idea. Most people have an innate inner alarm system that warns them when they get on a predator’s radar.
“Of course, half the shit we do isn’t legal, boss. You know you don’t have to keep reminding me.”
This goes far beyond that, Trev.
I leave the words unspoken. Trevor doesn’t need to know what I’m planning. Fuck, I don’t even think I know what I’m planning. I know that Emery Stanner will be covered in blood in the end, though.
What’s unclear is how long I’ll toy with my meal before I devour it.
When I get back to my apartment and open my Mac, I flick through the e-mail Trevor had sent me. There’s not much here. Even a deep dive had turned up little. Money changing hands between his father and multiple departments. No news story on the incident on November 6th, 2006, yet money was donated by the Stanners to rebuild two city parks only a week later.
I shake my head. The things a mayor is willing to bury are ridiculous. It seems when Father Dearest died; he left his son and his best friend a shit ton of money and property. His address is listed in the e-mail, and I smile.
Thank you, Trevor.
I close my Mac and grab my keys off the table and my trusty wooden baseball bat from the corner by the front door. Just in case.
I smirk as I swing it absently while I head down the elevators to the ground level parking garage. My drive over is uneventful. The surrounding city is buzzing while simultaneously in the process of shutting down for the night. There’s something about a city at night. All the lights twinkle through the brisk air, giving an almost effervescent feeling that melts through you. It’s the same feeling one gets when they look at a Christmas tree.
His building screams ‘I didn’t work for this’, and I roll my eyes at the grandness of it. I park on the side of the street, waiting outside of the parking garage. Stalking isn’t something that’s new to me, so I settle in as I watch the exit for his car to emerge. When he does, I’ll have to find the opportunity to approach him.
I’ve always been someone who hyper-fixates on things. I don’t know why, it’s my personality. Whether it be a food, television show, or a female.
Tonight, it’s retribution. Revenge for what she’d endured. She hadn’t told me what happened, no, but I’ve seen the fear that she houses in those beautiful eyes. The damage that’s visible if one only looks long enough. I bet he didn’t. I guarantee he couldn’t see past the throbbing of his dick long enough to truly witness all Carina offered the world.
And soon, she’d be the last thing his eyes behold before his big send off to hell. With him gone, maybe Carina will sleep easier. I’d been in the shadows when she’d awakened from her nightmare. Everything in me begged to go to her and wrap around her. To teach her how I relieve the pressure. But it was clear in the way she shook I needed to stay hidden right where I was. If I would’ve touched her in the state she was in, it would’ve ruined my touch for her for good. She’d associate my touch with the torments of her mind. I know well when you wake from a dream like that, it’s difficult to shake off. It takes a moment to ground yourself back to reality. Nightmares have a way of gripping on and riding you.
I’m about to sayfuck thisand enter his building when the prick exits. He waves to the doorman, swinging his keys around his index finger as the valet tosses them to him.
Fucking cunt.
When he gets in his car and cranks the engine, I am ready to follow at a safe distance. Taking him in front of any building he owns won’t do. He’ll have this place secured like Fort Knox, and I don’t have the fucking time or patience to deal with tech tonight.
I want to get back to Carina and make sure she’s okay. No doubt she’s spiraling, worried about what I might do to Mr. Perfection.
I follow him to the outskirts of town, and I can’t deny the unease blossoming in my stomach as he pulls into a haunt of mine. The Bluefish is a small hole-in-the-wall bar on the edge of town near the water, too seedy for most to enter. Emery Stanner locks his Audi and saunters in like he fucking owns the place.
Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.
I almost decide to wait in the car, ready to tail him when he leaves again. Too many know me here. Well, they think they do, anyway.
“Fuck,” I grumble, hitting the steering wheel a few times for good measure before turning the key and sliding it out of the ignition. As I walk up to the building that’s seen better days, I pocket my keys and make sure my blade is hidden beneath my shirt in the back of my pants. Gravel crunches under my boots and it’s almost cathartic, rousing me like a smelling salt would wake a patient.
Hand on the door, I roll my neck as I enter The Bluefish. The smell of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and men straight from work cascade up my nostrils, causing the hairs within to curl. All around me, men laugh boisterously, women move from table to table to see who’s going to take them home, and people too drunk to do so throw darts at a wall.
I find a booth in the corner under a Coors Light sign that’s blinking on and off every few seconds, sliding in and throwing a booted foot into the seat next to me. Don’t want anyone to get any ideas about coming and conversing with me.
I let my eyes drift around the room unsuspectingly, never looking at anyone for too long before darting them away.
“Hey, Gage! Haven’t seen you in a while, sugar,” Allie says as she plops into the seat across from me.
I smile. It won’t hurt to have company in the booth. It’ll draw attention away from me, so I let the smile grow larger as I meet her glazed eyes. She’s in her fifties, and those years have been rough. Her massive tits are barely held inside her muscle shirt not meant for a broad her size.
She shoves her hand down into her bra, pulling out a lighter as she flicks it and singes the end of her cigarette. Breathing deeply, she eyes me assertively.
“Where you been?” she asks.
