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Skin fairer than porcelain. Dark hair that curls at the ends. His face is interesting. Not the rugged, square-jawed, bulging muscles of a sports model. More editorial. Like someone who’d be on the cover ofVoguewearing an oversized tuxedo jacket with no undershirt.
Sharp brown eyes pierce the camera. Even in a photo, he bears a lethal charisma.
I scroll away.
Every image is of him in some kind of tweed. I wonder if that’s intentional or if he can’t be bothered to choose a different style of clothes.
Another picture.
He smiles a lot more than men of his net worth usually do in these articles. Seems like someone who’s at ease with himself. With laughter.
Would he offer mercy if I asked?
The tram is almost to the top of the mountain.
Jenny waves to me. She waits until I look at her before signing, “Are you okay?”
I lift a thumb, trying to stay calm.
The tram stops abruptly, almost hurtling me out of my seat.
We’re here.
It’s time to meet my debtor.
* * *
Richard Sullivan II is a work of art.
There. I said it.
Yesterday, in the darkness and the chaos and my panic-fueled, bat-swinging haze, I couldn’t fully appreciate it.
But here I am.
And here he is.
And the man is beautiful.
Albeit, he’s that untouchable kind of beautiful. The kind that makes you want to turn your eyes away because looking at something that exquisite feels like you snuck into a fancy museum without an invitation.
And just like priceless artwork, Richard Sullivanlooksexpensive.
Staring at him, I finally get why his particular brand of ‘rich’ feels different to me. Most of the wealthy men I know, except for a few, worked for their place in the top. Rags to riches. A real underdog story.
But Richard Sullivan isn’t just rich. He’srich-rich. The kind that receives a deed to a private island in the Bahamas for his sixteenth birthday. Who rides in his grandfather’s horse stable and plays non-competitive polo. Who casually talks about sitting frontside at Paris Fashion Week when he was ten like it’s a jaunt to summer camp.
He’s the exact kind of posh, old money, better-than-thou hearing person I despise.
But that’s good news.
A guy like him wouldn’t be a serial killer.
I imagine Richard Sullivan lifting me to the sky and hurtling me down the mountain as a sacrifice.
An eye for an eye.
A human for a priceless car.
