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“You’re an asshole.” I slam my palm to his chest and knock him back to the other side of the threshold. “Hold my calls. I’m not coming out again tonight. And don’t tell the others what’s happening.”
“And what exactlyishappening?” he questions smugly. “You gonna fuck her into submission? While she’s unconscious? Because that’s crossing a line, even for you.”
“I’m not gonna rape her.” I grab the doorknob and start to close the barrier in his face. “I’m just gonna talk to her. Ask her nicely to shut her fucking mouth.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes twinkle with amusement, so I shut him out before he can ride that mood and annoy me more. His chuckling laugh passes through the door, but I turn back to the bed, carrying Christabelle’s purse with me.
Tipping it up the moment I can, I watch the contents spill out onto the black sheets that camouflage it all. Pens and other itemsclackagainst each other and bounce away. Something else hits the floor, a case of some sort with zippers on the side, that’s heavy enough to hit with athud, but I pick up her phone first and check the screen to find dozens and dozens of notifications.
I wonder if she has this many people vying for her attention on a daily basis, or if her popularity is coming on the back of a certain impending engagement announcement being published in a friend’s magazine.
My chest and shoulders bounce with mirth, but I set the phone down again when the locked screen bars further exploration.
Though, it only requires her thumbprint. Easy enough to procure from a woman not yet conscious.
Later.
I open her laptop next and find a similarly locked screen. But the problem with technology these days is that, in its quest to become more difficult to hack, it’s actually become easier, so long as a man has the right tools.
Or, well, an asleep Christabelle Cannon.
Her laptop screensaver is a picture of her and an older man I know to be Michael Cannon. He was of a mature age when he became a father, not marrying or procreating until he was on the other side of forty. So now that his little girl is twenty-seven, age marks his face, his skin not as tight as the money he possesses could probably make it, if he so wished.
Guess he’s not a vain man.Which is refreshing, especially after all the Botox in attendance at last night’s shindig.
Ignoring Christabelle’s glittering smile in the photo,not an expression I’ve witnessed since meeting the woman in the flesh, I close the laptop and set it beside her phone. Then I paw through everything else she carries around daily: glasses, a lens cloth, little towelettes—the kind fast-food places hand out like candy. Pushing aside one, two, eleven hundred pens, I shift my weight and bump something on the floor with the toe of my shoe.
Pulling back and crouching down, I rescue the zipped case, then I rise again, twist, and sit my ass on the edge of the mattress to open it. I lay my find flat on my thighs, stare at the insides for a beat, then frown in curiosity.
I have no fucking clue what it is, but settled in the middle is a little machine. Orange and bright, with a little screen that lights up with numbers when I hit the power button.
Just… numbers. Could be a calculator for all I know.
I scan the rest of the case and find more towelettes in single-serve packets, tucked into a pocket on the side—presumably so they don’t spill out if a person comes searching. I press the random buttons on the small device, but they mean nothing to me, so once I’ve witnessed the very few things the machine does, I close the case again with a shrug and drop it on the pile of her other things.
Exhaling, I bring my hand up and pinch the bridge of my nose.Because fuck, Micah might be right. I have no clue what my plan is here. Kidnap a woman and hope she says nice things about me? Show her my pressure points—my brothers—and expect hernotto use them against me?
I could put her back in the car, take her home, and tuck her in… Then, when she wakes tomorrow with what’ll feel like the hangover from hell, she’ll consider all of this a weird dream.
And go about her normal life, writing shit about me.
But, jesus, that’s not really an option, considering I can’t get into her building without a thousand CCTV cameras tracking my every movement.
I mean… I could. But it would take some organization and a little more lead time than ‘let’s go.’
Christabelle’s phone vibrates briefly, drawing my eyes around so my hand falls from my nose. I snatch up the device, grab Christabelle’s delicate hand, and press her thumb to the scanner at the bottom. The screen clears, and a billion apps burst into view, complete with notifications.
Emails: seventy-three unread.
Calls: several unanswered.
Texts: dozens unopened.
I navigate to the messaging app first and stop on the name at the top.
Dana:Can we discuss our piece some more tonight? You left the office so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to tell you what I found.
I consider Dana’s message for a beat, but for every second I debate with myself, more pop up from another contact. Davis.And not just one, or two, but a constant barrage, his name dropping down from the top of the screen, clearing, then almost immediately dropping down again.
