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But lately, it’s less good work and more sloppy, macho bullshit. More secrecy and lies. I don’t recognize half the agents, and I’m tired of it, alright? Getting too old for this crap.
It’s easy to slip around the outskirts of camp, darting from rock to rock. The men are done for the day, more interested in the bottom of their bottles than keeping watch, and their bursts of rowdy laughter set my teeth on edge.
Betty’s not safe here. This is a different kind of jungle, and she’s trapped right in the middle of it. Juicy and tempting.
Have they hassled her already? Or are they building up to it? Peeling the back of her canvas tent open, I slip through the gap. I’ll be here when they do.
Betty squeaks when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. She’s in the doorway, but she can’t stay there. Too suspicious.
I put a finger against my lips. She nods, her eyes so blue even in the dim tent, then marches right back out.
Shit.
My gut sinks as her footsteps thump away against the dirt. Did I read this all wrong? Maybe she wants to be here; maybe she volunteered. The knife strapped to my belt whispers as I pull it loose, because I won’t hurt Betty either way, but the rest of these fuckers are fair game.
But then: “Here’s your earpiece. Now get this wire off me, will you?” Betty says on the other side of camp, her voice clear as a bell. “It’s giving me a rash.”
A man replies: “Fine. But keep those boots on.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
I smirk at Betty’s sarcasm, eyes adjusting to the gloom of her tent. My knife sighs back into its sheath.
There’s a narrow cot with a foam mattress, a tangled thin blanket and a pillow. A makeshift nightstand made from an upturned box. A flashlight, a toothbrush, a bar of soap in a travel dish. A hairbrush and a stick of deodorant.
It’s the barest sliver of her life, but I can’t help moving closer, nudging the flashlight with my fingertip. I lift the soap silently, breathing in the scent, then place it next to the hairbrush, tangled with a few golden strands.
At the bottom of her cot, a duffel bag sags open, spilling crumpled vest tops and underwear onto the mattress. A towel hangs from the tent bars overhead, dusted with sand and left to dry.
Have they gone through her stuff? Did they watch her bathe? My pulse slams in my ears, and I thank god I followed her back here. She’s alone with all these men, and so vulnerable. At their mercy.
Unacceptable.
I’ve been so caught up in getting an ocean away from this woman—keeping my distance. Keeping her safe.
I forgot there are worse monsters than me.
* * *
Two months ago
I’m back at the coffee shop, ordering the same drink from the same barista. It’s a pattern, and I know that’s dangerous, but for some reason I can’t resist.
Betty, her name badge says. It’s clipped to her black polo neck, the corner snagging on her apron strap.
She grins at me as I approach the counter—stands a little straighter, and tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her ponytail swings as she turns to check for her colleague, but the other barista slipped away when she saw me coming.
Smart woman. If only Betty had the same instincts around me.
There’s blood on my hands, after all. If I ever touched her, she’d be stained too.
“Hey, stranger.” Betty always greets me the same way, her head cocked to one side and eyes sparkling. Eight times I’ve been here, now. Eight times in one month.
Like I said: it’s a pattern.
Reckless. Stupid.
Electrifying.
