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“What am I supposed to do about my regular job?”
Cyrus pulls out his gun, examining it, and without him needing to say a word, I ask, “When do I start?” because it’s this or get a bullet in my brain.
“Immediately.”
“What information am I looking for?”
“Any and all.”
That sounds a lot different than just his extramarital affairs.
“Boss, if I don’t know what to look for, it’ll be like searching for a needle in a goddamn haystack.”
He stops to regard me, repeating, “Any. And. All.”
“The mark… Who is he? What if he recognizes me?”
“He’s a hollow cunt named Kordin Debrosse. He runs Debrosse Investment Properties Group. If you roughed him up as good as you say you did…”
He pauses, only resuming after I nod my head.
“…he shouldn’t even be able to work for a while.”
“What about your client?”
“What about them?”
I swallow.
“Are they aware of the new plan?”
Cyrus’s lips spread in a terrifying sort of smile before they thin back out. “Do I need to remind you what’s at stake if you fail again?”
My own face hardens. “I won’t fail.”
“Good.” Grabbing several tissues, he wipes at the hand that was just around his cock, getting between each and every finger before moving on to his cuticles and under his nails.
“How old are your sisters now? Ripe for the picking, huh?”
I don’t answer him either. I just spin on my heel, giving him my back as I stroll from the room, Cyrus’s laugh following me all the way out. Fucking bastard knows I’ll do anything to make sure my sisters never work here. It’s bad enough both sisters and my mom technically work for him at the flower shop.
It’s up to me to protect them the way my father failed to.
I can’t fuck up again.
Lex
I’m just entering the locker room of our town’s most affluent wellness center when a trio of women cut me off, intrigue in their expressions and determination in their exaggerated hip sways. Forming a semicircle around me, effectively blocking my path forward, the three make a show of examining my appearance. My overpriced yoga pants and snug-fitting tank must meet their standards because they give each other self-righteous head tilts.
“Hello,” I greet with a pleasant tone, despite my building irritation at being approached so ridiculously. What is this, middle school?
The leader steps forward first, her astringent designer perfume nearly knocking me over.
“We wondered if we’d ever get to see you. In all the times Kordin’s been in, he’s always alone.”
I keep my expression flat. My husband is a lifetime member here—according to him, only for the status—except I wasn’t aware he actually used it. Kordin and I have been using our home gym for as long as we’ve been together, preferring to actually work out instead of pretending to while getting the gossip on everybody… Or so I thought.
This is my first time visiting the local high-tech gym, and I’m only here because of its full-service spa. After my Graves’ disease diagnosis two years ago, massage became a regular part of my treatment plan. Kordin jumped on the opportunity to send me away by “gifting” me weekend trips to different spa retreats all over the tri-state area, and because I genuinely wanted to get better, I went on them all, knowing my husband would be spending the time fucking other women whose bodies hadn’t failed them. Despite being in remission for the last year, we’ve continued the ritual. I get more out of a massage from a stranger than I ever have being fucked by Kordin, so I cherish the weekends I can get out of town, if only for my mental health.
