I press my thumb over the pulse in her wrist. Her heartbeat doesn’t match mine. My pulse is racing where hers is steady.
“There’s this heightened awareness,” I continue. “Things that should be important just aren’t. Like how long we’ve been standing here…I haven’t counted…I don’t care.” I meet her eyes. “All that matters is right now. This moment. It feels like…”
“What?” she presses.
“Like life. The reason we live.”
She’s looking at me like she wants to devour me—but it’s not me she desires, it’s her craving for this feeling, these elusive emotions, that she wants to experience for herself. It’s like trying to explain the taste of the sweetest frosting to someone with no taste buds. An impossibility.
Blakely will never be able to experience these emotions.
Not without me—not if I don’t succeed.
“That’s intense,” she says, a delicate curve lifting her lips. “We should get out of here—”
“Wait.” I grasp her hand tighter, lace our fingers together. “Just a while longer. Stay with me in this moment.”
I expect her to mock me, deride me in some way to cheapen my sentiments. Because for a person like Blakely, it’s her only defense. Being this close has to make her uncomfortable. Only what I glimpse in her expression isn’t derision; it’s pure curiosity.
She allows me to keep her here a moment longer, just us, the sounds of the city muffling the constant ticking in my head, her strange draw tamping down the urge to check my watch.
As I stare into her eyes, I could get lost. I’m being drawn into her, her gravity so strong it’s the equivalent of being drawn in by a black hole. A cold and hollow void with no light and no warmth, a place where time doesn’t exist. And in that void, I would lose any will to care.
This is the moment I know she’s perfect.
12
White Rabbit
Blakely
During his encounter with Ericson at the MMA fight, Alex was able to secure an invite to the attic of The Plaza for tonight.
I was as shocked as he was about this development. What is it about Alex that people like Ericson Daverns gravitate to? Is it his vulnerable nature? Neurotic tics? His apparent cluelessness? Is Ericson so bored by his privileged life that he feels Alex will be an exciting challenge, or does he really enjoy his awkward company?
It’s an enigma to me, and maybe that’s why I’ve kept Alex around also, to study his peculiar behavior, to figure out this mystery. It’s rare when I meet someone I can tolerate longer than the minutes necessary to get what I need—and Alex presents an opportunity for insight.
He doesn’t restrain his emotions. He’s honest with them. An even rarer ability, as I’ve come to understand.
Or maybe it’s all just a gross fascination—one I’ll become bored with as soon as the job is done.
Let’s hope.
I look across the living room at Alex now. Head dipped toward his laptop screen. Dark hair messy and flopping carelessly. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he concentrates, making a dimple pop. Every so often, he checks the time. Not on his phone like a normal person; some compulsion forces him to look at his pocket watch.
If he doesn’t do this at least once during the hour, he becomes agitated. He talks faster, fidgets. Repeatedly runs his hand through his hair.
“We have a girl,” Alex announces. He looks up from the computer screen and stretches his hands overhead.
“I had no idea we were expecting,” I snark.
His features morph into something between a scowl and a smile. It’s cute. “Funny,” he says. “Maybelline Mayberry. God, I hope that’s a fake name. Ericson is sending a Town Car to pick her up at nine in front of a bar.”
I stand to stretch myself, working out the kink in my neck from staring at my phone for so long. We’ve been going over the plan for tonight. Making sure we have everything in place.
Alex has been using his program to monitor Ericson the past few days, waiting for him to order an escort. There was a chance he wouldn’t…after the last girl he ordered drugged him and left him cupping his balls.
But, as I’ve also come to understand, men like Ericson are creatures of habit. He likes to have a beautiful woman on his arm when he attends illicit functions. He likes to have a comfy place to park his cock. Paying for it—in his mind—entitles him to do with his possession as he wishes.
We discussed turning Ericson’s phone into the hot mic, but there were too many possible catastrophes. Alex getting caught bugging his phone for one, where Alex would suffer a far worse beat down than he took at the warehouse.
Ultimately, the escort was the only logical choice.
“Are you sure you can handle this alone?” I’ve asked Alex this before, at least once a day as we’ve formed our plan.
Alex’s role is actually very simple: stay close to Ericson. Yet it’s what’s being asked of him to endure that is the difficult part. After tonight, his part will be done and I’ll take it solo once again. Alex will return to his mundane life in a lab, and I’ll exact Lenora’s revenge.
Game over.
Alex doesn’t answer me this time, however. He just stares, arms crossed over his chest.
I shrug. “It’s not too late to back out, is all I’m saying.”
“Why can’t you just say thank you?” He closes his laptop. “You need me, Blakely.”
“I wouldn’t need you, had you never gotten in the way to begin with.” I traipse to the kitchen to grab a water, tossing over my shoulder, “But thanks for getting us access.” I can thank him for that much, at least.
“Why does this need to take place at the attic?” he asks suddenly.
“Because that’s where Ericson does his dirty deeds.” And I have a feeling, after his last experience, Ericson will be in rare form and looking to exact his own form of punishment on the weaker sex. Our whole plan depends on this.
“It’s just…”
I lower the water bottle from my mouth. “Say it now. We’re out of time.”
The mention of our shrinking deadline stirs a reaction. Alex rises to his feet. “No one should get hurt.”
I hold his gaze for a beat too long, then twist the cap off the bottle and take a swig of water. “We’re not avenging angels, or deities of fate, Alex. We don’t work for the justice department. In fact, we’re not anything.” I drop the water bottle on the counter. “This is my gig, not yours.”
“I know that,” he says, blue eyes wide and searching. “But don’t you feel the least bit responsible if this girl gets hurt?”
“No, I don’t. What do you think would happen tonight if we weren’t involved? Ericson’s choices are his own. If he chooses to hurt someone, it’s going to happen regardless of us. We’re just window dressing. There to observe.”
This was all new and exciting when it was simply a plan, theoretic. Now that we’re here, ready to put it into effect, Alex is suffering his conscience. That thing which holds most people back from doing what’s necessary.