“I’m not a killer.” This job comes with a list of rules—rules I made up, of course—but ones I felt needed to be established for my clients’ sake to make things perfectly clear. No killing is rule number one. I’m not a hitman, or hitperson, whatever the politically correct term may be.
While Rochelle is jacked into her work, I glance around the room, taking in the upgrades. All new sheetrock and stainless steel. White Mac computers line a workstation central to the room like a kitchen island. As cold as Rochelle herself. She’s the Martha of the fashion world.
She owns this renovated, three-story building on a prime real-estate corner of the city. It’s sleek and industrial. She’s only been in the business for three years, yet she’s climbed the ranks to be one of the top labels in the industry—Dirty Laundry—a new trend that didn’t go out of style.
And she did so with her ex-husband’s money and a work ethic that rivals my own. Oh, and also smiting anyone who dares to compete against her. She might also have a slight god complex.
Rochelle waves me over. “Come here, honey. Come look at this little bitch.” She points to a young, trendy woman on the screen. “How does she think she’ll get away with this?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to notice something?”
She clucks her tongue. “Really, Blakely. After all these years together, you’ve learned nothing from me. Such a disappointment to your own gender.”
“Rochelle…”
“All right.” She clicks another image and enlarges it. “This little twat, who was just a no-name artist on a corner a month ago, just went into collab with one of my distributors. Her simple-minded black-and-white artwork all over denim! It’s disgraceful, and cutting into my own print denim line.”
I rub my forehead. High fashion gives me a nausea-inducing headache. I like nice things. I don’t care why they’re nice. “What is it that you want, Rochelle?”
She glances over her shoulder at her team, then tics her chin toward her glass office. Once she has us sealed inside, she says, “Katy Dee built her career on Instagram. An Instamodel—” she scoffs “—so tacky. I want her account taken down. Her thousands of followers gone, and for good measure…oh, I don’t know. Maybe her line’s latest shipment gets lost upon delivery. Like say, in Indonesia?”
I smile. Rochelle would be good at my job. I rarely have to investigate to come up with a good scheme. “Oh, is that all you want?”
“The usual fee? Or are your prices inflating like everyone else’s in this blood-sucking world?”
I hold up a hand. “The usual is fine. But maybe it’s time for a hormone check?”
She sighs heavily, blowing her fringe of thin bangs away from her forehead. “Seriously. That bastard took all the good parts of me. My youth. My patience. And what am I left with? Menopause and a dried-up vagina.”
And fifteen million dollars in the settlement and alimony.
“I’ll have an update for you tomorrow,” I say, as I head toward the office door. “Try not to murder anyone, and get some hormones, for fuck’s sake.”
Her laugh is loud and throaty.
“Oh,” I say, paused in the doorway. “I will need one other thing this time.”
One of her pencil-thin eyebrows arches.
“Who does your hair?” I ask.
She digs out her phone and punches in a contact. “Lyric, I need a favor. I’m sending her to you in ten.” She hangs up.
“Damn. Must be nice to be the queen.”
She smiles as she scrawls an address on a Post-It and hands it to me. “So what’s the occasion? Are you finally tired of looking like an emo nut from the nineties, or is it a request from Mommy Dearest?”
Besides Lomax, Rochelle is the only other client who knows my real name. It was impossible to keep it from her, seeing as she runs in the same exclusive socialite circle as my mother and her friends.
Rochelle is baiting me. She knows very well Vanessa has no say over my life, more so my hair. I took that power away when I denied any claim to family money.
“Vanessa has nothing to do with this.” I give her a knowing glare. “I need a new look for a special client. He likes blondes.”
“Oh, my my my. A man. I am intrigued!”
Her obnoxious laugh follows me out as I weave a path toward the exit.
They—whoever they are—say blondes have more fun. Well, I’m about to test that theory on one revenge scheme for Ericson Daverns.
Hacking is a learned skill that anyone with half a brain and the basic understanding of computer networks can acquire.
Computers came naturally to me. I remember the couple of girlfriends my mother would always invite over in the hopes I’d “make a connection”. These girls often complained about our comp classes, not understanding the language.
From the first time I laid my little fingers to the keys, I felt that connection I could never obtain with another person. I spoke the language of the cold, hard object that computed information with no emotion to hinder its thought process.
We were kindred.
My teenage years were spent diving the dark web and uncovering every shady corner of the Internet. From a solitary computer, one can do almost anything. Learn anything. Be anyone, find anyone.
The limitless possibilities of a computer’s reach and the anonymity it provides is how I became involved in my field of work to begin with. Police and even the government are still a step behind hackers and people who are governed solely by their greed.
In my upstairs loft, I seat myself behind my metal desk and shake out the loose waves of my freshly highlighted hair before I pull open my MacBook. Maybe it’s just the newness, the mind aware that a drastic change has been made, but my head feels lighter. I actually feel more buoyant.
Lyric must either fear Rochelle or worship her—most likely both—because she canceled her morning appointment to squeeze me in, and according to a quick search of Lyric, she’s one of the most sought-after stylists in New York.
I rolled into Lucy’s office job two hours late, but my boss never gives me too much grief because I make him a ludicrous amount of money. Besides, thanks to my new look, I doubt he even recognized me for the better part of the day.
When Lyric’s task to transform me into another person was complete, I admit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The platinum highlights mixed with caramel lowlights brought out the green in my eyes and the dark slash of my eyebrows, making my eyes a striking feature.
With the right clothes, revealing in strategic places, Ericson should become an easy mark. And to help solidify that endeavor, I log in to my ghost email account and spam him with the most salacious and sexually explicit content.
I hacked all three of his email accounts during the vetting period. He has one email for work, one for VIP clients, and one personal.
I fill his personal account with ads from The Naughty Playroom. Then for good measure, I retarget his social media account with the same ads featuring scantily-clad escorts.
Now, on to Rochelle’s latest victim.
I unkink my neck with a stretch, then dig into research on Katy Dee. She’s just a baby. Twenty-two years of age living right here in NYC. She’s an artist whose focus is on saving endangered animals. Her most popular art prints—zebras, pandas, and other various black-and-white mammals—were picked up by a known clothing brand, and the line proudly touts its use of all natural material.