I have to move forward, or abort.
The first part of the plan should’ve been completed already, but I couldn’t slip the drug into Ericson’s drink, not when that guy wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Which makes me wonder again just who the hell he is and what he wants.
I palm the vial as I glide behind the seat and drape an arm around Ericson’s broad shoulders. “I’m getting restless,” I whisper into his ear, my voice seductive.
He sets his martini glass on the divider between seats and touches my arm. “We’ll leave when I’m ready. Try to amuse yourself.”
My shoulders tense. After the altercation, I’m less inclined to maintain my docile façade. I lean against him and press my lips to his neck, all the while keeping my gaze on the others in the lounge. Then I deftly slip my hand over his martini glass and release the contents of the vial.
“All right, baby. I’m ready when you are.” I push away, taking a few seconds to compose myself before I return to my seat next to him.
Ericson should start to feel the GHB in a few minutes. It’s a strong enough dose that he’ll simply appear inebriated to his friends, but will make him very suggestible. I’ll lead him to his office where I can gain access to his computer and other company systems.
I could bag the whole charade and just break into the building, but I like to keep my jobs on the legal front, for the most part. Saves a headache with police and court proceedings.
I glance at the time on my phone screen, recalling the watch in my purse. During Alex’s lap dance, I noticed his reaction was protective. This object is important to him. While Ericson is observing two of the escorts grinding against each other to the beat of the house music, I slip out the pocket watch and click it open.
It’s a basic watch face with pewter hands. The secondhand ticks away. There’s nothing special about the watch that I can tell, but what do I know about watches or even antiques? I’ll search the Internet later.
Ericson’s head starts to sway, his eyes glassing over. I tuck the watch into my purse and slide his way, run the tips of my fingers along the nape of his neck. He revels in the stimulation, the drug that courses his veins makes every touch heightened, pleasurable.
He reaches over and palms my thigh.
Knowing what I do about this guy, his touch should repulse me, and it does on some surface level. But this is work. Luckily, I don’t have to battle emotions to stay focused on the job. That’s what makes me good at what I do.
“I want you.” I say it loud enough so he can hear me over the music and his drug-induced state. His hand starts to creep upward, and I halt his progression. “Not here. Let’s go.”
After a moment of coaxing him to follow me, we leave the seating area of the VIP lounge. My hand firmly gripped to his, I steer him toward the stairs…where he pulls me to a stop.
He tugs me into an alcove between the VIP section and the balcony. It’s private—too private. This isn’t good.
“I love this hair.” His fingers crawl into my hair and he grips a thick hank, giving it a firm tug.
“Ericson…” I coo his name as he presses me against the wall. “Take me somewhere we can be alone.”
He drops his head to my neck, kissing a sloppy trail along the hammock of my neckline and shoulder. “We are alone,” he insists.
Not wanting to make a scene, I plant my hands on his chest. “More alone,” I stress.
His body goes rigid. His grasp around the back of my neck clamps tight. My thoughts turn to the switchblade I carry in my purse for added protection, and the syringe…that I may have wasted on the wrong man.
His eyes find mine, and there’s a molten anger swirling in those light hues. His fingers burrow into my skin as he wrenches my head back. “Do what I say, bitch.” His free hand tears at the hem of my dress and drags it upward.
The GHB was supposed to subdue him. Either it wasn’t potent enough, or Ericson is having an adverse reaction—like it’s unleashing an even more sinister creature within him.
Regardless, this can’t happen.
His fingers clumsily seek between my thighs, and I fight back. I let my clutch fall to the floor as I raise my hands to break his hold. I windmill my arms and collide against his iron hold.
He shoves his knees between my legs and flattens his body against mine, preventing a second attempt. “Oh, you like it rough, baby. I can get rough.”
Completely inappropriately, I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. What’s worse than a rapist? A rapist who quotes clichés.
He slams the back of my head against the wall, and my vision wavers. I feel the material along the slit of my dress rip; his greedy hands fondle my ass. I should find a way out of this situation that doesn’t jeopardize the job, but my self-preservation rears.
I wedge my hands up to find his face and dig my thumbs into his eye sockets.
He howls and stumbles backward. As he tries to clear his vision, I move in and knee him in the balls for good measure before I retrieve my purse and escape.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
I exit the VIP lounge and weave through gyrating bodies, not looking back.
It’s fucked.
Before I leave the club, I glance back once in the direction of the VIP. I don’t spot Ericson, nor do I see the damn asshole that cock-blocked my target to begin with.
I’m tempted to march right to the closet and demand answers. Or drive the three-inch heel of my Louis Vuitton pump into his balls. Both would give me equal satisfaction right now. But that’s not part of the contingency plan.
My hard rule is always to abort. Anything goes wrong, get out.
So that’s what I do.
As I take a turn around the bend of a corner grocery shop, I adjust the torn skirt of my dress to be less noticeable, then I dig out the pocket watch. I click the top toggle and it springs open. The flashing marquee lights glare against the glass face.
I slow my steps as I rub my thumb over the pewter. On the back of the cover is an engraving. I bring the watch closer, using the neon light as an aid to read the inscription.
To my brother, the only other mind I admire.
Curious. A little clue about my stalker. Who are you?
I hold on to the watch as I navigate the sidewalks toward my loft. The crowd swallows me quickly, and I disappear into the sea of people walking the streets.
Collect
Alex
I’m not sentimental by nature. A lifetime of study in biochemistry and biophysics has taught me that nothing is static. Everything around us is in a constant flux of evolution.
One cannot get attached to inanimate objects when one understands those objects will tarnish and degrade. Gears and spring mechanisms will rust and break down. Glass will crack.
And yet, that doesn’t stop the irritating need to touch my pocket watch. I feel as if a part of me is missing. My mind can’t focus on work. The niggling desire to hear the secondhand ticking is a constant distraction.
Memories—that’s the root of the issue. As long as I breathe, as long as my mind is intact, my memories are what bind me to my sentiments.
The object itself is insignificant; it’s what the watch represents that matters.
And she stole it.
I push the bridge of my wireframe glasses up my nose and refocus on the laptop screen. I typically wear contacts while out, like last night at the club. Glasses are too distinctive; they create a persona of intelligence. People assess and judge a person within a span of five seconds.