Chapter 10 Wesley
Wesley
I’m… compromised.
I follow her home because I’ll be damned if I let her make the five-block walk alone. Unguarded. Looking like that? Fuck no.
After I confirm that she’s safely inside her building, I trot back to where I parked my bike.
The ride to the van—parked a few miles away in an abandoned strip mall across from a garage—is short, but Madison has already changed into pajamas by the time I get my screens up.
As I settle in, I turn over the events of the evening with a half-smile I can’t seem to wipe away. And the night isn’t over yet.
I had to be very careful when I slipped the sedative into her drink.
I’m partial to a bit of sleight of hand, but if anyone had caught me, it would not have ended well.
Difficult to explain. But I managed, and the carefully calibrated dose should be just enough to lull her into a very peaceful sleep in about an hour.
She’ll be deeply under when I break in to clone her phone and sneak onto her computer.
And then, once I have what I need, I’ll take it back to the house and sift through Madison Cooper’s private life and discuss with my team whether or not we’re taking the hit…
Dread and disappointment curl together and sit heavily in the center of my chest—which, obviously, is the wrong fucking response. She’s a target. Always has been. But deep down I think I knew from the moment I saw her that Madison was going to be a big problem for me. Our date only confirmed it.
Physically, she’s exactly what I like in a woman.
But she’s not just beautiful; she’s also confident and funny and witty.
She’s quick, she doesn’t back down, she knows what she wants, and if you step out of line, she’ll knock you right back into the place where she decides you go.
She made me work for it; she made me want to work for it.
Flirting with her felt so much like verbally sparring with my mermaid, I didn’t want the date to end.
And that kiss? I was half hard on the street as she sauntered away. Still am.
I lean back in my seat and shut my eyes, squeezing my thigh as the familiar fantasy crops up.
In my mind, it’s always mermaidav—whoever she is.
The one woman I can’t have. She kneels before me, half under my desk, face partly obscured by some randomly generated hair.
Sometimes it’s blonde, or red, or something more eye-catching and unnatural, like purple.
This time, mermaidav is wearing Madison’s face.
This time in the fantasy, her hair is thick and dark with green streaks as I wind it around my hand.
I’ve barely been able to get the sounds of her sweet moans out of my mind—and now that I know how she feels in my arms, how her soft curves press into me, how she tastes…
I’m not just hungry; I’m starving for her—all of her, not this facsimile assembled through distance.
I want to know all the things you can only know from being close enough to touch.
I want to know what her hair smells like, if she gets cold easily, if she hums to herself or sings in the shower, and if her hands are calloused.
I want to watch her eyes light up as she laughs, or her pupils dilate with anticipation as she watches me approach.
I want to know how fast she reads. I want to know if she’s ticklish and what her weight feels like on my lap.
I want to know how she tastes everywhere.
Fuck. I don’t want to fuck my hand anymore.
I’m sick of it. I want to wrap my fingers around something larger, press into something softer.
I want to feel her pulse flutter under my fingertips as she responds to the sensations I inflict.
I want to feel her throat move against my palm, and the vibrations from her voice box as she begs for relief from my cock.
I want both of us to watch as I slide so slowly into her body that it does nothing to satisfy the restless, hot need welling between her legs—because I value accuracy, and begging for my cock isn’t the same as begging to be fucked…
The cock that’s currently pounding with its own heartbeat, the sensitive tip punching rhythmically at the back of my fly. Fuck, at this rate I’m going to have a zipper imprint on my dick. I move in my seat, shifting the length in my trousers.
Get a hold of yourself, man.
As hot-blooded as I currently feel, I know she was just as revved up when we parted ways.
I could see it in the flush in her cheeks, and the way her eyes clouded with desire.
I can’t help wondering with equal parts hope and dread: will she take her vibrator for another spin before turning in for the night?
Unfortunately, she doesn’t get into bed and treat me to a show—though I probably wouldn’t have seen much of it anyway with the camera angled how it is.
She gets high and zones out in front of a horror movie, mindlessly scrolling on her phone until she succumbs to the sedative and falls asleep on her couch around 10 PM.
After the feed picks up her soft snores among the suspenseful music and intermittent movie soundtrack screams, I move.
Turning off all the security cameras on the block takes no time at all.
Shutting off the streetlamps for cover is a bit harder, but I manage it in a matter of a few minutes and keystrokes.
No cable tech uniform and hard hat tonight; instead, I pull on a black jumper to more easily blend into the night and shove a balaclava in my back pocket just in case.
Picking the lock to the main door of her building is the most challenging, but my skills are improving.
I let the breezeway door close as softly as possible behind me. The muffled echo of my footsteps is the only sound in the dark hallway. Holding my breath, I reach for the knob of apartment 102, fully expecting to meet resistance.
It’s open.
My brows snap down. She fell asleep without locking the door. Well, I’m not fucking leaving her in an open flat all night—I’ll just have to hope she won’t remember leaving it unlocked when she wakes in the morning.
As I crack the door open, the horror movie music plays to a crescendo. How fitting.
When the noise and motion don’t seem to disturb her, I step inside. The sedative I chose is very effective, but you never know how someone will react to it. It seems to have totally knocked her out.
I stare down at her. She looks so damn soft. Soft hair, soft skin, soft body…
She’s curled on her side on the couch, breathing evenly.
Her head is on the arm closest to me, and her hair spills around her, wild and careless.
Her legs and stomach are dark silhouettes underneath the blanket, but their rounded shape is unmistakable.
In this position, her breasts press together from gravity and the weight of her arm, giving her cleavage a deep line that I wish like hell I could explore.
The flimsy strap of her tank top has slipped halfway down her bicep and the neckline is dangerously low, giving me a glimpse of the edge of a dark nipple.
My heart pounds harder in my chest, the noise drowning out all rational thought as I sink to my haunches and bring our faces near enough that we’re breathing the same air.
Some of her hair has fallen across her face, so I reach up and gently brush back the strands, tucking them back behind her ear so I can see her better. I liked the look she wore to dinner, but without makeup she looks more innocent. Peaceful.
The feathering of dark lashes against her skin gives her sleeping face a delicate look, and her smooth cheeks are a touch flushed, perhaps from sleep or the warmth of the room.
The slight part of her lips is such a tempting invitation, I can’t look away.
Driven by urges I can’t name or explain, I lift my index finger and touch the middle of her bottom lip, pulling it down just a fraction.
Seeing the depression of my finger in the pillowy, soft skin makes me bite back a groan.
The memory of these lips against mine plays on a loop as I trace their fullness lightly. Desire flares, pounding a steady, mounting rhythm in my blood. Perhaps… just another taste…
She inhales sharply, and I startle, shifting back.
It’s just a small snore, and her eyes remain firmly shut, but it’s enough to remind me of the stakes and snap me out of whatever trance I seem to be in.
I rise, and pull the blanket up higher over her sleeping form, hiding her partial nudity like I should have done from the first.
What the hell am I doing? Other than being an absolute pervert on a sleeping woman.
I wish I could chalk it up to being rusty—it’s been too long since I stepped out from behind my screens—but the truth is much more uncomfortable than that, I fear.
Because where shame ought to twist and eat away deep in my stomach, there’s only a cool, steely kind of vindication because what I’m doing is wrong, but it feels right.
Shit. I’m too close to this, too attracted to her. I’m not being rational. If we decide to take the hit, I’m not going to be able to go through with it. I’m… compromised. Perhaps I should bring Mac in to take over.
At the thought, anger rises in my chest—I don’t want him anywhere near her.
Yeah, I’m definitely compromised. I don’t understand this power she has over me, and it’s starting to make me feel insane.
I’m meant to be calm, rational, controlled.
The job demands it; my role demands it. But I’ve blown way past irrational, verging on obsessed.
It’s my own fault for letting myself get so close.
Once I have her information, I can return to my office to sort it out. Physical distance should help with the emotional distance I clearly need.
Her phone is sitting on the coffee table, so I grab it and type in the passcode I’ve seen her use through the cameras.
Moving silently, I bring it with me into her bedroom, cloning it to my own as I go.
Her computer’s RGB fan casts light into the room, so when I wake the screen it’s not a sudden shift from darkness to blue light.
I enter her password, confirm her identity using her cell phone, and tap around curiously through her home bar.
I recognize most of the icons and feel my brow lift, seeing some of the same programs I use for writing and testing code.
Madison Cooper knows what she’s doing, and she’s no slouch with technology. As if she needed to be more perfect.
Odd that she didn’t mention it at dinner, though I suppose I had to drag personal details out of her—
I freeze, recognizing the last tab in her open browser. It’s an IRC. I click on it, maximizing the window in the screen and bringing up her last conversation. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.
It’s my IRC. And that’s… that’s my handle… and her handle is…
I scramble away from the screen like I’ve been burned, nearly toppling her office chair.
No.
No!
Madison Cooper is mermaidav.
Shit.
Shit.
The General wants her dead. I’m meant to kill her.
I’m not compromised. I’m screwed.
My heart beats wildly. My mind races, thoughts swirling too fast to catch and hold on to any single one. Rapid-fire bursts of alarm, dread, fear, excitement, longing, relief, vindication, and fury get all mixed up.
No wonder everything about her felt just a little bit familiar. I should have known. Well, I should have guessed. What are the odds I’d have such an intense connection with two people the same way? That two different women would have the same sense of humor and use the same colloquialisms?
I suppose I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want to think that my mermaidav is someone I’ve been sent to kill…
Well, obviously I’m not fucking doing that. That same protective instinct I was just questioning flares. Anyone who touches a single green hair on her lovely head dies.
But the General has eluded me for years.
What the fuck am I going to do?
I need a plan.
As much as I want to stay—to wake her, to hold her to me, to hover protectively—I need to leave. Madison is going to wake up eventually, and she can’t find me here. And I know that if I let myself stop for even a second to look at her again, I’ll never leave.
So I don’t let myself pause long enough to do anything other than place her phone back where it was and reverse pick the lock on my way out, just to ensure she’s safe.
I barely maintain the presence of mind to check the time before I make the call.
Not quite 11 PM. Dimitri will be in bed, but Mac should still be awake.
He answers on the first ring. “Yo.”
“We have a big problem.”