21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
LYNX
Once again, Harlow’s asleep in my fucking bedroom, her long midnight hair splayed out across my pillow and her soft, silky skin tainting my sheets with her sweet candy scent.
It’s taking everything in me not to storm in there right now, flip her onto her back, plunge myself deep into her perfect, tight pussy, and claim her in every way imaginable.
Christ.
The sounds she makes when she’s aroused. When my fingers are between her legs, teasing her and driving her wild with need.
The fucking taste of her.
I’m a goner. That much is clear. And I haven’t even fucking had her.
I need to get her out of my system. Rid myself of her poison.
Wearing a groove into my office floor, I work through the limited options I’m left with, groaning audibly when I realize there’s only one that appeals to me.
I’ve been procrastinating. And enough is enough. It’s time to finish this once and for all.
Grabbing my truck keys from my desk, I march out of my office and straight down the hall.
Pressing my ear to the bedroom door, I knock and wait for her to respond. When her sultry voice drifts through the thick slab of wood, I let myself in and stand at the foot of the bed, grateful to find she’s wearing a proper T-shirt and not one of those silly little tank tops with no bra.
“I need to step out for a while. I’ll be back by morning.”
She gazes up at me through thick lashes, her caramel eyes clear and bright. She’s finally getting some rest and it’s showing.
“Where are you going?” she asks, clutching the blanket at her thighs.
“I have some errands to run. I’m trusting you to stay here alone. Can you do that for me?”
She swallows, her pupils dilating.
She’s about to lie to me.
“Yes. I’ll stay here.”
Suppressing a groan because I was fucking right, I nod once and turn and leave, not bothering to arm the security system before I hop into my truck and take off down the street.
Once I’m a few blocks out, I park, open the surveillance app on my phone showing me inside my house, and I wait.
As I suspected, it’s a matter of minutes before she’s snooping through my office in search of god knows what. She takes the bait and grabs the handgun from my unlocked desk drawer.
Then she’s on the move, racing back to the bedroom and changing into a fitted black dress that shows off her ample cleavage and a pair of heels.
After checking her appearance in the standing mirror in my bedroom, she smooths her hands down her stomach and makes her way to the door that leads to the garage where her Jeep is parked.
Gritting my teeth, I watch as she checks the alarm, then bolts out to the garage and hops behind the wheel of the rusted-out cereal box she seems to cherish.
Making a mental note to equip her with a more reliable vehicle when this is all over, I switch to the tracker on her Jeep and wait for her to hit the highway before putting my truck in drive and tailing her from a distance, all the way to an upscale bar on the outskirts of the city where wealthy men often pick up high-end prostitutes.
I’m only familiar with the place because I’ve tracked a hit here in the past.
Cutting my headlights, I roll into the lot, park beside her Jeep, and make my way inside.
When I pass through the double door entrance, I’m greeted by a young hostess with pin-straight blonde hair and large fake tits.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Triage. Would you like a table?”
Peering around the dimly lit space, I spot Harlow almost immediately, the pink streak in her hair standing out among the sea of black and gray suits.
She’s seated at the bar, a half-drunk martini in front of her while she fidgets anxiously with the hem of her dress.
Peeling my gaze off the little hellion, I flash the hostess a charming smile and say, “A wall table please, if you have one available.”
She checks a seating chart laid out on the podium, grabs a folded menu from beneath it, and tells me to follow her.
Keeping my chin tucked, I watch Harlow in my peripherals as the hostess leads me around the perimeter of the bar and to a small table in the back corner. I take a seat, thank her, then watch with bated breath as Harlow slowly comes apart at the seams.
A waiter appears beside me a moment later.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?”
Offering him a cursory glance, I order a bourbon. He tips his head and saunters off, returning swiftly with my drink.
I thank him and take a sip of the warm amber liquid, the alcohol burning on the way down but doing nothing to douse the ball of fire in the pit of my gut.
But still, I wait. And I watch.
The way she flips her hair over her shoulder, exposing her beautiful, slender neck is distracting as all hell. The way she circles the rim of her glass with her middle finger is no different.
But it’s the way her wide eyes are darting all over the place, like a wild animal cornered by predators, that has my attention.
It’s only moments later when a tall, slim man in his late fifties strolls through the door and her gaze snaps to him, that all those frayed edges curl inward, the anxiety she’s drowning in disappearing like someone pulled a plug. Her eyes light with a fiery determination and something deadly.
And I just know in my gut that’s one of the six because why else would she be looking at him like she wants to flay his skin from his face.
Resisting the urge to walk over to him and slit his fucking throat, I remain seated and calm and wait for Harlow to make her move. I have no doubts about what she’s planning.
But I do have doubts about whether she can pull it off.
The hostess leads the man to the bar. He takes a seat two stools away from Harlow and orders a drink.
I ball my fist on my thigh when he turns his head and rakes his greedy gaze over her body.
She’s playing it cool, flipping her hair and feigning ignorance.
Finally, he says something. She flashes him a sweet smile and responds. Then he waves down the bartender and orders her another martini. When her drink arrives, she slides it out of his reach.
Good girl.
And then they’re conversing. He’s waving his hands animatedly and she’s laughing. The sound is soft and smooth and slams into me all the way from across the lounge.
It dawns on me that I’ve never heard her laugh other than when she’s spiraling and manic.
A pang of jealousy hits me straight in the gut. But I stomp it down where it belongs and focus on what the little killer is up to.
The man leans in, closing the space between them, and murmurs something in her ear. A disgusted look flickers over her briefly before she rearranges her expression and smiles at him again, nodding in acceptance of whatever he suggested.
That’s when he pulls his phone from his pocket, glances at the screen, holds a finger in the air to indicate he’ll be back in a minute, and saunters off to the front entrance of the building, disappearing out the door.
Downing the remaining liquid in my glass, I slap a bill on the table, smooth my hand down the front of my shirt, and follow him out.