12. Myla
CHAPTER TWELVE
Walking into my room, I grab a pair of leggings and panties from my dresser before walking into my closet and dropping my robe. While pulling them on, I’m pleased with the delicious way my body is sore. I’ll give the man credit—his stamina and technique are remarkable. My lady bits tingle thinking about the way he worshipped my body, but I was clear when I told him what I was offering, so how dare he try and renegotiate?
I pull a T-shirt over my head, scoffing as I walk out of the closet. He wants to explore his feelings for me? Is he insane? I just described, in detail, how I murdered a man and how fine I feel about it. There’s evidence of my bloody expedition in my shower and on the floor of my bathroom, and he wants a relationship with me?
“We’re not done talking,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb, looking calm and casual despite his collar being back on and his black shirt buttoned up tight. He’s tall and on the thinner side, but last night proved he’s deceptively strong. I get sidetracked thinking about the way his strong hands felt on my hips as he moved me up and down on his cock. I hardly had to do anything toward the end. It was all him.
I tilt my head, wondering what else those clothes are hiding, and decide now is a good time to bring it up. Maybe I can scare him into retracting his statement and doing what’s best for both of us by staying the hell away from me.
“I can’t ‘explore feelings’ with a man who won’t even take his clothes off during sex,” I say, moving about my room, organizing things that don’t need organizing, just to have something to focus on.
“That’s a different conversation.”
“Is it?”
“What happened last night was fucking incredible, and I want to do more of it, but what I’m talking about is getting to know you, taking you on dates, spending time with you.”
I drop the sweater—that I’ve folded six times now—to the mattress and huff. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not in the best headspace right now. I don’t exactly have the emotional capacity for what you’re proposing.”
He holds up his hands. “That’s fine. I can wait.”
“I don’t want you to wait. That’s too much pressure, and I can’t handle the burden of your expectations.”
With a flicker of a smile on his lips—as if my response was cute and not a rejection—he makes his way across the room in confident strides, stopping just inches from me. Before I know what’s happening, his hands are framing my face and his lips are on mine. I’d like to say I push him away to prove I’m serious, but it would be a lie. His lips feel too good, and I’m still too raw from yesterday’s events.
I drop the sweater and hook my fingers in the belt loops on his hips, once again cursing our height difference. He tilts my head back to deepen the kiss, and I allow it because this will probably be our last. Probably.
He pulls away, but just barely. Looking deep into my eyes, I can practically see his thoughts churning. I try to pull away because he weakens me with every word he speaks, but he holds on tight.
“Can you try something for me?”
“What?”
He grips me by the waist and picks me up. Just like last night, I wrap my legs around him, his hands shifting to under my ass and holding me up. “Kiss me, and when you do, run your hands up and down my back.”
“Why?” It’s a strange request, and I think back to where I touched him last night. I held onto his shoulders, hugged him around the neck, and touched him everywhere down there while I sucked his cock, but never his back. My own curiosity, along with his nervous, uneasy expression has me wanting to play along.
This man is making it hard for me to remain cold and ruthless.
“I want to test something.”
“Judge. . .”
“Just kiss me,” he urges.
“It’s not a good?—”
“Myla,” he says more forcefully. “Just fuckin’ kiss me and run your goddamn hands down my back. It’s not that deep.” He’s lying. This means something to him. It feels like a test that I’m not sure I want to pass. Then I remember how anxious he was about giving in to me last night, but he did it anyway. It would only be fair to return the favor.
I lean in and brush my lips against his lightly, teasing him. I get the feeling we’ve switched places, and now he’s the one who needs to be distracted from his pain. If I’m right, then I need to ease into it. He tenses as I weave my hands under his arms to give me better access to his back, so I stop at his sides. Sinking my teeth into his lower lip, I tug gently, bringing his attention back to the kiss. It works, and I feel his obliques relax.
Done with the tease, I kiss him in earnest now, not holding anything back. He moans as I push passed his lips and tangle his tongue with mine. He tastes bitter, like his black coffee, and I think maybe I haven’t given coffee a fair chance because, on him, it’s delicious, and I can’t get enough.
He moves one arm under my ass to free the other so he can skim a hand up the back of my T-shirt. His warm palm slides up my spine until he’s gripping the back of my neck. It’s possessive, and as much as I try to hate it, I can’t. This man is dangerous, but he said he’d leave after this. Once he’s gone, I’ll be able to purge him from my mind and get back to what I need to be focusing on right now.
Slowly, so as not to spook him, I inch my hands around his sides to his back. Unfortunately, the leather of his cut and the fabric of his shirt separate me from his skin. I’d love to feel his muscles extend and flex, but I get the feeling he couldn’t handle that right now. I skim across the rough edges and tight stitching of the large SOE patch on his back. In my mind’s eye, I picture the skull with large twisting ram horns sticking out of the top. The skull has vampire fangs and no lower jaw, with blood dripping from one eye and one horn. It’s a sinister image that I never thought suited the man I’m currently wrapped around, but the more I get to know him, the more I see a glimpse of the outlaw biker in him.
He pulls away from me, gasping for breath, a look of awe on his handsome face. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
He sets me down and rests a palm on my cheek. “Thank you.”
“Believe what?” I repeat. He spins on his heels and walks out of the room, heading straight for the front door, but I haven’t gotten my answer. Giving chase, I yell out, “Believe what, Judge?”
The only answer I get is the snick of the door closing and the grinding of the lock clicking into place. I stand staring, wondering what happened. I’m tempted to run after him and demand answers, but I’ve already given enough of myself for the day. Besides, I shouldn’t care. He can’t matter to me; no one can. Not until I’m done with my list.
I sigh, letting it go. I have things to do, so I mentally run through my checklist. Grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen, I head to my bathroom. With a plan already in place, I gather everything I need to sterilize my clothes, shoes, and knife. It’ll take a couple hours to scrub everything down, and I’ll need a few more to dispose of the evidence, so I get to work, pushing aside all thoughts of Judge and sex.
Cory Barlow sits across from what I assume is a client. The restaurant is posh, and he gives off the impression of a respectable man when I know he’s anything but. Three women who work as escorts have come forward with horrific stories of being trapped inside hotel suites for hours while he raped and tortured them. Once he had his fun, he’d toss them a few hundred dollars and kick them out—clothes torn, chunks of hair missing, and bruises all over their bodies.
According to law enforcement, their stories weren’t consistent, and the women were unreliable witnesses. No charges were filed. Meanwhile, one of the women committed suicide after family members said she went into a deep depression, and the other two disappeared without a trace. It’s a curious coincidence that the cops haven’t investigated their disappearances, despite them being reported.
I doubt those three women are the only ones Cory has abused. The rest are probably just too scared to come forward. And why would they, after seeing what happened? Society doesn’t give a fuck about sex workers.
“Here you go. Chicken carbonara and a side salad.” The waitress places the plates in front of me. I smile and thank her, but once she’s gone, I push the plates aside. I’ve lost my appetite just thinking about how this man can laugh and be charming, all while knowing what he’s done to so many women.
This is my third week tailing him, and I finally feel like I know enough to act. He reserves Friday nights for entertaining clients, which is what he’s doing right now. After they eat, they’ll go to a club at one of the casinos where the escorts Cory hired will make them feel desired and attractive, even though they’re anything but. They’ll get liquored up before taking their dates upstairs to a suite, as usual. Unfortunately, Cory won’t be joining his client in the suite tonight because he’ll be dead. I hope he’s enjoying his eggplant parmesan because it’ll be his last meal.
It’s risky to take him out in public, but while Cory is unleashing violence on prostitutes, his wife and kids are tucked in bed at home. I have no reason to believe his wife knows anything; the police reports weren’t released to the public, and when he’s at home, Cory effortlessly plays the role of doting husband and father. I’m glad his family will have good memories to fall back on while they deal with his loss, but it also means his home is off-limits.
It’s fine, though; the club he goes to is insanely busy, and there are plenty of blind spots that the cameras don’t reach. As long as I blend in with all the other party-goers, it’ll be impossible for the cops to pin his death on me.
Brushing my hands down my dress, I’m surprised at how quickly the clothes I used to cherish don’t suit me anymore. The woman who bought them wanted to feel sexy and feminine, but that woman died the day I was taken and abused. Fashion means shit to me now, and my daily uniform of baggy black tees and black jeans has taken over my closet. The only reason I’m wearing a navy body-con dress tonight is because the club has a dress code.
Once the two men have finished their meal, Cory pays the bill, and they leave the restaurant. I’m in no rush and don’t want to seem like I’m following them, so I cut up my food and push it around to make it look like I ate some of it, then pay my own bill with cash.
The restaurant is in the same hotel as the club, so as I walk through the building, I attach myself to the back of a group of twenty-somethings who are also headed that way. I strike up a conversation with one of the men so that when the police look through the footage, I won’t stand out the way I would if I was alone and going to a club. Being short also helps because I know my face will be obscured by the taller men I’m walking with.
I go my separate way after showing the bouncer my ID. He barely glances at it before reaching for the next. I’ve been to this club before; the girls from the Honey Pot and I would go out while we weren’t on tour to drum up business. We’d drink and dance, attracting men and women. Once their interest was obvious, we’d hand them a business card. It worked like a charm.
Knowing the layout, it isn’t hard to spot Cory and the man he’s entertaining on one of the VIP balconies. I move to a spot on the dance floor that’s in his direct line of sight and close my eyes, allowing the music to flow through me. Dancing has been a part of my life since I could walk, so I easily move to the beat. After my stint at the Thirst Trap, I know exactly how to move to attract attention.
Not even one song passes before a man sidles up behind me and places his hands on my hips. He’s not bad-looking, so I smile and let him try to keep up, but it’s soon clear the only move he has is a hip thrust, and he dejectedly walks away. Peering up at the balcony, I catch Cory’s eye. He apparently saw the show and holds up a drink as if to toast to the man’s failure. I shoot him a flirty smile and continue to dance.
As expected, Cory has his eyes on me each time I peek up. Much like catching a fish, I have to lure him in. Make him want me. Then, once he’s close enough, he’ll be all mine.
After an hour of dancing, I’m sweaty and thirsty, so I weave through the crowd to the bar. The pink wig I have on itches, but I force myself not to scratch.
“What can I get you?” the female bartender asks.
“Just a bottle of water, please.”
“You got it.”
I open my crossbody clutch and pull out my phone while I wait, not surprised to find a text from Judge. Ever since our hookup, he’s been even more clingy, popping over to my apartment at all hours of the day and night. If it was any other man, I’d think he was looking for a booty call, but not Judge. The only reason he comes by is to convince me to give up my vigilante justice crusade, and then I not-so-politely decline and kick his ass out.
Where are you?
I roll my eyes, but unless I want him all up in my business, I have to answer.
Girls night out
With who?
Just a couple of my old co-workers from the ranch
It’s obviously a lie, but it’s one I know I can get away with because he knows nothing about the girls who work there.
Okay. Have fun
I position my phone for a selfie and snap a shot of me at the bar with my middle finger saluting him.
I will
Cute
With Judge satisfied that I’m not getting myself into trouble, I tuck my phone away just in time for the bartender to deliver my bottle of water. I hand her a ten-dollar bill and tell her to keep the change before turning toward the crowd. As I chug the water, I pretend to be taking everyone in. Without even looking up, I know his eyes are on me. I’m proven right when I give in and glance up.
I smile and look away, playing the role of the shy girl. Biting my lower lip, I lock eyes with him again, and I know I have him. He’s sitting on the edge of his seat, a glass of something brown held between his legs, and desire practically oozing from his pores. The escorts he hired appear to be annoyed that he’s paying them no mind; little do they know I’m doing them a favor.
Jerking my head in the direction I want him, I walk that way. Staying aware of potential camera footage, I keep my chin tucked and the fake pink hair down around my face to hide myself the best I can. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, making my heart pound in my chest. This is riskier than I’d like, and I almost chicken out, but then I remember the pictures of the women he harmed, and I get a boost of renewed confidence.
I don’t bother checking to see if he’s following because I can say with one hundred percent certainty that he is. Men like him are led by their stupid cocks. Even when I slip down a darkened corridor reserved for employees, I know he’ll find me.
I don’t walk very far in, knowing there’s a camera aimed toward the stock room, but as long as I stay within the first half of the space, I’m fine. Quickly, I lift my dress up and pull out the folding tactical knife I had strapped to my inner thigh. Flipping the blade out, I conceal it in my sweaty palm and drop my hands to my sides just in time for Cory to walk around the corner. He smirks as he approaches, rubbing his hands together like he thinks I’ll be his next meal.
Well, guess what, asshole? I’m the hunter, not the prey.