Chapter 9 #2
I watch as she types, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. She touches her ear cuff, rotating it nervously. The microphone picks up the faint metallic sound.
"Okay, Veritas. Show me what you got," she says to her screen.
I make a note on my pad to search the name 'Veritas' later. She pulls her hair into a messy bun, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. The light catches water droplets still clinging to her skin.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong. I'm no better than Marcus Colton. Different methods, same violation.
Through the mic, I hear her phone ring. She answers, voice brightening.
"Hey Tess... Yeah, just got home. Soaked to the bone... No, he didn't show up again."
My stomach tightens. Is she talking about me?
"I don't know why I even care," she continues. "I turned him down, right? But it's for the best. He… I don't know… he could be bad news."
Fuck. She is talking about me!
She pauses, listening. "I know he's not Mr. Colton, but he still seems dangerous. Maybe not predatory but…."
If she only knew what I'm doing right now.
"Anyway, I have prep to do for all the interviews I'm going to get. Ha!... Yeah, I'll call later. Night."
She hangs up, refocusing on her laptop. I watch her fingers fly across the keyboard, her profile etched against the soft light of her apartment.
My father would be so proud of what I've become. That thought alone should make me pack up and leave. But I don't. I stay, watching. Listening. Becoming the type of monster I've hated for years.
Maybe what I was always meant to be.
I settle in, scope trained on Lila's apartment like it's an enemy position I'm marking for an air strike.
She's been at her desk for over an hour now, switching between furious typing and staring at her screen like it holds the secrets of the universe.
At some point, she retrieves a pizza box from the fridge, eating cold slices while still glued to whatever's on her laptop.
There's something mesmerizing about watching someone when they think they're alone. The masks come off. The performance ends. This is Lila stripped of her bartender smile, her careful distance. Just a woman in her apartment, chewing absently on pizza crust while highlighting text on her screen.
"What type of interviews are you preparing for, Lila Marks?" I mutter, adjusting the focus as she stretches, revealing a sliver of skin between her tank and shorts.
It's 3:17 AM when she finally closes her laptop, rolling her shoulders. The mic catches her sigh—deep and weary. She moves to the bathroom, out of my line of sight. Water runs. The sound of teeth being brushed. A toilet flushing.
She emerges, face scrubbed clean, hair loose around her shoulders, and crawls into bed. No fancy nighttime ritual. No expensive creams or face masks. Just a woman too tired to do anything but fall into bed.
Except she doesn't fall asleep.
For twenty minutes, I watch her toss and turn, punching her pillow into submission, kicking at her blankets. She seems restless, agitated by something unseen.
"What demons keep you up, pretty girl?" I whisper, knowing damn well I'm one of them now. One more man violating her boundaries.
Through the scope, I watch as Lila's fingers trace a path down her body. The tank clings to her, outlining the curves of her breasts. She's got one hand under the material, caressing herself.
Oh, fuck!
My cock thickens in my pants, and I can't help but groan. The irony of it all doesn't escape me. I told myself I'm protecting her, yet… the hell is I can deny myself this twisted pleasure.
I unzip my fly, freeing my hard length, and start to palm myself in time with Lila's rhythm.
It's wrong, so goddamn wrong, but fuck if it doesn't feel incredible.
Watching her touch herself, knowing she has no idea I'm here.
.. it's like being a part of her most intimate moment without crossing any physical boundaries.
My breath hitches as I feel myself approaching the edge. I'm close, so fucking close already. What the hell? I force myself to slow down, savoring the moment. I want this to last, want to watch Lila come undone before I lose control.
Her fingers move lower, sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts. I see the faint outline of her pubic hair, and I can't help but imagine what it would feel like to run my own fingers through it. To taste her.
She moans softly, the sound barely audible through the rain and the distance between us.
It's enough to push me over the edge. I come with a growl, my release hot and sticky in my hand.
I watch as Lila's body shudders, her orgasm taking over.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I curse myself for not being there to witness it up close.
I clean myself up as best as I can, then zip up my fly. I can't help but feel dirty as I watch Lila curl up in bed, her breaths slowing as she drifts off to sleep. I've invaded her privacy in the worst way possible, and there's no turning back now.
Leaving the gear in place, I make my way back to my car, placing a brand new lock on the door, my mind racing with thoughts of Lila. I know I should stay away from her, but I can't. She's under my skin now. Need to protect her from the darkness I see lurking in the shadows.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, bringing me back to reality. It's a text from Milo.
Milo: Found you a way to get into Langford's "secret" apartment. I've just sent the details.
Perfect timing, Milo.
I drive through the rain, my mind tangled between guilt over Lila and anticipation for Langford's case. Milo's text is a lifeline, pulling me from the moral abyss I've been drowning in all night.
DANE
Back in my apartment, I open Milo's encrypted file on my laptop. The bastard's outdone himself—security rotations, building layout, cleaning schedule, and a perfect three-hour window for schedule maintenance crews coming up tomorrow.
"Jesus, Milo," I mutter, scrolling through the details. "Remind me never to piss you off."
I grab an equipment case from my closet, mentally cataloguing what I'll need.
Micro cameras, smaller than thumbnails. Audio bugs, practically invisible.
All connected to a remote server Milo's rigged to capture everything without detection.
Military-grade shit that civilian security systems won't detect.
The plan is simple: get in, plant the surveillance, get out. Next time Langford brings one of his women back to his love nest, we'll have the evidence Claire needs—concrete, undeniable proof of the cheater wearing her wedding ring.
I check my watch. Almost five. Still two hours before Langford leaves for his morning run. Sleep isn't happening, not with Lila's moaning image branded into my retinas.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror tells a story of its own—bloodshot eyes, stubble darkening my jaw. What do you see when you look at yourself, Wolfe? Protector or predator?
The line between the two is razor-thin. My father lived on the wrong side with ease, wore his predatory nature like expensive cologne. Maybe I inherited every bit of his mangled DNA.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory of watching Lila through a scope. The rush of wrongness and desire. The knowledge that I'll probably do it again.
At least with Langford, the lines are clear. He's an asshole who doesn't deserve respectability and the nice wife that comes along with it. I'm just the guy setting the trap.
"Focus on what you can control," I remind myself. "One bastard at a time."
I crash onto my sofa, rubbing my tired eyes while my mind catalogs Langford's behaviors. The predatory smile. The calculated charm. The dead eyes that never quite match his perfect white-teeth grin.
I've seen his type before. My job is mostly catching cheaters—bored husbands with wandering eyes, trophy wives seeking thrills.
But sometimes... sometimes I uncover darker shit.
The businessman who smacked his wife when he thought no one was watching.
The college professor who drugged his students.
The youth pastor with a hard drive that would make Satan himself vomit.
Langford has that same look. That same hollow emptiness behind his eyes.
"Are you like them, you rich prick?" I mutter to my empty apartment.
Claire Langford came to me worried about infidelity. Standard case. But my gut's screaming something worse. The way he zeroed in on that NYU freshman—calculated, patient, like a fucking apex predator. The secret apartment nobody knows about. The careful manipulation of his finances.
These aren't just cheater moves.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through the surveillance photos. In frame after frame, Langford's face remains perfectly composed—too perfect. Like a mask worn by someone who studied human emotions but never actually felt them.
We're all wearing masks, playing parts, but his seems printed on high-quality plastic—flawless and yet utterly fake.
I've killed men in combat. Watched through my scope as life drained from eyes that looked a lot like Langford's—cold, detached, soulless. The difference is those men were holding weapons. Langford's weapon is his respectability, his Brooks Brothers suits, his fucking wedding band.
"Psychopaths walk among us wearing Rolex watches," my old CO used to say.
The thought of Brian luring that college girl—Sarah—to his secret apartment makes my stomach knot. What if Claire isn't just dealing with a cheating husband? What if she's married to something worse?
With a sigh, I drag myself off the couch, my back cramping from hours hunched over surveillance equipment. My muscles scream from inactivity, a familiar warning that I'm letting myself go soft. Can't have that. Not in my line of work.
"Fuck this," I mutter, stripping off my jeans and grabbing basketball shorts from a drawer. I pull on a gray t-shirt with a faded Marines logo—one wash away from disintegrating—and lace up my cross-trainers.
The building's gym is in the basement. Small but adequate, and at five-thirty in the morning, guaranteed to be empty. Just me and the weights and the demons circling my brain.
The elevator ride down gives me ten seconds to stare at my haggard reflection in the polished doors. I look like shit warmed over. Dark circles under my eyes, stubble approaching homeless territory. "You're a fucking mess, Wolfe."
The gym door opens with a satisfying metallic squeal. The smell hits me first—rubber mats, metal, and disinfectant. Paradise.
I drop into a familiar routine, warming up with push-ups until my shoulders burn, then moving to the bench press. I load the bar with more weight than I probably should, given my lack of sleep, but the strain feels necessary—a penance for sins both committed and contemplated.
Three sets in, sweat darkens my shirt. My muscles start to loosen, blood flowing, brain chemicals finally doing their job. This is therapy cheaper than the hourly rates those head-shrinkers charge.
Between sets, I wonder if this is how normal people feel. People who were raised right and don't spend their nights watching strangers through scopes. People who don't jerk off while watching women who've explicitly rejected them.
Civilization is just a thin veneer over our animal nature. We pretend we're evolved, superior, educated—but scratch the surface, and we're all just animals with smartphone plans and credit scores.
I move to pull-ups, counting reps until my biceps tremble. The physical pain drowns out the mental noise—Lila's soft moans, Claire's worried face, Langford's dead eyes.
For these few minutes, I'm just a body in motion. Nothing more complicated than muscle, bone, and will.
It won't last, but it's something.
After showering away the gym sweat, the recollection hits me like a sniper round between the eyes.
She was waiting for me!
I replay her conversation with this "Tess" person through my mind. "No, he didn't show up again... I don't know why I even care..."
The words stick in my brain, refusing to dissolve. She was looking for me. After turning me down, after making it clear she wanted nothing to do with me, she still checked the door each time it opened.
I let out a harsh laugh that bounces off the bathroom tiles. Isn't that the cosmic joke of existence? We're all just waiting for someone to walk through the door—someone who might hurt us, but we hope won't.
The mirror shows a man I barely recognize.
"You're reading too much into it, Wolfe," I tell my reflection. "She's not waiting for you. She's waiting for the idea of you."
But still. It's something. A crack in her armor, matching the fissures in mine.
Maybe we're both just waiting for someone who understands that darkness isn't always the enemy. Sometimes it's just the shadow cast by a truth we're not ready to face.
A smile stretches my lips, and I pick up the razor. I need to look good tonight.