5. Aliyah
ALIYAH
The silver Bentley purrs to a stop outside my building. I try not to let it show that I am eager to get out. I put on a good show at the parties, but I'm itching to shower and wash the feeling of all their hands off of me.
Brad Whitfield - hedge fund manager with a net worth higher than some small countries - steps out and circles around to open my door. Such a gentleman. If only he knew how much his loose lips during our "private sessions" were worth.
"Thank you for another lovely evening." I trail my fingers down his silk tie, playing the part of the seductive waitress. The same act that's made me privy to more corporate takeover plans than his board of directors.
"The pleasure was mine." His hand lingers on my lower back as we walk to my building's entrance. "Perhaps next time we could extend our... arrangement?"
I give him my practiced coy smile. "You know the rules, Mr. Whitfield." I let my eyes trail down his body. "But I'll see you at the next one."
"I can't wait."
I pull open the door, staring after him as he turns like I'm longing for him. In reality, I wait until his back is to me and slip around the corner of the building, just outside his view but where I can still hear.
He received several calls he declined in the car. And just as I suspect, he lifts his phone to his ear before he's even back to the car.
Brad’s secrets are just another set of cards in my deck.
Like the others who thought they could control me - until I burned them to the ground.
I don’t sell this information. I don’t trade it.
I collect it, hold it close, and when the time is right, I make sure the ones who push too far never see it coming.
"The merger's happening next week," he mutters into the phone. "Tell Davidson to start selling his shares before-"
The hairs on my neck stand up. Someone's watching. I turn slowly, expecting one of my usual tails.
Instead, I find myself staring into dark eyes that could freeze hell itself.
Jackson Amato leans against the brick wall, arms crossed over his chest. His expensive suit does nothing to hide the predator underneath.
Even in the dim light, I can see the muscle definition through his rolled-up sleeves.
"Spying isn't very ladylike, angel." His voice is pure sin wrapped in danger.
I straighten my spine. "Neither is lurking in dark alleys, tough guy."
But then I hear Brad's voice growing closer.
Panic floods my system - I can't let him see me eavesdropping.
Without thinking, I grab Jackson's arm and yank him into the recessed doorway of the service entrance in the side of the building - out of view if Brad passes by where I was standing.
His body tenses at my touch, but I press myself against him, effectively trapping him between me and the door.
"What the f-"
I slap my hand over his mouth. His eyes darken with fury, but I don't back down. Brad's footsteps echo off the brick walls as he passes by the building still discussing insider trading details on his phone.
Jackson's chest rises and falls against mine, his heart hammering a steady rhythm I can feel through my thin dress.
His cologne fills my senses - notes of cedar and something darker, more dangerous.
When I shift to peek around the corner, his hands grip my waist, fingers digging into my skin through the silk.
I slowly remove my hand from his mouth. "Sorry about that. Couldn't let him see me."
"And why's that, angel?" His voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down my spine. "What exactly are you up to with Brad Whitfield?"
"None of your business." I try to step back but his grip tightens.
"Everything in this city is my business."
His thumb traces small circles on my hip, the gesture somehow both threatening and thrilling. I hate how my body responds to his touch, how being pressed against his solid frame makes my pulse race for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Stop it." The words come out breathier than I intend.
"Make me." His lips curl into a predatory smile.
But it's hard to think when his body is a wall of solid muscle against mine, unyielding and radiating heat that seeps through my silk dress. I try to focus on Brad's voice around the corner, on the valuable information being discussed, but Jackson's presence overwhelms my senses.
"You always get this close to strange men in dark alleys?" His whispered words brush against my ear.
"Only the ones who stalk me." I shift slightly, attempting to peer around the corner, but his grip keeps me locked against him.
Brad's voice grows clearer. "The SEC won't know what hit them. By the time anyone realizes-"
Jackson's fingers flex against my hip. "Interesting conversation he's having."
"Shhh." I press closer, straining to hear Brad's words. The movement causes Jackson's thigh to slide between mine. My breath catches.
"I could extract information if you need. For a price." His challenge comes out as a low growl that vibrates through his chest.
I glare up at him, ready with a sharp retort, but the intensity in his dark eyes steals the words from my throat.
There's something magnetic about the danger lurking beneath his controlled surface.
Most men I deal with hide their darkness behind polite smiles and designer suits. Jackson wears his like armor.
Brad continues his illegal business discussion mere feet away, forcing us to maintain our intimate position.
Jackson's thumb traces idle patterns on my waist, each touch sending sparks of electricity through my skin.
I tell myself it's just the adrenaline, the risk of being caught.
But there's something else, something that makes me want to lean into his touch rather than pull away.
"Your heart's racing." His observation comes with a knowing smirk.
"Yours too." I place my palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath expensive fabric.
His other hand comes up to wrap around my throat - not squeezing, just resting there in silent warning. "Dangerous game you're playing."
"I like dangerous games." The words slip out before I can stop them.
I shouldn't have said that - even if it's true. But…it's different with him. This push and pull.
After a few more minutes, Brad's footsteps retreat and his car starts. I wait until I hear him leave before relaxing slightly. The tension in my muscles eases, but Jackson's grip remains firm. His thumb still traces circles on my hip, each movement sending electricity through my veins.
He needs to stop that. But I still don't move.
"Want to tell me what that was about?" His voice rumbles through his chest where I'm still pressed against him.
I step back, or try to. His hands keep me locked in place. "Not particularly."
"What's a girl like you doing with Brad Whitfield?"
"He's a client." I shrug, aiming for nonchalance despite how his proximity affects me.
"What kind of client?" His fingers flex against my skin. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're dressed like a hooker for a man who is known to buy girls for his beds."
I finally manage to extract myself from his grip, immediately missing his warmth. "The kind that's none of your business, tough guy."
I turn to leave but his hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me back. The movement brings us chest to chest again. His dark eyes bore into mine, searching for answers I won't give.
"Everything in this city is my business, angel. Especially when it involves someone like Brad Whitfield."
Why does it sting that it's him and not me Jackson is interested in?
Probably because I'm used to being discarded. Ignored. And I know that he is no different. It's just late and I'm feeling a touch too vulnerable after the party - after selling parts of my soul for safety.
A laugh bubbles up from my throat. "You think you own this city?" I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "You have no idea what really controls people like him."
His grip tightens fractionally. "Tell me."
I pull back just enough to meet his gaze, letting my lips curl into the same seductive smile I use on all my marks. "Now where's the fun in that?"
With a quick twist, I break free of his hold. This time when I turn to leave, he lets me go. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to the building's entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement.
"Sweet dreams, tough guy." I toss the words over my shoulder before disappearing inside.
I slip off my heels the moment I enter my apartment, padding across the hardwood floors in silence. The silk dress clings to my skin, still warm from where Jackson's hands had been. I peel it off, letting it pool at my feet before kicking it aside.
The recording devices come next. A diamond tennis bracelet with a hidden microphone. Two pearl drop earrings that capture audio separately - perfect for catching conversations from different angles at parties. A delicate necklace with a pendant that houses a micro SD card.
I lay each piece in their velvet-lined box, careful not to damage the expensive equipment. These little beauties have paid for themselves a hundred times over.
I sigh as I look over at my discarded outfit. The dress had been chosen specifically to draw attention - to make men like Brad Whitfield forget I was anything but decoration. But Jackson seeing me dressed like that…I didn't expect to hate it so much.
I don't know why I even care but I didn't want him to see that side of me. The kind I keep buried and hidden. I'm a different person at those parties, one who collects information and puts on a front like it's not killing me.
At the diner, our dynamic works. He comes in for coffee, we trade barbs, he leaves. Simple. Clean. And I've always liked that. I'm more myself there - though I really work there as a legal front to where I get all my money.
Can't have the IRS questioning my income.
I walk to my safe, tucked behind an abstract painting in my bedroom. Inside, I store tonight's recordings alongside files of carefully organized information. Each manila folder represents someone's downfall - if I choose to use it.
I learned long ago to trust no one. I took the job at the parties because I was poor and desperate, but now, I keep it so that no one will ever be able to touch me again.
The shower calls to me. I need to wash away the feeling of all those hands, all those eyes. But mostly I need to wash away the memory of how it felt to be pressed against Jackson, his fingers digging into my hips like he owned me.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is still perfect, my makeup flawless. The mask I wear to these parties hasn't slipped an inch.
But something about the way Jackson looked at me makes me feel exposed in a way no amount of silk or diamonds can hide. I'll just have to be more careful.
I've learned to never let anyone in - and I'm not about to start with him.