9. Knox
KNOX
This girl has officially fucked me up. It took four hours of me hiding under her bed before I felt confident enough to army crawl my way to her door, and I still haven’t recovered.
It’s been nearly three days since I installed the camera in Anna’s living room, and I’ve barely fucking seen her.
She hasn’t taken her car anywhere or stepped foot out of her apartment, and the only time she leaves her bedroom is to either use the bathroom or get something from the kitchen.
The latter is my favorite, especially late at night.
She appears to have an affliction when it comes to her pajamas, because she can’t just wear clothes that cover her entire body.
Nope, she either needs to be in long sleeves or sweatpants, but never both.
It ensures that I get an eyeful every time she makes an appearance.
When she comes sauntering out in pink sleep pants, she’s matching it with a worn, rather see-through white tank top, showcasing the tits I knew were hiding underneath that blouse.
And the fact that the apartment appears to be a bit chilly only makes the image all the more glorious.
When I see her the next day, she’s covered up those gorgeous assets in favor of some oversized sweater.
I’d be pissed off, if not for the fact that she’s also in underwear masquerading as shorts.
Knowing what’s underneath there, watching those hips sway, I get hard just looking at it.
Because I’ve seen how that ass can move, how her hips roll.
Yeah, it’s not a question of whether I’m a boobs or ass man. I’m an and .
I feel like a paparazzo, craving the fleeting glimpse of a celebrity. Because that’s what she’s become.
My new addiction.
Every time my phone goes off with a notification that there’s movement inside her apartment, I’m scrambling to unlock the screen, even knowing that, more than likely, it’s just her roommate.
By the third day of my new voyeuristic hobby, I’m beginning to climb the walls, because I’ve barely seen her.
Anytime her roommate has other people over, my girl becomes an even bigger hermit.
The few times she’s come to the kitchen, she doesn’t bother cooking or preparing anything.
She just grabs whatever snack is available that allows her to immediately return to her room and hide.
All I have to satiate my newly acquired appetite right now are the videos and pictures I copied from her computer, which haven’t offered much information.
I’ve spent the last sixty-nine hours on every search engine and social media site, hoping one of her photos will trigger a match with something else, but so far, it’s been a bust.
With the constant motion of the half dozen people in the living room, the camera I installed gives me a continuous live feed, so I keep stealing glances at it in the hope Blondie will make one of her brief appearances.
“Dude, ‘all work and no play’ isn’t a good look on you.” Michael snatches the phone from my hand, pointing up to the stage with a laugh. “How about you take a breather and appreciate the scenery?”
Yeah, I know I’m being weird. I mean, who comes to a strip club only to spend the whole night staring at his phone? But I can’t help it. There’s no shortage of beautiful women here, yet I can’t get the one I can ’ t have out of my head. Hearing her moans, seeing her reflection, watching her snap…
It did something to me.
All I keep picturing is that very scenario, of her on her bed, legs open. Only, it isn’t her hands or some sex toy pulling those sounds from her.
It’s my face buried in her cunt, and she isn’t stopping or cursing or failing to find satisfaction. She’s pulling on my hair and grinding against me, and I make her come so hard that her cries wake up every person on her floor.
Fucking hell.
What is wrong with me?
I’m more turned on by a mere daydream of this woman than I am by the nude dancers in front of me.
“Seriously, what’s up with you, man?” Michael asks. “My cousin is supposed to be the brooding one. Not you.”
Speaking of which…
“Where is Jax?” He said he’d meet us here, but the guy is still a no-show.
I’d be concerned something happened to him, if not for the fact that he’s been flaking out on us since the heist. Anytime I ask him what he’s been up to, Jax just gets cagey and mutters that he’s “taking care of things.” What those “things” are is anybody’s guess, and it seems his cousin hasn’t been able to get any information from him either.
Michael shrugs. “Hell if I know. At first, I thought maybe he was chasing tail, but if he was, he wouldn’t have such a stick up his ass. The dude needs to get laid. You both do.”
He steals a look at my phone screen and wolf-whistles.
“Hot damn.” Whatever he sees has him straightening, like it’ll help him get a better view. “No wonder this chick’s got you in such a chokehold. With thighs like that, I’d let her ride my dick, and my face, and anything else she wanted.”
I figure he’s talking about Anna’s roommate or one of the other women in the living room, but I look over to see my girl has reemerged from her self-imposed exile and is standing by the front door.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Not only is she all dolled up, she’s wearing a dark velvety-looking mini dress that shows off her ass and tits but somehow still doesn’t look like something you’d see at the club. It’s too classy.
It’s the kind of thing I’d imagine she would wear for a date.
I know I shouldn’t give a shit. If anything, I should be happy that I’ll get a chance to observe her out in public again or that I might be able to get back into the apartment to recharge the camera if her roommate leaves.
Instead, I’m pissed.
Why is that?
Because the second she walks out the door, one of the women in the living room asks where Anna is going, and her roommate confirms that she has a “hot date” with a fucking cop!
I snatch my phone back and take off across the room, looking for Dominic.
We always take turns on who the designated driver is going to be, but despite the night being his turn, I haven’t been cutting loose like I usually would.
I’ve only had one beer, and that was over an hour ago.
I’m more than safe to get behind the wheel, but that won’t be happening if I don’t get the keys…
which I can’t fucking find because they’re with Dominic, who has apparently turned into Houdini, because he’s suddenly disappeared.
I’m able to pick the lock on the trunk to get my gear, but I don’t know the first thing about hotwiring.
Thankfully, Georgia’s husband, Carl, owns the strip joint, and I’m relieved to find his car parked in the back lot.
I would normally hate borrowing the old Ford since it’s a used cop car bought at auction.
Half of the time, the people driving in front of you immediately slow down when they see the white and black vehicle in their rearview mirrors, not realizing there aren’t any markings on it to signify that it’s still in service.
If you want to get somewhere really, really goddamn slow, this is the car you take. But beggars can’t be choosers.
As always, Carl isn’t the type to ask questions, tossing the keys to me without so much as a word. The rest is understood.
Refill whatever gas you use, and leave the keys on the rear tire when you bring her back.
There isn’t a chance in hell that Officer Fuck Face came across Anna by sheer happenstance. The question here is why?
And I have a pretty good feeling I know the answer.
Lillian.
Holt doesn’t work in the same department as the one that would be investigating the robbery, so he wasn’t appointed to watch Anna, at least not by the police. And I’ve seen the women he’s targeted. She doesn’t fit the bill.
So what the fuck is he up to?
Over the course of the twenty-minute drive, I conjure up every sort of scenario, each one making me sicker and sicker.
Is he going to be sly about it and tell her from “a cop’s perspective” that it isn’t a good idea to dwell on the robbery, that she has no idea the target she would be placing on her back? Or is he planning on going full throttle and taking her to the Valley for a “night cap”?
The mere idea has the phantom taste of copper filling my mouth.
Following the tracker on her car, I see Anna hasn’t gone too far from her place, but I’m more than a little surprised when I pull up to the destination.
McDonald’s?
Don’t get me wrong. As I’ve said before, I love their food as much as the next red-blooded American, but it’s not exactly the restaurant that comes to mind for a first date.
I mean, Jesus Christ, this guy can’t be for real. For a woman like Blondie here, you roll out the red carpet for her, even if you have to steal it.
Anna shows up looking like a dish, or hell, an entire fucking feast I want to tear my teeth into, and this dolt’s going to show her the Value Menu?
God, no wonder this woman can’t orgasm. She’s fantasizing about men who think they can get a woman wet by ordering her a Big Mac.
I see the Sunfire parked in the middle of the lot and Holt’s SUV off in the corner, but despite both vehicles being unoccupied, he ’ s not inside the restaurant. The jackass is pacing out front on his phone.
Seriously, did this guy suffer a traumatic brain injury while I was away? Who in their right mind would leave a woman who looks like that waiting alone inside?
I pull into the first available space, and it takes a whole twenty seconds to realize something here is not right. Holt is being a stage-5 creeper, lurking in front of the windows like he’s casing the joint.