Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
MAVEN
Carrie has thankfully been seeing a therapist almost every day this week.
I sent groceries to her place and made sure her rent was paid for the next month.
The rest of the week, I’ve stuck to working out, keeping up with my running, and trying to eat healthy.
Plus, reading smut. Honestly, that’s probably my favorite thing to do these days. It’s the only action I’m getting.
When I run, I switch to audiobooks. Headphones in, volume just low enough that no one else can hear the filth pouring straight into my brain. It takes the edge off … a little.
Not enough, though.
Not lately.
I’ve felt it building all week; that restless, pent-up energy sitting just under my skin, making it hard to stay still, even harder to sleep. Which is how I end up here, of all places, staring at the empty parking lot like it’s personally offended me.
I just needed out.
Out of the apartment.
Out of my head.
The ride helped. The Ducati growling beneath me, the wind cutting through the heat in my body, the speed fast enough that everything else falls away for a few blessed minutes. It’s the closest thing I get to quiet. Or good sex. But I’m hoping something in this particular store will help with that.
I’m also well aware I’ve had eyes on me all week.
Not his. Someone else’s.
And I’d bet good money that he’s the one who put the tail on me.
The neon lights above the store flicker as I pull off my helmet and then shake my hair loose before hooking it over the handlebars. As I’m walking toward the entrance, I hear it.
An engine I recognize.
I turn, already knowing what I’m going to see. Boston’s car rolls in like he owns the place; no hesitation, no attempt to hide it. He parks, kills the engine, and for a second, everything goes quiet again.
Then he steps out.
Boston doesn’t rush. He never does. The door shuts with a solid, deliberate thud, and he takes his time coming around the car, shoulders loose, gaze already locked on me like I’m the only thing in the parking lot worth noticing.
His stride is unhurried, but there’s intention behind it, steady and purposeful. Like he knows exactly where he’s going and that nothing’s going to get in his way. Each step lands clean, controlled, eating up the distance without wasting an ounce of energy.
It’s … distracting.
Annoyingly so.
I shift my weight, my core pulsing with every step he takes, hand settling on my hip before I even realize I’m doing it, like I’m bracing for him.
Or challenging him.
Or…
Fuck.
Maybe I really do need to get laid.
How is it that his walking in my direction with his eyes locked on mine makes my stomach flip? It’s unfair, really.
“Stalking me still, Detective?” I purr as he gets closer. His gaze glides over my leathers, and I can’t help it when my own gaze flicks to the gun in his holster.
“Following a lead,” he says.
I turn and wave a hand to the sign above the door. “At a sex store?” I question.
He’s good at hiding his discomfort, but I see it in the small twitch of his fingers.
“Well, don’t let me hold you back. Come on in.
” I turn and proceed toward the building.
Opening the door, I hold it for him, waiting for him to move.
He seems to think about it for a moment before making the decision to join me.
As soon as he enters, I follow behind him, and I can’t help but stare at his ass.
His fitted black pants look so good on him.
“I can feel your stare,” he grumbles.
“Would I be arrested for slapping a detective’s ass?” I question, still looking at his ass.
He stops suddenly, and I slam straight into his back.
One of my hands grazes his ass. “Oh shit, you may have to arrest me. I think I just touched your ass.”
“Are you always this annoying?” he asks, and I smile up at him and nod.
“Some would call it endearing.”
He says something under his breath as he continues walking. I make a beeline to the wall where the toys I’m after are displayed and grab the biggest one I can find. I turn around to see him watching me. “Do you think if I stuck this up your ass, it would hurt?”
He takes a step back, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me.
“Hey, Maven.” I glance behind him to find Sally, who works here, walking past with a box of toys. “Good to see you back.”
I offer her a wave while keeping my focus on Boston, who is still watching me.
“Do you come here often?” he asks.
I shrug and put the silicone dick back on the shelf, then look for the one I want.
“What size would you say yours is closest to?” I question as I peruse the selection.
“Do you think you’re a good size?” When he doesn’t answer, I turn to see a look of confusion on his face.
“Or is it small? Sometimes that can be okay. If you know what to do with your mouth, that is.” I smile and turn back to the wall of dildos.
“My main focus is clitoris stimulation, and my last toy died from overuse. Do you have any recommendations?” I yell out to Sally.
“The pink one. It will have you screaming for God,” she calls back.
“Thanks, Sally.” I grab the one she recommends and then turn to face Boston.
“Anything tickle your fancy?” I tease as I wave the vibrator around.
His eyes stay locked on me, and I move in close, placing my hand on his very hard chest. “You can’t have me, silly.
You can’t afford me on a detective’s salary.
” I tap his pec, and as I pull my hand away, he quickly grabs my wrist. His usual put-together, calm demeanor slips just a little. And I love it.
“I see through your games.”
I blink at him a few times. “Games? Come on, Detective, what games?”
He leans in close enough that the smell of cedar washes over me. “You think doing all this will distract me, put me off?”
“Put you off what?” I ask, still holding my pink toy.
“Dicks?” I can’t help the giggle that follows.
He releases me and steps back. “I’m just a woman, Detective.
One who is trying to survive in the world, and also have some fun while doing it.
If you’re a good boy, you could join me sometime.
I mean, as long as you bring those handcuffs. ” I wink at him.
He huffs out a breath of annoyance, and I head in the direction of another room. He doesn’t follow me, which is fine. I love to crawl under his skin and make him unravel. When I finally make it to the checkout, Sally waves a hand at me.
“He already paid, cutie,” she says, nodding to the vibrator I’m holding.
“He paid?” I ask, shocked.
“In cash, then walked out.” Sally smiles.
I take my vibrator and leave the store. When I get to the parking lot, I find him leaning against his car with a devilish smirk on his face.
Here I thought I was getting the upper hand, yet he just played me.
And I like it.
Contracts are usually booked months in advance.
Sometimes I finish one in a day, while others can take up to six months.
It all depends on the target and the opportunity.
It also depends on how careful I need to be.
I don’t kill the same way twice anymore.
I learned that lesson after headlines started popping up about the Venom Killer.
Once the media gives you a name, the clock starts ticking.
Patterns are noticed, and people start paying attention. A girl can’t be too careful.
My heels click steadily against the pavement as I stride down the street.
I’d thoroughly checked the area surrounding my apartment building three separate times before I left tonight—windows, cars, shadows, no detectives waiting outside.
No one was watching. Still, I took the long way here.
Three unnecessary turns and a subway stop.
I didn’t need to double back through a crowded block. It’s basically habit and survival.
The reason behind a contract isn’t my business. I never ask. I get a name, a file, and enough information to start the hunt, and that’s it.
Before I make the kill, I study my target. Their routine, their habits, where they go, and who they talk to. I need to know what makes them predictable and why they think they’re safe.
This job has taken two months. Two months of watching the same routine play out, over and over again.
Work, drink, home, except on Fridays. On Fridays, he comes here.
I watch him disappear through a discreet black door halfway down the block.
Most people walking past wouldn’t notice, but I do.
Because I know exactly what lies behind that door—an exclusive sex club.
Members only, no phones, and plenty of cameras.
He stays inside for about two hours every time.
And when he comes out, he’s always drunk, always sloppy, and always careless.
It’s perfect. Across the street, I settle into a chair at a small café that never closes.
The place smells like burned coffee and sugar.
The neon lights buzz softly above the counter.
The waitress already knows what I want, but I tell her anyway.
“Milkshake,” I say as she approaches. “Extra strawberry and whipped cream.” She nods and disappears.
A few minutes later, a glass is set in front of me, and I check the time.
It’s still early. Sliding my AirPods from my pocket, I cue up the audiobook that’s been consuming my week.
One AirPod goes in, and I leave the other resting on the table in case the waitress comes back.
No need to look antisocial. I’m antisocial enough as it is.
I take a slow sip of my milkshake, letting the strawberry flavor settle on my tongue while the narrator’s voice fills my ear.
Then, a voice repeats the same line, but it’s not coming from the book. It’s in my other ear, right beside me.
I jump, and he pulls back just in time.
Boston stands there, towering over the table, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
He isn’t.
My stomach tightens, just a fraction.
His expression shows something between amusement and suspicion, like he’s already halfway to figuring something out. His eyes are a little glassy. Too many hours awake, or too many thoughts chasing each other in his head.
My gaze drops automatically to his hip.
Empty.
No gun tonight.
So he’s not working.
When I look back up, those slate-gray eyes are locked on me, unmoving. He’s too close. Close enough that the scent of cedar and something darker invades my lungs, distracting in a way I don’t have time for.
Not tonight.
I’ve planned this. Every step. Every movement. Months of watching, mapping, waiting. I know my target’s routine down to the minute.
And this man is not part of it.
He shouldn’t be here.
Worse, I didn’t hear him approach.
Didn’t feel him.
There was no shift in the air, no instinct prickling at the back of my neck.
Nothing.
That doesn’t happen to me.
So why the fuck is he here?
“And you are?” I turn at the new voice and see two men take a seat across from me while Boston remains standing at the edge of the table.
I recognize the speaker not only by his voice but also from the party Carrie made me attend.
But I knew who he was before that because he’s been in magazines as the city’s most eligible bachelor.
Well, I guess he’s not so single anymore, judging by the ring on his finger.
“Maven James. Nice to meet you.” I offer him my hand, and he glances at Boston before he takes it in his. Squeezing it, he shakes my hand and then lets it drop. The audiobook continues to play in my ear as I hold eye contact with him. I think he expects me to look away. But I don’t.
“Soren Nixon. Pleasure is all mine, I’m sure. And this is Marcus.” I sit back, remove my AirPod, and hold out my hand for the other that Boston has pinched between his fingers. He places it in my hand and takes the seat next to me.
I have a distinct feeling there is more to these men than what they show on the surface. But for now, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.
“Still stalking me, I see,” I say, turning toward Boston. His gaze sweeps over my face, and he holds back a smirk. “Tomorrow I might go to a new sex shop. Care to join me? This place even lets you test some products.” I give him a knowing look.
“You’re infuriating,” he states.
“Thank you,” I reply with a hand to my heart.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure it was. How many women are infuriating to you?”
“Just you.”
“See … compliment.” I turn my attention to Soren and Marcus. “Is he like this with all women?” I ask, referring to the detective at my side.
“Just you, it would seem,” Marcus says, and then he and Soren stand.
“Boston, my wife is waiting. Happy birthday, old man,” Soren says, then nods to me and walks out while Marcus hangs back.
“You good to get home?” Marcus asks Boston. I look at Boston and see him nod to his friend. And with that, Marcus leaves.
“It’s your birthday?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes.”
“You must be old, then?” I reach for my drink and take a sip.
He watches my every move as I dip my finger into the cream on the top and then place it in my mouth.
His eyes remain on my mouth. “I thought you didn’t drink.
” I can smell the alcohol emanating from him, mixed with the scent that is uniquely his.
“It’s my birthday.”
“I know.” I turn, and as I do, I call the waitress over and then order a slice of cake with a candle in it. He stares at me but doesn’t say a word. Neither of us do until the cake is in front of me. She lights the candle and then walks off.
“Happy birthday, Boston. Did you get everything you wished for?”
He looks at the cake, as if he is sizing it up.
“Have you not had cake before?” I ask, confused by his sudden change in demeanor.
“Never had it for my birthday,” he says, which surprises me. “My father worked a lot,” he adds, as if that’s enough.
“Blow the candle out, and make a wish.” His glassy eyes meet mine, and he leans over and blows, his gray gaze locked on mine as he does.
He straightens, and I remove the candle, dig the fork in, then lift it to his lips.
He opens without being asked, and wraps his lips around the tines.
I adjust just slightly in my seat at the act, and he notices, gripping the fork and taking it from me.
I pull my hand away quickly, not wanting his touch to linger too long.
Looking away, I dip my finger back into the cream of my drink, and before I can place it in my mouth, he grabs my hand and pulls it toward him. Then, ever so slowly, he places my finger in his mouth.
I’m shocked at first. Not only did I think he would never play into my annoying act, I never thought he’d give it right back. I don’t move a muscle as he sucks and then proceeds to lick off every bit of cream. I’m too stunned to speak.
Why am I suddenly feeling hot right now?
Fuck. He releases my finger. Then he stands, shoots me a wink, and walks off.
Holy shit.