Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Skylar
The heat of the auction room is so fucking suffocating.
It’s a sickening blend of expensive champagne, floral perfume, and sweat.
The bidding for several raw, unserialized blood diamonds on the main stage has devolved into a shouting match between two billionaire assholes, creating the perfect, chaotic distraction I need.
I make my way toward the heavy oak door of the VIP lounge.
The security detail guarding the perimeter stops me, but instantly recognizes me as the pretty, harmless porn star looking for a private restroom.
I give the guard a dazzling, flirty smile.
“God, can you believe the drinks in this place?” I ask, lifting my glass to my lips, pretending to sip.
“My champagne here is worth eight grand.”
His eyes follow the line of my Adam’s apple as I swallow, not really caring about the expensive alcohol. “Skylar, I’m a huge fan of yours,” he says nervously before jumping into a rambling story about one of his favorite videos and asking if I had Monty Stylez’s phone number.
“I sure do,” I whisper, leaning in. “He would absolutely love you.” I place my hand on his forearm and squeeze. I pull my phone from my pocket and fidget with it.
The guard’s eyes widen with shock.
“Would you like me to give it to you?”
“Hell yeah. Damn, I would owe you big time.”
“Sure thing, love. Hold my glass, will you?” I hand him my champagne before he can reply. Leaning in, I whisper in his ear, casually brushing against the man seductively. “I know you’re on duty, but if you’d like a tiny little taste of eight-thousand-dollar alcohol, you can take a few sips.”
The man doesn’t even hesitate, taking a healthy swallow. I smirk. It should only take a few seconds for the white amethyst powder to knock him out. I casually walk into the dark alcove next to the door. The guard follows before catching himself on the wall and slipping to the floor.
“Out like a light,” I whisper into the mic hidden in my cuff, my voice calm and even despite the exciting thrum of my pulse. I’m so fucking close. “Cover the exit.”
“Got you, little minx. The hallway is clear,” Jericho’s rough, grounding rumble vibrates through my earpiece. “You have two minutes before the roving patrol hits that corridor. Go.”
I step over the guard, his body leaning heavily against the wall in the shadows.
I sneak into the dim hallway that leads to the private lounge.
I open the door. Franko is standing by the window, a phone pressed to his ear, and his arm that Jericho shot in a sling.
His tailored suit jacket is thrown over the back of a leather armchair, and he looks even older than the last time I saw him. In fact, he looks tired, desperate.
He hears the door click behind him and spins around. His eyes widen, and he ends the call. “Skylar,” he breathes, “What are you doing here?”
“Aw, Franko, I didn’t realize you cared,” I purr. “I’ve been calling you ever since that night at the Gilded Cage.” The syringe in my suit jacket weighs heavily, a reminder that I can end this in a heartbeat.
“I thought your number was compromised,” he replies, eyes bouncing around for an escape. “So can you tell me why the contract killer aiming for me took you instead that night?” he asks.
I freeze. I didn’t realize he knew that part.
His hand instantly dives toward the desk, reaching for his gun.
Lunging forward with lethal speed, I beat him to it.
Only I underestimated his desperation. Franko doesn’t grab a gun.
He slams a heavy crystal vase directly onto the glass tabletop.
Glass shatters, triggering a loud, panicked emergency alarm hidden beneath.
The room floods with jarring, red strobe lights.
“Jericho! He triggered the alarm!” I shout, desperate not to let this man get away.
Before I can reach him, the door behind Franko bursts open. Three of his goons storm into the room, guns already raised and blocking my way. Franko moves, never looking back as he dives through the heavy steel door the guards just came through. The door immediately shuts behind him. I scream.
Fuck! He’s gone. Again.
“Target Escaped! There was a hidden door in the room!” I yell into the comms, ducking as the three goons attack.
The lead goon advances, his weapon shoving directly into my chest. I have no cover, no time to prep my poison. I close my eyes, bracing for the pain, when a loud bullet pierces the air.
A violent spray of crimson, and goon number one crumples to the floor.
Like a fucking juggernaut, Jericho bursts into the room through the ruined doorway.
His tuxedo jacket is gone, his white shirt already smeared with blood.
His face is a mask of cold, terrifying fury.
He fires two accurate shots from his sidearm, neutralizing goon number two before the man can lift his weapon.
The third goon, bleeding from a shoulder wound, panics. In a wild, desperate arc, he swings the butt of his heavy rifle.
I attempt to dodge the strike, but my foot slips on the wet, bloody carpet.
The solid steel of the weapon strikes me right on the temple.
A searing, white-hot pain flashes through my head. My knees give out instantly. The room is spinning wildly, and I’m collapsing to the floor, my cheek against the cold polished wood. The distant, frantic sounds of gunfire reach me, but they seem to be muffled as if I’m underwater.
“Skylar!” Jericho shouts.
Jericho’s voice has never been louder or more desperate. His tone, filled with pure, unmixed panic, pierces the ringing in my ears.
Massive, calloused hands grab my shoulders.
With a trembling grasp, he pulls me against his broad chest. A low, ragged sound of pure terror leaves Jericho’s throat as his fingers press frantically against my neck, checking my pulse.
His breath hitches as he wipes the blood away from my hairline with his bare hand.
“Look at me, Sky,” Jericho commands, his voice cracking even as he cups my jaw in a desperate grip. “Skylar, talk to me. Stay with me, damn it.”
I force my eyelids open, wondering when I’d closed them.
The alarm’s flashing red lights made me feel sick.
Jericho’s face is inches from mine, his blue eyes blown wide and completely unhinged by the sight of my blood.
His panic seeps into my soul as I realize there is only one person I fear losing.
With trembling, weak fingers, I grab the collar of his ruined shirt and pull him just a tiny bit closer.
“Don’t worry, brute.” A faint, bloody smile forms on my lips as I whisper through the searing pain in my head. “I’m here,” I say before my whole world goes black.
“Why do you follow all my social media accounts?” I ask a few weeks later. We’re in bed together after a hot round of sex. He’s tracing my beauty marks and the flower tattoo on my ribcage. I’ve noticed it’s something he likes to do after sex. Something sweet and calming.
Something has shifted between us since the night of the auction. It’s almost as if we have a silent bond. Something unbreakable. I’d ended up with a minor concussion that night, which hurt like a bitch, but healed quickly.
The persistent pain behind my eyes had lessened to a dull ache in less than two days.
The training my body underwent to counteract poisons is probably what helped my rapid recovery.
After stumbling from the blinding white flash, making contact with the butt of the gun, I now have a colorful bruise near my temple.
Seriously, it’s a small price to pay for slipping on a blood-slicked rug.
By the third morning, the room stopped tilting, and the nausea was replaced by a sharp hunger to finish what we’d started in that ballroom.
I’m already back to tracking Franko’s whereabouts.
I healed fast, but the memory of the pure terror in Jericho’s voice when he found me on that floor is what still haunts me.
It’s something that makes me feel a whirlwind of contradicting emotions all at once, but it all narrows down to one important thought: Jericho cares about me.
I blink up at my handsome brute, and my stomach flips when he gives me a soft, yet possessive look that lights me on fire. Holy shit. I have genuine feelings for this man, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way.
Jericho tucks me into his side, in a protective, possessive hold that makes my heart rate pick up. “Is this a trick question?” he laughs softly.
I poke him playfully. “I’m being serious. I mean, I get why you would subscribe to my porn channel; most of my hardcore fans do that. But following all my social media, even when it’s obvious that you don’t really use them much? I’m curious why.”
Jericho lets out a low hum, and I like that I can tell he isn’t shutting down or ignoring me. He’s thinking, probably gathering his words and organizing them the way he files all his targets and kills.
“There’s always been something about you.
Something complex, yet full of life. I think I was fascinated.
One day, I watched a video that had a brief interview attached to it.
You know, one of those videos where the cameraman or director asks you questions after you and your co-star both get off.
He was asking both of you what it was like to work with each other and how your experience was. ”
I nod. “Those are always fun, but slightly awkward to do. Half the time, they want us to answer the questions after hours of filming. We’re usually naked or covered in sweat.”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I always forget that most porn shoots take a lot longer than the actual final video. Anyway, you started talking, and you seemed so genuine. Like you really have a passion for your job and your co-star. The more you talked about your experience, the more it seemed like you were trying really hard to make it absolutely amazing for your partner. Even more so than yourself.”
I nod again, lost in thought. He has no idea how much he nailed that.
I usually work hard, trying to pleasure my partners based on what I know I like.
Sure, not all subs or bottoms are the same, and a lot of them experience pleasure differently, but I work with actors who have the same preferences.
I imagine what I want, and I give it to them.
“I looked up your name one day on Instagram, then later on other platforms. I loved seeing all these little pieces of your life. I loved seeing how happy you were in your videos. As I said, you are so full of life.”
I shake my head. “It’s a lie. Half the time, I’m a vengeful, grieving mess. I miss my sister and will do anything to avenge her. But I’m also scared that along the way, I’ve changed. I’ve morphed myself into something soulless. Something that just cares about death, not life.”
Jericho leans on his elbows and looks down at me. His stare is intense, and I can’t take it. I turn my face away, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed, similar to how I felt back when I confessed how much I like killing. Carefully, he turns my head back, but I close my eyes and hide.
“That isn’t true,” he whispers. “You aren’t soulless.
I watch the way you smile over the little things.
You look out for those you care about, like Monty.
You’re kind to everyone around you, and you’re genuine about it.
Are you a little broken inside? Yes. But so am I.
Are you a killer? Sure, but we have our fucked-up morals and guidelines.
You’re like a stunning blade that has been sharpened into something dangerous.
Trust me, Skylar, you’re so full of life. ”
A knot forms in my throat, and I blink back tears that want to spill. My eyes finally meet his. “You make me feel alive,” I whisper.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “And you make me want to live.”