“Wait—”

“What is it?” I’m anxious to get off the line. I don’t like talking over the phone for long periods. Also, I might need to check on Alex, make sure he’s not strung up on a meat hook.

“I found something.”

The unsure waver of her voice captures my full attention, and I turn my back to the warehouse. “What did you find, Lenora?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” she says, trying to convince me. “He leaves his tablet out, knowing I have no reason to look. I always do what you say. Never let on that I suspect him of anything. But my phone died, and I grabbed the tablet and the video was just there…”

I nod a few times, mentally hurrying her along. “You don’t have to apologize for looking through your husband’s things. They’re your things, too.”

I’ve never understood the big privacy deal in relationships. The understood rule carved in stone. I feel like it was an invention of men during the time when women were coming into the workforce. A way to keep us complacent, ignorant. Because before that rule, there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have her privacy invaded by every man in her life.

The whole privacy thing is probably one of the reasons I don’t do relationships. I’m not interested in “sharing” my life. I’m content, and comfortable, with myself.

“Just tell me what you found,” I urge her, then soften my voice. “It’s all right.”

“I think… I mean, it could’ve been porn. Some amateur, raw footage…” She trails off, and I suspect where this is going. “Oh, my god. It was so violent. Torture. Force. The woman…she was pleading his name, begging him to stop.”

I make out each word through her choked sobs. She’s obviously distraught, as I figured she would be should she ever discover her husband’s extra-repulsive-curricular activities.

“Lenora. Breathe.”

I’m not built for this. I didn’t want her to find out, but not because it would distress her. Selfishly, I didn’t want to be here, in this position, trying and failing to console this woman. I just wanted to punish the fucking son-of-a-bitch and collect the rest of my payment. Move on to the next job.

Alex. He’s the reason I’m here. A sudden bout of frustration grips me and my jaw tightens. His involvement has prolonged this job longer than necessary. Maybe a few knocks to his head isn’t such a bad thing.

A wracked sob from Lenora cuts into my thoughts. “Who did I marry?” she asks. “Who the hell is he? A freaking psychopath?”

I try not to feel insulted. It’s a common misconception. “He’s a liar,” I say to her. “And a deviant. He manipulated you, Lenora. But you’ll have your revenge soon. I promise.”

Her voice clogs on a muddled reply, and I hang up before more sentiment is required of me. It’s not that I don’t feel badly for her—I do, on some surface level, I understand her hardship.

But, the longer I try to console her, the more tedious and redundant my replies become, and that’s not helpful. To her, or to me. I’m sure she has friends or family who are better suited for that job.

I need to take action. To make things happen. That’s where I’m best utilized to help her.

After nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, my patience is gone. I glance around the parking lot of the warehouse. Everything is too quiet, still. In keeping my word to Lenora, I decide to make something happen. Not soon.

Now.

Pocketing my phone, I jog through the parking lot, making sure I’m not noticed. By now, Alex should’ve obtained his objective. He’s had enough time to either convince Ericson of his worthiness, or he’s been pummeled into minced meat and stuffed in a freezer locker.

What we don’t have time for is Ericson to question Alex—to figure out that he’s an imposter.

Rounding the corner of the building, I search the rusted corrugated metal for the sprinkler system. It’s close to midnight, and I use my phone as a flashlight. On old warehouses like this, the piping system is usually visible, the plumbing not updated to code. I walk the perimeter and locate an exposed pipe running along the gutter.

Of course, it has to be completely out of reach. Venting every curse word in my vocabulary as I drag discarded pallets to the corner of the building, I stack them on top of each other until I’m tall enough to grab hold of the pipe.

I yank down hard on the pipe. It doesn’t budge. With a groan, I hoist my whole body in a pull-up and then kick the butler. A few more wild kicks, cursing my aggravation. More acrobatics than I was prepared for today, but it works, and the rusted pipe finally gives.

Water bursts from the broken seam, spraying the side of the building.

I let myself drop to my feet, wipe the sweat and rust particles from my forehead. No one inside will be aware that a sprinkler line has just burst, but alerting them isn’t my intention.

Even on an old, outdated system like this the fire department will be notified.

I return to my post across the street and wait. Within five minutes, the firetrucks arrive. Two of them blaring horns and blocking off the entrance to the warehouse. As people start to exit the building, I search for Alex. I watch him emerge—alive and apparently in one piece—and I make sure he’s alone before I send him a text.

Across the street.

He whips out his phone from his back pocket and then looks up, his gaze hunting for me. As our eyes connect across the distance, I start toward him…until I notice something appears off.

He storms toward me with fierce murder carved in his expression.

“Well, shit.”

OceanofPDF.com

11

OceanofPDF.com

CHEMISTRY

OceanofPDF.com

ALEX

If Blakely has a sliver of cognitive empathy in her being, she’s doing a poor job of employing that capability now. There is absolutely no compassion in her eyes, her expression more condescending than sympathetic. I wasn’t prepared for this reaction from her.

My hypothesis wasn’t only correct, it was alarmingly accurate. I was the sacrificial lamb she literally pushed onto the altar.

I was expecting her to portray some semblance of remorse. Which I could use to springboard to the next stage. Every time I think I know what I’m dealing with, that I’m prepared, she surprises me.

Surprises aren’t good. Not in this context.

So I resort to the easiest emotion to manipulate: anger.

When confronted with a situation that is out of our control, a centric, no range emotion such as anger masks any uncertainty. I’m sure Blakely is well aware of this ploy herself.

“You could’ve gotten me killed,” I say as I approach her, my expression contorted. “You almost did.”

“Walk.”

Her response catches me off guard again. Despite my resistance, I keep moving, trailing behind her as she dips between buildings.

“You need to stop.” I halt in the middle of the alley. “What you did back there…” I grit my teeth and stare down at the oily pavement, summoning the ire I need in this moment. The light from the lampposts reflect in the sludge, shimmering in iridescent colors in the motor oil.

Blakely faces me, expectant. Truthfully, I’m trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. For the most part, I can hold my own. I was unprepared for the brute attack earlier, yes—but I could’ve defended myself instead of letting that guy use my face as a butcher block.

That’s not a detail Blakely needs to be made aware of yet, however.

My only alternative was to mitigate the damage as best as I could. I took two direct punches to the face and a blow to the stomach before I tucked myself into a ball and waited for the bouncers to intervene.