Then I realize she’s patting me down. I try to step away, but she drops down and hikes up the cuff of my jeans. With deft reflexes, she snatches the holster off my ankle. As she gets to her feet, she unsheathes the hunting knife. “Christ. Who are you, Rambo?”
I tense at her chiding remark. “I thought we might need protection.”
She arches an accusatory eyebrow. “I am the protection,” she says. “Besides, you can’t take weapons into a place like this. They search you. And when that meaty bouncer over there finds this knife, he’ll toss you out…very painfully.”
“Duly noted.” I watch her discard my knife in a trash bin with a sharp stab of pain to my gut. “How did you know I was carrying?”
“Carrying?” Her full lips twist into a sardonic smile. “You’ve been walking odd tonight, favoring one leg. And you kept looking down at your ankle on the ride here.” She shrugs, like this skill is nothing at all.
But to me, it’s everything. It’s a part of the equation; one of the necessary variables to help solve the problem.
She hovers close to me, and I’m drawn to the hum of her skin—that crackle of chemistry between us. “You wore your contacts,” she says. “Good.” Then she drives her fingers into my hair to muss it up. “But better. Now untuck your shirt.”
With barely constrained resentment, I do as instructed, trailing behind her as she approaches the lone straggler at the back of the line. I’m supposed to be playing this part…the shmuck…and yet, Blakely makes the role feel all too real.
“We need tickets,” she tells the guy.
He scoffs and looks around. “Sold out, baby.”
“How much?” she insists.
He sniffs hard and sinks his hands into his oversized jacket. Then he looks her up and down. “I only have two,” he says, “five-hundo a piece.”
Blakely doesn’t blink as she reaches into her cross-shoulder bag and produces a zip pouch. She counts out the cash, and the guy reaches for the wad. “Show me the tickets,” she demands.
He shrugs into his jacket and pulls out two tickets which, surprisingly, look to be professionally printed. They make the trade.
As we move toward the line, I look at her. “How did you know he had tickets?”
“Shit, you ask a lot of questions.”
I do. I make a note of that, as I don’t want her to get even more suspicious of my motives. “Just curious.”
“You just get to know these things when you deal with people,” she says.
I’m sure this is true, to some extent. But there’s a reason why certain people take particular career paths. Detectives, investigators, politicians. They have attuned instincts, and an innate ability to read people.
Empathy plays a part.
For Blakely, this skill isn’t so much innate as it is learned. Developed and honed.
There are two kinds of empathy: cognitive and emotional. Cognitive empathy is the ability to understand what others are feeling. Emotional empathy is the capability to feel what others are feeling.
There’s a decisive difference.
Cognitive empathy in the hands of a psychopath is a dangerous device. They can read a person, suss out their vulnerabilities, and use those vulnerabilities against them.
From what I’ve observed, Blakely has remarkable cognitive empathy. So remarkable, in fact, she’s able to use people’s emotions to manipulate them and the situation.
Mary had journals filled with insight into this characteristic, and I’ve studied them cover to cover. My sister was an expert in her field, much like I am in mine. I never appreciated how much psychology and science intersected until she was gone.
It’s too late to tell her now.
We reach the front door of the warehouse. The burly bouncer with a neck the size of my thigh winks at Blakely as he accepts our tickets. He overlooks me and talks directly to her. “You want to be a card girl?” he says to her. “We have an opening.”
I might as well not exist. That, or these men don’t find me a challenge. I’m not any sort of imposing obstacle to Blakely.
“I have a job, thanks,” she says. “Just here to enjoy the bouts.”