“Not at all.”
Along with blueprints to both places, I memorized the distance from the Delacroix to Greco Technologies during the plane ride. It takes a certain level of disconnect to delight in every aspect of murder. However, I won’t allow myself to become consumed with the kill.
I’ll scope out the scene. Learn Whitson’s schedule. Glean what irks him, what pleases him, because there’s something about killing a chipper bloke.
Musing over murder has become one of my favorite pastimes.
My father forced me to hunt with him when I was younger. Mother would reprimandus—as if I had any bloody say in the matter. Father would remind her how he outranked her at birth. Nothing on this green earth was untouchable or beneath him unless he deemed it as such. Hunting quail entertained royalty, but Mother knew Father was psychotic. He only delighted in the dynamics of taking lives—human or animal—which was never important.How?Now that drew his interest.
It’s all about opportunity. The kill is of no significance. Quality over quantity. The details all the way down to the most infinitesimal, now that’s what is fundamental. Father’s credo wove through my brain as I took my first life. A tiny bird. But a life, nonetheless. Then the stakes grew higher.
Minutes later, I stop before a skyscraper with mirrored walls. A horde headed to lunch buzzes around me.
A blonde in a short red dress seizes the opportunity to give me the go-ahead.
“Hey, what’s that?” She twirls her straight platinum-blonde hair.
“A really big gun.” I bare my teeth. It’s not a smile. But women like her have an affinity for crazy.
The blonde laughs, touching a hand to her chest.Too exaggerated. The desperation is beyond revolting.
My eyes lock onto a child. A flurry of shockingly copper spiral hair obstructs my view of her face. She’s holding some sort of flowers while rushing across a bustling street.
A bike courier weaves down the road. My eyes roam from the child to the lean, agile rider.Fuck. The courier will hit the absent-minded girl at the rate she’s walking across the street.
5
LUXURY
My mouth opens in a piercing scream as I’m shoved onto the curb. The rose bouquet tumbles into the air. Petals of silky ebony flowers dash around me, and I glare at the brawny chest of a brooding figure.
“Hey, what’s the fucking deal?” Stinging radiates from the sides of my fists as I pound them against a devastatingly muscular chest.
“What? Stop it, kid!”
“Hey, don’t you dare make fun of me!” I shout. As a shy youth, only slightly reformed, I cringe at the thought of calling attention to myself, but I stick to my guns.Get witnesses, Lux.“I. Don’t. Have. Any. Money. Get a job, asshole!”
“Are you daft?” He stops defending himself. “And cussing like anadult—”
“ ‘AreYOU daft’?” I mimic, shoving my hair back and peering up into riveting eyes the shade of summer’s richest day. I yearn to dive in and float away in the perfect blue of them.
The air in my lungs, hell all rationale, fades.Is this man telling or asking if I’m a woman? Should I give him my wallet?Mesmerized, I gape at his lips as he speaks.
God spent agoodweekend creating just his facial features. Strong jaw, brow line, pleasing lips. His shoulders stretch on and on in his expensive button-up.
Finally, I reclaim some of my Harlem edge. “Little girl? Did you call me a little girl! I am twenty-three.”Lux, hush. This stranger doesn’t need to know your age.“I amnota little ass girl.”
A voice lush like sex envelops me. “You are indeed tiny, but my apologies.” He pauses, ocean blue gaze washing over every inch of me only to land on my face. I die beneath a smoldering gaze that’s content counting all these hideous little freckles.
Damn, I’ve thought about being whisked away by a tall, dark stranger. He would’ve been darker—obviously Black. But the specimen in front of me is too tall. He would flip me about. Turn meout.
A gust of wind sends the rose petals airborne, and Manhattan materializes with a throng of patrons milling around as if we don’t exist. Just seconds ago, we were the only people on the planet.
I let out a shuddering sigh. I grew up in Harlem. Cultured. Adoring Black love.
And for the first time in my entire life, a white man has taken my breath away.
“Clearly, you’re not a pickpocket,” I murmur. “Still, you can’t go around pushing people.”