My fists curled around the lapels of his blazer, and I released a declaration that I felt in my soul—one I’d never in a million years contemplate vowing. “Fuck me, or I’ll murder you, Victor.”
A vicious mouth concealed my threat. Victor unzipped his pants, threw my thigh over his shoulder, and shoved aside my thong. In one agonizing sweep, he’d rammed into the depths of my pussy. Victor moved us away from the bench, fucking me roughly. Victor’s arms flexed, pumping me up and down. I glanced over at a dark, covered bridge and a stand of trees obscuring the street. I groaned, “This is soooo bad. We’re screwing in the park.”
“Are you . . .” A voice tugs me out of a sultry nightmare. Seven whole days ago, my knight in shining armor transformed into Satan right before my eyes.
Hellllll no.“I’m okay.”I’m not.
I nail the perfect smile while glancing up at Brick, the more outspoken of the private security team hired for my father’s protection and subsequently my own. By way of outspoken, he actually says a few words—occasionally.
With an understated nod, Brick pauses at the door to my father’s hospital room, taking in the area in one quick sweep. The other guy on his team, a guy whose red hair makes my copper curls look more like a dull brown, removes himself from the chair near the door. Dad is seated in his wheelchair, placing items into an overnight bag.
Conquered by the past, my gander flickers toward the glass wall lining the corridor. Down below is a playground for the families of patients.Sheesh, laughing kids are playing tag. How was that triggering, Luxxie, c’mon.
“Worthless,” Dad hisses as the redheaded bodyguard assigned to him slips out of the room.
“Theycan hear you,” I grit, pulling the door flush behind me.
“Are you positive he’s not deaf?”
I stalk over to my father’s wheelchair, planting myself in front of the tiny wraith. “Ah, I see. He wasn’t a sounding board for any of your medical drivel?”
At his lack of response, I snort. “Hmmm, I’ll take your silence and thatfrownyface as a yes; your bodyguard lacked interest.” I focus all my attention on happiness for his sake. “Dad, after seven solid days of mushy-ass hospital food, are you ready to count your blessings?”
Pulling off wire-rimmed glasses, Dad looks around the cream walls of the sterile room. “Shit, you have a point there, Lux. If I could get up and run, I would.”
I let off a practiced chuckle, heart lacking the follow-through. Luckily, Dad’s too busy carting himself around in his wheelchair, searching for missing reading material. I throw away a few pots of dead floral arrangements from Dad’s employer, Greco Technologies. I pick up the Rubik’s Cube hisex-best friend, Uncle Red, brought. The colorful puzzle had gotten pushed behind larger bouquets and cards.
I run a hand over my freckled jaw. “Oh crap, guess who came . . . Here’s your cognitive psych book.”
I grab the text wedged between the mattress and the bed rail. The book's breadth rivals any textbook I was required to purchase at NYU. “That’s everything, Dad.”
His mouth opens in protest. “Now, Lux, I’m still missing—”
“First of all, the only piece of literature invaluable to you is sticking out of your front pocket.” I gesture to the tiny pocket notebook that Detective Caruso graciously allowed me to hold onto the night Dad was shot.
He places a hand over it like one would their heart. That little undecipherable sucker never leaves his sight, and while he was fighting for his life, the book never left mine.
“Which segues into fact number two, since you have your little diary, if you want me to walk you home, don’t start. Those noodles you call arms could use the exercise.”
“Luxury Whitson.”
“Okay, okay.” I chuckle softly, helping place all the get-well cards in a duffle bag. Mindlessly, I toss the Rubik’s Cube in and open the door to his room. Since Victor’s abrupt departure from my life, I brooded over my widowed father lying in a hospital, and . . .him.
While I’ll be damned if Dad suffers any more sorrow, my season is here. I know it.
I just gotta rid my daydreams of Victor. Lord knows he’s the reason I no longer have nightmares of my momma. Now, I need him out of those too.
2
Victor
The Christmas lights decorating the college town of Arlington rival that of Oxford Street in London, though on a miniature scale. The quaint area is quiet the day after Christmas. All except for my company, Tudor Enterprise, which sits like a lump of coal—or rather a large hunk of cement—on an elevated bluff in Arlington. As I stand at a glass window in the conference room, I glance at the university below. I wear a slate-gray suit, which replaces my typical all-black attire. Still, I’m in a predatory mood, and in precisely two hundred and forty seconds, I’ll have another preselected victim to torment.
From the bud in my ear, my personal assistant Monica asks, “Are you certain about this one?”
“Very.”
“Well, Overton may resemble a teddy bear, but when stung—”