Leaning on my elbows, I make sure to put my cleavage on display while I let my eyes travel over the guys sitting at the bar. There are four in total but the one to the far right is where my attention is locked on. Albie Shumberg. The one with the anonymous tip was right, it is him.
I see his eyes fill with a hint of disgust, the twitch of his upper lip adds to it but everything fades and turns into pure interest. Well, mainly my boobs are holding the convict’s attention but that’s why I’ve put them on display. All the bodies of his female victims had their breasts mutilated. It’s safe to say that’s his signature, though I seriously don’t want to know his twisted reasons.
The guy next to me scoots closer and tries for a sexy voice, but it comes out as a cracked slur. As if he needs some cough medicine for the sore throat he’s suffering from, but he already drank the whole bottle. “Hey, sugar, can I get you a drink?”
I don’t have time to reply because I’m suddenly facing someone’s back. “Out of your paygrade, Wes.”
There’s a rumble of laughter before I hear the guy who offered me a drink slur, “You get that one then. I’d rather spend my money on beer anyway.”
I make sure to check my boobs once more, letting my finger trail my cleavage, when I feel fingers wrap around my wrist as my hand is guided away.
“Hands off those tits, pretty lady. They don’t need a female’s touch,” Albie croaks and licks his lips.
It takes everything in me to swallow down the bile rising in my throat. Not to mention the fact I’m itching to kick him in the balls and let my knee redecorate his nose.
But instead I croon, “And what kind of touch do they need?”
Pretty sure his mental answer is “My knife,” because that’s what the fucker does with women before he kills them.
“Why don’t we get a drink first? Then I’ll gladly show you,” Albie says.
I take a step back and turn my attention to the bartender and dismiss Albie. Over the bartender’s shoulder my eyes suddenly hit familiar ones, making my heart skip a beat. My plan worked. He’s here. Deeds. My husband. My old man. The very pissed-off man who I love with every inch of my being.
The corner of my mouth twitches and I guess I’m not cut out for this undercover shit that requires sweet talk and trying to get into another man’s pants as if my next meal depends on it. Because I don’t think twice and tell Albie, “I don’t know about the ‘we’ part. I might just get a bottle of tequila, spread some salt on my nipples and lick it off before throwing the liquid down my throat.”
Albie growls low beside me and waves his hand to grab the bartender’s attention. “I need a bottle of tequila and some salt.”
Apparently, it was the right thing to say to a twisted convict who would like to slice up my tits and kill me afterwards. Shit. I need to stick to the whole prostitute appearance. I can’t just follow him without negotiating a price, right? Why don’t I know any hooker 101?
“Now, now, a whole bottle.” I smirk and tilt my head in his direction. “Are you sure you’re not spending everything before you can…you know…spend everything?”
“Chickie, these days you pay for everything,” Albie states in a condescending tone. “And I have what you want and need, so don’t you worry about a thing.”
The fucker makes me snort. He’s the one who needs to worry, because for sure he’s gonna pay for everything. Not with cash, though.
4
Deeds
My hands clench into fists and even if one lacks the same amount of strength as the other, I’m pretty sure I’m drawing blood by the way my short nails dig into my palm. There’s nothing worse than seeing your woman go in undercover, wearing fucking hooker clothes while another man—a damn killer—is salivating at the mere thought of having her body.
I’m going to kick the ever-loving-shit out of this fucker before the night is through. Even if he wasn’t a damn killer, he would be dead for lusting after my damn wife and putting his hand on her wrist. Fuck. I have to get a handle on myself. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a job because I thought I was over and done with.
I mean, you can hardly go into the field if you’re not sure the gun you’re holding will work correctly, right? Because in my opinion my hand can somewhat be compared with a gun. You expect it to work when needed but there’s always a risk it can jam, and that uncertainty has cut into my brain like a festering wound that I can’t seem to close.
And that’s even worse than the fact my hand only holds about seventy-five percent of the strength it used to have. I know, I should be thankful I can still use it. But not being able to go on long rides with my woman warming my back sucks some serious ass.
I glance down at my hand and slowly unclench, shaking it a few times because I can feel my fingers starting to cramp. Like I said, un-re-fucking-liable. A sigh
rips from me and I roll my shoulders. I’m not at home. I need my head in the game; a killer is talking to my woman and we need to take him out.
Glancing up, my heart starts to thump in high speed when I come up empty. They’re not where they were standing a moment ago and I quickly scan the bar, seeing a glimpse of Albie going down the hall in the back.
I push away from the bar and head for the back where the toilets are. My breathing picks up when I don’t see either of them and I also check both bathrooms, but there’s nobody back here. I rush further down the hall and notice a door leading out. Nothing. Good thing I’m still holding onto the door or it would have fallen shut behind me.
Now I’m able to retrace my steps and notice another door to my left where it states “Office – Personnel Only.” I hear glass shatter and I just know my woman is in trouble. Dammit, why did she have to interfere with club business?
Yeah, I know, because of me. I’m the reason she’s here risking her life to drag a killer off the streets but deep down she wants to shake my old ass into awareness. And let me tell you something, she has.