Page 24 of Spade

“Don’t,” she said, pushing me off her. She sat up, hair wild, breathing fast, but the mood was gone. “Just—don’t.”

I waited, but she didn’t move. After a moment, she swung her legs off the bed and started gathering her things. Her dress slipped over her head in one practiced motion, zipper pulled up with the efficiency of someone who had done this before. She didn’t look at me as she put on her shoes.

“Who is she?” Cara asked, back turned.

“What?”

She faced me, arms crossed. “You’re not here. You’ve been somewhere else all night. If you want to fuck someone else, just go do it.”

I should have told her the truth. That there was no one, not in any way that mattered. That my whole life was just a series of cases and closed loops, and every time I tried to step outside that, I ended up right back in the middle of my own head.

But I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, naked and stupid, watching her pull her purse tight across her shoulder.

“Don’t bother calling,” she said, voice flat. “I won’t answer.”

The door slammed with enough force to rattle the frame. Afterward, the silence expanded to fill every corner of the apartment.

I sat on the edge of the bed, heartbeat slowing, the taste of her still on my tongue. For a long time, I didn’t move, just let the blankness settle in. At some point, a thought surfaced—unbidden, ice-cold, more animal than conscious. I pictured my hands around Cara’s neck. Not in the way some women liked, but in the way I’d seen a hundred times in crime scene photos: the bruises perfect, the pressure just enough, the body limp and compliant. The image didn’t repulse me. It was clinical, even comforting, a demonstration of control over the narrative.

I sat with that for longer than I should have. Then I stood, pulled on my pants, and went back to the kitchen.

The folder was right where I’d left it.

I opened it, spread the photographs across the table, and stared down at Spade’s face, waiting for some revelation that never quite arrived. Then I did something I’d never even considered before Spade.

I shuffled through the pictures and found the image of Spade with her legs spread, her juicy little cunt glistening. I took it to the bedroom and crawled onto the bed, my eyes never leaving hers.

I shoved my pants down and freed my cock. Fuck, I want this woman.

Staring at the image, I got off in less than two minutes, careful not to shoot my load on the picture. I was certain I would need it again and again, at least until I had the real thing.

I stayed there until the sun came up, the room washed in new light, each image rendered even sharper than before. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even try. I just kept looking, waiting for the pieces to fit.

“I’m coming for you, Spade, and there’s not one fucking thing you can do about it.”

10

Spade

“You sure about this, Boss?” I asked Selene. We’d been sitting in the van silent since we arrived.

“As long as you got your shit and facts straight, then, yeah.” She chambered a round in her Glock. “Who knows, this shit could be our next side hustle.”

I shook my head, not thinking she understood the darkness a person had to have inside to murder the way I did. “This is it,” I said. “After this, I go back to being alone.”

“I’ll consider it,” Selene said.

We were parked half a block down from Starlight, Industrial Road, sweating under the sodium vapor glare. The brothel squatted like a bunker: windowless, walls caked in desert grime, neon sign bleeding pink cancer into the night. Above the “Gentlemen’s” in its name, the rusted AC unit dripped steady as an IV onto the scarred blacktop. Every time I looked at it, I thought of blood thinners.

The clock on the dash said 11:38. The air inside the van tasted stale, like someone had sealed us up for a week and left nothing but the ghosts of bad nights to breathe. Selene was as calm as ever. That’s why she was president. She never feared anything. Never let anything rattle her cage. It was always club business with her.

Her cut was zipped, collar up. She had her hands folded in her lap over the Glock, fingers laced, knuckles pale.

I checked my knives again, not because I needed to, but because I liked the ritual. Fixed blade on the hip, lockback in my boot. The way the sheaths rested on denim, the pressure of metal against bone. My hands had stopped shaking years ago, but the habit stayed.

“You ever considered stopping?” Selene asked.

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know how. People were born to be certain things.” I shrugged and looked into her eyes. “I was born to be a killer.”