Page 38 of Reclaimed

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

With a name like Celestial Desires, this place is clearly a low-rent strip joint. Meaning he hauled his ass all the way out here for some bargain-bin, blown-out pussy he’ll no doubt overpay for just to guarantee it doesn’t turn him down.

I roll my shoulders back in irritation as I step through the door, scanning the dimly-lit interior for my target. He’s wasted no time in cornering some poor middle-aged broad, passing her a wad of bills while she humors him with a brittle smile before leading him over to a corner booth. I claim a booth in the opposite corner of the room, settling in to wait him out.

“Hey, cutie,” a saccharine voice coos, and I lift my chin to find a petite blonde leaning against the table, her eyes glazed, pupils blown wide. She’s wearing a sheer pink bodysuit, and while she’s got a decent pair of tits on her, I’m not here for pussy. Even if I were, the drugged-out look in her eyes is an instant boner killer.

“Have you had a chance to look over the menu?” she asks, nudging the tabletop standee toward me.

My gaze flickers to it, and I skim just enough to discern that it isn’t a drink menu.

“I’d recommend number f–”

“What about her?” I interrupt, flicking a pointed glance toward Miller’s booth across the room. He’s got his arms spread wide across the seatback, the stripper on her knees beside him working his zipper down.

The blonde follows my gaze, squinting, then exhales an annoyed sigh as she turns back to me. “It’ll be a while, she’s booked for a number three.”

My gaze drops to the menu just long enough to garner what that item entails. “Just a whiskey, then,” I mutter.

She frowns, spinning on a heel to head to the bar. She’s quick– back in under two minutes– but she’s barely set my drink down on the chipped formica table before Miller’s already back on his feet, head tipped back to drain his beer.

Jesus Christ, the ‘head over heels’ package is supposed to be a twenty-minute blowjob, not an eighty-three second handjob.

Miller slams his empty bottle down, zips up his pants, and heads for the door.

I throw back my whiskey, tossing a few bills on the table before rising to stand. Then I resume my hunt, pausing on my way out to slip a few more bills into the g-string of the lady who just had to smile through a grown ass man blowing his load on her during the foreplay.

Hazard pay.

As I tail Miller back through the shadows for another overpriced subway ride– this time into Midtown– I feel something dangerously close to pity looking for a place to cling to in the empty cavity of my chest. The asshole spent half the night getting rejected while drinking his weight in cheap tequila, then getting off to just the touch of some down-on-her-luck divorcee who probably had her minivan parked out back. It’s fucking bleak.

Before I have a chance to really ruminate on that, Jersey’s bloodied face flashes through my mind, along with everything I’d planned to do before I found her like that. Come to think of it, Miller fucking cock-blocked me. Pity gone. Hell, what I’m about to do might be the closest I’ll come to community service.

Back in Midtown, Miller moves slowly down the sidewalk, his feet occasionally crossing and sending him stumbling sideways. Somehow, he never hits the pavement– which may be the most impressive thing he’s done tonight.

He staggers through the glass doors of a residential high-rise, and I catch the door just before it latches behind him, slipping inside. Keeping my distance, I watch him step into a waiting elevator, the button for the ninth floor lighting up a second before the doors slide shut. I take the adjacent elevator up to the eighth, and as soon as the doors open, I locate the stairwell. With both hands bracing the railings, I take the metal stairs two at a time up to the ninth.

I’m not worried about Miller noticing me– the asshole can barely keep track of himself. But I don’t need anyone else in the building suddenly deciding to be observant.

Through the narrow window at the ninth-floor landing, I spot him halfway down the corridor, head bowed as he fumbles with one key after another, trying to unlock his door. I creep from the stairwell into the dim hallway and close the distance while he’s still fighting to get inside.

The lock finally gives, but before he can slip into his apartment, I crowd him from behind, my arm barring across his chest as I wrench him back. Pulling my Bowie knife from its sheath, I press the freshly sharpened tip to the fleshy soft spot just above his Adam’s apple.

“Mutter a single sound and I will split you from throat to taint and turn you inside out right here,” I warn.

He reaches for his gun, reflexes sluggish, but I don’t need the advantage. Even under normal circumstances, I’d still be faster. My fingers close around the nine-millimeter before his can, ripping it from the holster and tucking it into my waistband. Then I nudge him over the threshold, toeing the door shut behind me as I shove him forward.

He knocks into the back of a chair, palms splaying over the worn leather. Using it to steady himself, he turns, recognition flickering in his bloodshot eyes. He lunges toward me, his arm rearing back a second too soon. I use the opening to crack the pommel of my knife into his skull, sending him stumbling to the floor. He groans as I stomp down with my full weight onto his junk before driving the steel toe of my boot into his right side.

“What the fuck, Riggs?!” he chokes, curling in on himself.

“I knew you were too incompetent for the Mercenary Syndicate,” I mutter, moving toward the kitchen island at a leisurely pace.

Behind me, Miller starts to push up onto his elbows. I pivot around, flinging my Bowie knife at his arm. He yelps as the blade pierces through the sleeve of his hoodie and lodges into the hardwood, pinning him down.

“As I was saying,” I sigh, grabbing a bottle of obscenely expensive whiskey and inspecting the label before twisting off the cap. “You never did understand the dynamics of precision movement over brute uncoordinated force.” I pour two fingers of whiskey in a lowball glass and take a slow sip. Fuck, that’s smooth. “But what I didn’t know was how much of a goddamn pathetic excuse of a man you were.”

“Son of a bitch,” he growls, grabbing for the hilt of the knife.