Page 53 of Targeted By Desire

My mouth opened and closed, knowing the answer but too ashamed to say it aloud.

Maria shook her head. You need to get it together. Ares won’t be very forgiving if you don’t.

With that, she brushed past me and went down the hall into her room.

Sighing, I headed into my own room. I didn’t want to admit it, but Maria was right. The clock was ticking on Ares dealing out a consequence. He may not have mentioned it yet, but I knew one was coming if I didn’t act soon.

Still, I sat at my desk, opened up the surveillance cameras and watched Simone as she slept, wondering how her cheek would feel underneath my fingertips.

THE AGENT

“Another espresso martini,” the waitress said as she sat the glass down in front of me. “Courtesy of the gentlemen over there.”

My eyes snapped up from the cursive on the page and followed her gaze across the room. Hopes I didn’t realize had risen quickly fell when I saw the cluster of unfamiliar men sitting at the bar, wearing matching leather jackets like a knock off biker gang. My stomach rolled at the lecherous grins on their faces. Still, I feigned a smile in silent thanks for their kindness.

I turned away before they could make any more faces or comments towards me. The free drink was nice, I wasn’t in the mood to entertain any more of their advances. I’d come here to have a little solo night out.

Emphasis on solo.

My failed attempts at catching my stalker put me in a bitter mood. I don’t know how he managed to evade every single booby trap I set, but I almost didn’t care. The traps were just a diversion; I was supposed to be the real threat waiting for him behind it all. Yet, every night, my body betrayed me, too heavy from the long days at work to stay awake.

With the weekend ahead of me, I was banking on indulging in the best of both worlds with the alcohol and caffeine in these martinis. Hopefully the latter would help me stay awake long enough to get my hands on that son of a bitch.

His stupid chivalry act, tucking me into bed and tidying up my small messes, wasn’t fooling anyone. I could spot bullshit from a mile away. He wanted me to think his goals had changed. That he no longer yearned to murder me, but to take care of me. As if a psychopath like him had the capacity to care about anyone but himself.

The fact he thought I was that stupid made my blood boil.

I half-expected him to show up here. I’d chosen the darkest corner in the place just in case. We haven’t spoken since our game in Vegas. Another conversation was long overdue.

I dove back into my father’s words, reaching some of the last he’d ever written. At this point in the case, he’d exhausted almost every resource he had, but still had little to no information about the weapons dealer he was chasing. Every time he came close, there was an obstacle that pushed him right back to square one. The dealer seemed to always be one step ahead of him, and he didn’t understand how.

I remembered the bags underneath his eyes. The untouched dinners. The long nights spent in his study.

His obsession over this case was beginning to drive him mad. Or so I used to tell myself.

I was well aware of the tension whenever my parents were in the same room. Woke up to the loud sounds of their voices battling in the hall. Saw the tan line on my mother’s hands when she stopped wearing her ring.

Back then, I didn’t want to see the cracks happening in front of me. I wanted to blame my father’s stress on something else. Something that, at the time, made more sense.

Now, I saw it for what it was: another stone on top of all the weight he was already carrying. This case wasn’t any different than the rest. He was.

Flipping the page, I came to the untimely end of the journal. A short passage about a lead my father was going to explore the next day. The one that led to his death.

Stones of my own weighed on my chest as I read his last few words, felt the tiny bit of hope peeking through them.

My gaze drifted to the next page, searching for words I knew weren’t there. For an explanation of his demise. The uncut version - not the watered down one my mother gave me.

Rather than words, I found something else. Fringe peeking out from the spine.

My brows pinched as I picked the journal up and brought it closer for a better look. The ends were jagged and fluffed together, as if multiple pages were ripped out at once.

I turned back to the end of the passage, re-reading the sentences. Dad was talking about the lead he was going to go on the next day, but unlike the others, there was no explanation. No details. Just emptiness where his thoughts should’ve been.

That must’ve been the part someone ripped out. But who would do such a thing? And why?

The questions made my head hurt.

Rubbing my temple with one hand, I used the other to motion for the waitress. I paid for my drinks, stuffed the journal back into my purse, and left the table with my gifted martini untouched.