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As Luxury affirms how I’ve botched what we have, I cannot bloody think straight. Instead of adhering to the life-or-death situation, I stumble into her fucking trap. I makemethe problem.
“Allow me to remind you, Luxury, you and I are under a binding agreement—I own you.”
Half-listening as she says something, I’m about to promise always to protect her when she rounds on bare soles and dashes through the door. I scrub my hands over my face and tell myself to address her disappointment later.Alright, Vic, everything’s balls up! You’ve a gun and no bloody bullets.
I stalk out of the bedroom, starting down the landing. “Luxury, listen to every word I tell you.”
At the bottom of the steps, wisps of curly hair fly in Luxury’s face as she denies to her father that she allowed me to enter. Aggravated, I disclose my choice of entry. As Whitson begins to threaten me with authorities, I catch sight of a Vortex Optics sniper scope. An explosive sound wrenches through the air. Glass ruptures inward, showering in our direction. I surge toward Luxury, capturing her trembling, frenzied body beneath me.
Leveraging myself on my forearms, I order, “Get down, Dr. Whitson!”
As Whitson wedges himself behind a chair, my eyes lock onto the incredible treasure I’ve claimed for myself. “Lux, right now, I need you to be that cheeky, confident young woman I first met. No fear.”
In the midst of her father’s assassination attempt, Luxury’s courage renews. She meets my unwavering gaze, offering a resolute nod.
Whitson crawls toward the front door, resulting in less visual access.
I won’t have my Little One chance it.
“Whitson, where’s your gun?”
Voice labored, he grimaces out, “Right there, in the side pocket of my recliner.”
Army shuffling over, I reach into the holder. I check the chamber of a Smith and Wesson handgun and drop it into my suit jacket. I crawl around to the window. As I go, I grab an eyeshadow palette from the coffee table.
Where the bloody hell are Bobby George’s people? I fucked up majorly going straight to Luxury.Spine against the brick wall, I flip open the compact. Slowly, I lift the mirror to the large window above. Through the mirror’s reflection, I search the sniper’s location.
Bingo.
Another .50 caliber bursts through the window. The bullet would’ve taken my bloody hand off. I crawl exactly two feet to the left, lift my gun, and shoot. I crawl another four feet back in the opposite direction to have a safe place to confirm the target is down. Through the reflection, a hitman’s body slumps over the side of the opposite building.
Taking a deep sigh, I sit back.
“Whitson, Lux,” I begin in a precise tone, “we must leave.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, I cut the lights, yanking the lamp from the wall. Next, I get up and guide Luxury behind me. Clutching a notebook, Whitson rounds out the fold. Silence meets my ears as I push open the door to their flat. After a quick entryway check, I cock my head to the two, huddled together.
Halfway to the elevator shaft, a diminutive police officer pulls away from where he was wedged against a neighbor’s closed door. Pointing a Beretta at me, he shakes out, “Freeze!”
Fucking cunt’s here to save the day.Although holding his ground, he slowly advances. Luxury’s arms envelop my waist, face hidden against my spine.
“Luxury Whitson, Doc, Detective Caruso sent me.” The cop edges upward on the tips of his toes.
“Hell of a job you’re doing!” Whitson says, moving up toward my side.
“Wait,” I warn him.
The cop retorts, “I’m—”
Ears piqued, I growl, “Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”
I lift Whitson’s revolver just as another gun goes off. Luxury’s cries overpower the weapon. Whitson clutches his gut and falls forward.
“No!” The officer startles. I fire a round at the man in black, directly behind the cop. Luxury descends to her knees, sobbing as she places quivering hands on her father’s abdomen
Bloody fuck.
I’m not the hero, after all.
