Page 36 of Judge's Mercy

“What?”

He grips me by the waist and picks me up. Just like last night, I wrap my legs around him, his hands shifting to under my ass and holding me up. “Kiss me, and when you do, run your hands up and down my back.”

“Why?” It’s a strange request, and I think back to where I touched him last night. I held onto his shoulders, hugged him around the neck, and touched him everywhere down there while I sucked his cock, but never his back. My own curiosity, along with his nervous, uneasy expression has me wanting to play along.

This man is making it hard for me to remain cold and ruthless.

“I want to test something.”

“Judge. . .”

“Just kiss me,” he urges.

“It’s not a good?—”

“Myla,” he says more forcefully. “Just fuckin’ kiss me and run your goddamn hands down my back. It’s not that deep.” He’s lying. This means something to him. It feels like a test that I’m not sure I want to pass. Then I remember how anxious he was about giving in to me last night, but he did it anyway. It would only be fair to return the favor.

I lean in and brush my lips against his lightly, teasing him. I get the feeling we’ve switched places, and now he’s the one who needs to be distracted from his pain. If I’m right, then I need to ease into it. He tenses as I weave my hands under his arms to give me better access to his back, so I stop at his sides. Sinking my teeth into his lower lip, I tug gently, bringing his attention back to the kiss. It works, and I feel his obliques relax.

Done with the tease, I kiss him in earnest now, not holding anything back. He moans as I push passed his lips and tangle his tongue with mine. He tastes bitter, like his black coffee, and I think maybe I haven’t given coffee a fair chance because, on him, it’s delicious, and I can’t get enough.

He moves one arm under my ass to free the other so he can skim a hand up the back of my T-shirt. His warm palm slides up my spine until he’s gripping the back of my neck. It’s possessive, and as much as I try to hate it, I can’t. This man is dangerous, but he said he’d leave after this. Once he’s gone, I’ll be able to purge him from my mind and get back to what I need to be focusing on right now.

Slowly, so as not to spook him, I inch my hands around his sides to his back. Unfortunately, the leather of his cut and the fabric of his shirt separate me from his skin. I’d love to feel his muscles extend and flex, but I get the feeling he couldn’t handle that right now. I skim across the rough edges and tight stitching of the large SOE patch on his back. In my mind’s eye, I picture the skull with large twisting ram horns sticking out of the top. The skull has vampire fangs and no lower jaw, with blood dripping from one eye and one horn. It’s a sinister image that I never thought suited the man I’m currently wrapped around, but the more I get to know him, the more I see a glimpse of the outlaw biker in him.

He pulls away from me, gasping for breath, a look of awe on his handsome face. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

He sets me down and rests a palm on my cheek. “Thank you.”

“Believe what?” I repeat. He spins on his heels and walks out of the room, heading straight for the front door, but I haven’t gotten my answer. Giving chase, I yell out, “Believe what, Judge?”

The only answer I get is the snick of the door closing and the grinding of the lock clicking into place. I stand staring, wondering what happened. I’m tempted to run after him and demand answers, but I’ve already given enough of myself for the day. Besides, I shouldn’t care. He can’t matter to me; no one can. Not until I’m done with my list.

I sigh, letting it go. I have things to do, so I mentally run through my checklist. Grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen, I head to my bathroom. With a plan already in place, I gather everything I need to sterilize my clothes, shoes, and knife. It’ll take a couple hours to scrub everything down, and I’ll need a few more to dispose of the evidence, so I get to work, pushing aside all thoughts of Judge and sex.

Cory Barlow sits across from what I assume is a client. The restaurant is posh, and he gives off the impression of a respectable man when I know he’s anything but. Three women who work as escorts have come forward with horrific stories of being trapped inside hotel suites for hours while he raped and tortured them. Once he had his fun, he’d toss them a few hundred dollars and kick them out—clothes torn, chunks of hair missing, and bruises all over their bodies.

According to law enforcement, their stories weren’t consistent, and the women were unreliable witnesses. No charges were filed. Meanwhile, one of the women committed suicide after family members said she went into a deep depression, and the other two disappeared without a trace. It’s a curious coincidence that the cops haven’t investigated their disappearances, despite them being reported.

I doubt those three women are the only ones Cory has abused. The rest are probably just too scared to come forward. And why would they, after seeing what happened? Society doesn’t give a fuck about sex workers.

“Here you go. Chicken carbonara and a side salad.” The waitress places the plates in front of me. I smile and thank her, but once she’s gone, I push the plates aside. I’ve lost my appetite just thinking about how this man can laugh and be charming, all while knowing what he’s done to so many women.

This is my third week tailing him, and I finally feel like I know enough to act. He reserves Friday nights for entertaining clients, which is what he’s doing right now. After they eat, they’ll go to a club at one of the casinos where the escorts Cory hired will make them feel desired and attractive, even though they’re anything but. They’ll get liquored up before taking their dates upstairs to a suite, as usual. Unfortunately, Cory won’t be joining his client in the suite tonight because he’ll be dead. I hope he’s enjoying his eggplant parmesan because it’ll be his last meal.

It’s risky to take him out in public, but while Cory is unleashing violence on prostitutes, his wife and kids are tucked in bed at home. I have no reason to believe his wife knows anything; the police reports weren’t released to the public, and when he’s at home, Cory effortlessly plays the role of doting husband and father. I’m glad his family will have good memories to fall back on while they deal with his loss, but it also means his home is off-limits.

It’s fine, though; the club he goes to is insanely busy, and there are plenty of blind spots that the cameras don’t reach. As long as I blend in with all the other party-goers, it’ll be impossible for the cops to pin his death on me.

Brushing my hands down my dress, I’m surprised at how quickly the clothes I used to cherish don’t suit me anymore. The woman who bought them wanted to feel sexy and feminine, but that woman died the day I was taken and abused. Fashion means shit to me now, and my daily uniform of baggy black tees and black jeans has taken over my closet. The only reason I’m wearing a navy body-con dress tonight is because the club has a dress code.

Once the two men have finished their meal, Cory pays the bill, and they leave the restaurant. I’m in no rush and don’t want to seem like I’m following them, so I cut up my food and push it around to make it look like I ate some of it, then pay my own bill with cash.

The restaurant is in the same hotel as the club, so as I walk through the building, I attach myself to the back of a group of twenty-somethings who are also headed that way. I strike up a conversation with one of the men so that when the police look through the footage, I won’t stand out the way I would if I was alone and going to a club. Being short also helps because I know my face will be obscured by the taller men I’m walking with.

I go my separate way after showing the bouncer my ID. He barely glances at it before reaching for the next. I’ve been to this club before; the girls from the Honey Pot and I would go out while we weren’t on tour to drum up business. We’d drink and dance, attracting men and women. Once their interest was obvious, we’d hand them a business card. It worked like a charm.

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