Page 18 of Holy Sinner

“Who the fuck are you?” I growl, slamming him against the wet brick of the building the second we’re out of sight.

“I-ughh-,” he tries to talk but it’s just another bunch of gasping that has me sighing and grabbing his camera from him.

“I didn’t hit you that hard, get the fuck over it.” I pop the memory card out of the camera and pocket it. “Who are you working for? You freelance?” I ask and unscrew the lens from his camera before I slam the end of it against the brick wall. I know it doesn’t take much to ruin a camera lens, so the slam is more for me on account of not being able to kill him. I drop the camera and lens on the ground and grab his shirt when he doesn’t answer me.

“I said, are you freelance?”

“I-uh, yeah, I’m on my own.”

“How long have you been following us? You the one taking pictures of her on the lot?”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “What? No, god. Tonight is the first time I managed to actually find you. I didn’t even think this place was real.”

“And how, exactly, did you do that?” He looks to the side like he’s thinking of not answering me, so I slap him. “I said, ‘how exactly did you do that?’”

His head snaps to the side and he stares at me with wide, watery eyes. “You fucking hit me. Oh my god, you hit me. Again.”

“I’ll do more than that,” I snarl, giving him a shake before I take a closer look at him. “Are you fucking crying?”

He sniffles. “You hit me really hard, okay?”

I sigh and take a step back from him. “Who were you selling the photos to?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think I’d actually get the door open. I-I thought this was a longshot but it worked and now you hit me! Oh my god, I puked all over myself.”

I want to keep questioning him but killing him is out of the question. People know I’m here with Kit and Rafe. If he shows up dead in the alley of the restaurant we were seen at for our anniversary, it isn’t going to go well for us. That’s too much attention. Plus, the fact that a whole crowd of people saw me with the reporter.

If it was just me, I might risk it. With Kit?

Not a chance.

Besides, I’m not giving Rafe something to bitch about. The man nags like a mother hen. In the end, the choice is taken out of my hands when a car pulls into the alleyway and bathes us in light. It’s a sleek town car meant to blend in and when it pulls up to the door I kicked open, I know why.

This is the VIP entrance. It’s the one we should have taken Kit through but we decided to give her as normal of an experience as possible and brought her in the front.

I slap the reporter across his mouth and he gasps. “You came in this way, didn’t you?” I ask while I hear car doors opening behind us. They’re going to be fucked trying to get in with the way the dumpster is still sitting in front of the door. I’ve only got a few minutes at most before they notice me and ask what the fuck is up with the dumpster. I move into his space and start patting him down.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, clutching at the camera I shove against his chest. “I thought it was a scam.”

“What was a scam?”

“My connection said that the door would be unlocked and that I could get in that way. They said-they said I’d be able to find you if I used the VIP entrance.”

“Who was it?” I open his wallet and pocket his license before I slip it back into his jacket.

“Who was who?”

“The connection, you idiot.”

“I don’t know. It was a woman. She didn’t let me see her face and she had a voice changer.”

“So how the fuck do you know it was a woman?” I ask and he freezes.

“Oh, uh, I guess I don’t…” his voice trails off and I hear the driver of the town car call out to me.

“Do you know why this door is blocked?” I look over my shoulder to see a driver looking pissed and trying to move the dumpster while a woman in a couture dress huddles close to a man who looks as pissed as I feel. I squint and try to place the man because he looks familiar. Older than me by a decade or two, salt and pepper hair with glasses.

I don’t let them know I’m angry though and smile. “Paparazzi did it!” I call out and the man steps forward.

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