Page 22 of Playing with Fyre

I can’t wait to show Charlotte my knife. To leave its wet, cross-hatched marks over her pale skin.

I will take her to my hunting lodge. I’ve wanted to since the day she kissed me. But it’s not the right time. It must be snowing, and from the reports I receive in my emails, the first snows haven’t fallen yet.

Pushing the thought of her soft skin and those big, expressive eyes from my mind, I order a drink and keep to the shadows.

He usually stays for two hours, ending the evening with a private lap dance from whichever dancer caught his fancy. But tonight he seems agitated—he’s constantly looking over his shoulder, only orders two drinks, and within an hour he’s already headed for the exit.

Something spooked him. He caught wind of another predator. Ofme.But it doesn’t matter. I’ve locked onto him. He’s already sucking on his last breath.

He’s parked in a well-lit area of the parking lot, so when I come up behind him and he turns—having heard the scrape of my shoes on the tar—I’m in full sight.

Peter recognizes me instantly. His hands go up before he pushes them down at his side, his flight or fight response warring with bravado, with anger, with whatever the fuck is raging through his head.

“You!” he spits out. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

I laugh.

He freezes, eyes widening, gaze searching my face. He must see something he doesn’t like, because now he’s backing up, reaching out blindly behind him for the handle of his car door.

I have his phone in my hand, and I press the side to make the screen turn on. I’ve been at this long enough to know the kind of people who can easily unlock a person’s phone. I’d expected something a little more sophisticated, but Peter’s pin is simply his year of birth and his favorite Red Socks player’s team number.

Pathetic, just like him.

“You could try,” I tell him, stepping closer. “But if anything happens to me, these pictures will end up on the FBI’s desk before morning.”

I keep him in my periphery as I open the phone’s picture gallery and tap on one of the photos, zooming in to full screen.

Even in the yellow light of the parking lot lamp, Peter’s skin goes sickly pale. But still his mouth tightens and his hands curl into fists. He’s a fighter, which is why he was never convicted. People like him think they have enough money to own anything—even another human being. He doesn’t think what he did to Charlotte and those other girls was wrong, justexpensive.

My stomach turns, and bitter bile surges into my mouth.

“What do you want?” Peter snaps, his eyes in slits.

“Just a few moments of your time,” I tell him, giving him a warm smile. “I have a business proposition for you.”

Peter eyes me suspiciously, one side of his mouth in a sneer.

“So you wouldn’t be interested in a close-knit group of friends sharing certain assets with each other? Photos, videos,birds.” The slimy prick’s eyes light up at the familiar code word. “Consider it repayment for your…injuries,” I say, smiling warmly.

He nods and waves a hand for me to lead the way.

There are three types of predators in this world.

The poor who debase their bodies with alcohol and drugs which, combined with an abusive upbringing, transform those wretches into men who lurk in alleyways and pay ten-dollar hookers to suck their dirty penises.

The wealthy. People who can have everything and yet still crave what they cannot have—another’s innocence. They hide right out in the open.

Then there’s me.

He follows me to my car. When I grab a handful of his hair and slam it into the side of the car door as I’m opening it for him, he goes down without a sound.

Chapter Fifteen

Fyre

I’m careful. I’m intelligent. And I care so much more for Charlotte than Peter ever could. I tell him this while I’m shoving him into the little box I had prepared just for this occasion.

A gust of wind slams into the side of the barn, rattling its loose boards and sending hay dust swirling into the air.

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