Page 2 of Bleeding Outside the Lines

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” I pull my gun from its holster before I enter, ready and willing to shoot a bitch between the eyes. She’s not fucking here, but somebody was, and I slam the door behind me, hearing it lock.

“Stupid fucking slut!” My foot connects with the trash barrel, sending its contents across the floor. Picking up the chair in front of my desk, I hurl it at the wall. It hits with a thump, leaving a hole in the sheetrock, but the chair falls back to the ground unharmed. I pick it up again, this time throwing it at the bar cart. Bottles of liquor and glasses fall to the floor with thuds and crashes.

I crack my neck and lean over to pick up a tequila bottle, broken at the neck, but still partially full. Digging through the debris, I also find a shot glass mostly intact, except for the small chip in the rim.

I pour myself a shot, appreciating the sting as it burns its way down my throat, and sit behind my desk. Picking up my tablet, I tap on the camera feed from my office, rewinding it an hour andlean back in my chair, confident that I have achieved what every person before me has failed, capturing this cunt on camera. As an added perk, I can watch her sucking my cock whenever the mood strikes. An audible laugh escapes me, and I watch the screen as the door to my office opens, revealing me behind it. Then it happens again. And again. I fast-forward and watch as the door opens on a loop for twenty fucking minutes. And then I am shooting my load on my desk and picking up the envelope.

Motherfucking bitch.

I refill my shot glass and then switch over to the bar camera. Again, I rewind the feed. Again, she’s never there, but when I zoom in, the cherry stem sits on the napkin. I know it’s pointless to look, but I follow suit with the rest of the video feeds anyway. The feed from behind the DJ booth that shows the dance floor, the feed at the door, and the feed in the hallway. All of them, empty of the brunette. What remains of the tequila bottle smashes against the wall.

I need the night to get my head straight, and I can’t do it here. I can’t think without seeing her on her fucking knees. I leave through the back exit and climb into the driver's seat of my rebuilt Impala. My feet press down on the clutch and brake, and I turn the key. She purrs to life. My cock does a little bounce in greeting. I bought this car as a bucket of rust and used the money I won from my first big card game to rebuild it. Every time I turn her on, it’s like losing my virginity all over again. I pull out of the lot, the power beneath me feeding the tension in my body.

I’m not worried about this bitch killing me. Truly, I’m not. She hides in the shadows, beneath disguise and fancy fanfare. I own who I am. People fear me, not the idea of me. I am a tangible, real-life person. She’s a rumor. A hushed conversation in a dark corner. But fuck me if she doesn’t have me all revved up.

I need to know who the fuck hired her and why. I stick to my own corner of the darkness that lurks beneath this city. Youwon’t find me running drugs or pimping out women. You won’t even find me buying drugs or sex. Gambling is my vice. I learned how to count cards as a kid, and by the time I was twenty-four, I had opened the club, but only as a cover for the underground micro-casino. My vice turned into a million-dollar business. We have high-stakes poker, blackjack, and a few craps tables. It’s invite or referral only. I don’t have goons. I handle my own shit. You fuck me over, and you face me—or the end of my fist, or maybe my trusty hammer. And if it’s still not handled, you go missing and stay missing.

I rack my brain, trying to think of who would be brave or stupid enough to hire this woman. And who has the funds? The pricks that run the drug and sex trades aren’t this stupid. And it can’t possibly be anyone who owes me money, because if they have the funds to pay this bitch, they have the funds to pay me, making killing me pointless.

I punch the code and drive through the gate and up the long driveway to my home. It sits on a little over seven acres right outside the city and is surrounded by an eight-foot stockade fence armed with monitored cameras. It screamsnobody fucks with Cassius Cross. I pull the Impala into the garage, head into the house, and make my way to the bar.

I pour a few shots of tequila over ice and get comfortable in my home office. The letter that weighed heavy in my pocket for the last hour now sits crumpled in front of me. I smooth it as best I can on the surface of my desk.

I stare at the letter, reading it over and over. Memorizing it. I have so many questions and no answers. But I do know one thing for sure, I’m not going down without a fight. In fact, if anyone goes down, it’s going to be her.

On her fucking knees. Again.

two

The phone barely hasa chance to ring before he answers.

“Cross,” his deep voice greets me across the airwaves. It’s surprising that he answered on the first ring. Perhaps this job will be easier than anticipated.

“Good evening, Cassius,” I reply, my voice a soft purr. “May I call you Cassius? Mr. Cross seems far too professional for such an intimate relationship.” I watch the video feed in front of me, as the man I have been paid to kill sits unmoving. Not a twitch in his armor. His eyes are cold and gray. They seem to see everything but look at nothing.

His tongue slides across his lips before my name spills out of his mouth. “Ruby.” It falls in the air fluid like the rain outside my window. He remains still as a statue, as if he’ll die if he so much as breathes. As if he knows I am watching him. Can he feel my gaze on him?

“I must say,” he continues. “I’m slightly disappointed in your skills tonight.”

“I assure you, Cassius, I am the best at what I do. Be grateful you still draw breath.”

His silence speaks volumes, louder than any heartbeat. Louder than the quickened breath of the afraid. Silence is all the reassurance I need to know that I have him exactly where I want him.

Predator vs. prey.

“Now, Cassius, here is what’s going to happen.” I drop my voice an octave, each syllable drips of sex, raw and sultry. This is part of the game, part of the hunt. “I am going to kill you, but you will not know when, and you will not know how. You will not see me coming, but you will know when I am near.”

From the bar in my office, I pour myself a glass of wine and then sink into the cushioned chair behind my desk, kicking off my heels. The wine is bitter, coating my throat with hints of plum and cherry. It’s not my favorite, but it was sent to me from Spain, so I drink it anyway.

The statue on the screen moves. He relaxes in his chair, propping his feet on the desk. Interesting. Peculiar even. It’s as if he sees my death threat as an invitation. This catches me off guard, increasing my heart rate. I feel every pulse through my veins, betraying my normal calm demeanor.

What the hell is this man doing?

My breath hitches and I pull the phone away, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Baby, I understand that you were hired to do a job, but you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“Call me baby again, and I will gut your insides and feed them to the vermin that haunt the alley behind your club.”

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