Page 118 of The Truths that Deceive

I’d want to know the handsome, older man. Explore kink and filth and my limits with him. I’d want him to take me hard and fast. I’d like to fight with him, see who could draw blood first. Have him choke me until I’m hazy and a sea of base emotions.

He’s witty, extremely smart, maybe as smart as me, which is a thrill of its own. And he’s got a kindness hidden in that callousness he likes to exude.

I’m not talking about the charm he turns into advantage, charm he treats like a weapon. No, I mean that softness, like when in the middle of hard sex play, he took time to make sure I wanted anal. And then he eased in slow when we both know he didn’t have to.

He did that for me.

I want to do normal things with him like go out for romantic dinners, wake up next to him, help him in his job, play chess with him.

I want to know all the tiny things that make him up. Favorite foods and movies and books. Preferred weapons.

I want?—

“We’re here.”

The cab driver’s words jolt me out of my daydream. I pay him with the card on the phone and then get out. The office Riley is using is in an old pre-war building. Since it’s early, I make my way around the back and down the alley between buildings. There I find the open door for the maintenance staff. It’s easy enough to go in through there, and knowing Riley, he’ll be on the first floor.

I take the stairs.

His office is big, and I slip inside, past where a receptionist would sit.

Voices freeze me.

“You’re going down, you prick,” Riley snarls.

“C’mon, I skimmed off the top, fed some of my fantasies, then set up some deals for you about the blueprints I got.” That must be Eric.

I sidle up closer to the door.

“Blueprints that you implicated me in,” Riley says. “And the fucking sex trade? I trusted you. And I’m not burning for you. I just dealt with the fucking FBI?—”

“You were banging young whores. Which I can set you up with. We go over to Bolivia?—”

“What the fuck? I’m not going anywhere, but you are.” There’s a knowing note in his voice, like Riley’s going through motions, eager to just get rid of this man.

Did—?

The door opens and I’m face-to-face with my old mentor.

“Who’s the cunt?” Eric mutters, coming up behind Riley.

“The cunt,” he says, “is CIA.”

“Well, fuck,” Eric says. “Guess you two can have a shootout because I’m not going down for this.”

I don’t see it coming. One minute Riley’s turning to him, the next minute he hits the floor, brains and blood all over my sneakers and the carpet. The loud bang of the gun still rings between my ears, and now that weapon’s pointed at me.

My blood moves, cold, sluggish in my veins as my stomach does a sickening lurch into my bloody shoes.

Behind me a door bangs and I know who it is before he steps into the room.

“Put down the fucking gun, Brown,” Smith snarls. “You just shot an unarmed man.”

I start to reach for the gun, but Eric stabs the gun through the air. “Hands up, bitch. I’m going to blame the cunt here. Right after I kill her. Or maybe I’ll shoot you and have you bleed out while I fuck her up. Taste the cunt’s cunt with my cock and gun, maybe something nasty, like?—”

“I will fucking feed you your own dick if you hurt her. Mark my fucking words.” Smith takes a step forward. He doesn’t have a gun. His hands are open at his sides. And…

Fear lacerates me.

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