Page 13 of Can't Stop Watching
"Really?" Her eyes light up with hope, that dangerous, naive kind that makes girls like her easy targets for men like him.
"Of course." Brian's smile is practiced perfection. "I see such potential in you."
The coffee turns bitter in my mouth. Potential. That's what they always say. What my father used to say about his young associates before they disappeared into corner offices with him after hours.
I grip my cup harder, forcing myself to stay put. Not yet. Can't move yet. Need evidence. Need something concrete to take back to Claire. I'm too close to snap photos without tipping him off—and his type, someone up to no good—can smell surveillance a mile away.
"My place isn't far." Brian leans in closer to Sarah. "We could go over the internship details somewhere quieter."
My place. What place? Certainly not the mansion he shares with Claire in the Upper East Side. Rich boys like Brian always have a separate nest for their prey.
I take another sip of coffee gone cold, wondering what intel Milo will dig up on our golden boy. Milo, the best digital bloodhound money can officially buy. Ex-NSA with a moral compass that points straight to exposing bastards like Brian. He's combing through encrypted emails, hidden accounts, property records. Following the digital breadcrumbs that guys like Brian think they've covered up.
Sarah hesitates. Good. Listen to that instinct screaming at you to run.
"I don't know..." She glances at her phone. "I have a study group."
Brian's smile doesn't waver, but his fingers tighten around her hand. "Just thirty minutes. I have the internship paperwork there."
Paperwork. Right. Amazing how evil always hides behind mundane words. Paperwork. Business meeting. Private consultation.
Sarah pulls her hand back, tucking it under the table. "I should really go. My study group's waiting."
Smart move, kid.
Brian's smile doesn't crack, but something cold flickers behind those perfect eyes. A shark sensing blood but finding the prey just out of reach. "Of course. No pressure." His voice stays smooth as aged whiskey. "Just remember what I said about those positions filling up fast. Smith, Davidson & Ross only take the most... dedicated candidates."
The threat's subtle, wrapped in silk and corporate bullshit. Classic power play. Make them think the opportunity's slipping away, that they're not good enough unless they play by your rules.
Sarah stands, gathering her backpack with shaking hands. "Thanks, Mr. Langford. I'll think about it."
Mr. Langford. Christ. The formality makes it worse somehow.
Brian watches her leave, his head tilted like a wolf tracking wounded prey. His fingers drum once on the table, the only crack in his polished veneer. Then he's back to business, checking his phone with practiced nonchalance.
The game's not over. Guys like him don't give up after one "no." They retreat, regroup, find another angle. Predators arepatient. They wait until their prey feels safe again before moving in for the kill.
I memorize Sarah's face as she hurries past my booth. Young. Innocent. The kind of target a bastard like Brian loves to take advantage of. But she's got good instincts. She listened to that little voice telling her something was wrong. Most don't, not until they're discarded, pregnant, or worse. Hopefully, she won't change her mind.
I click off the button in my recording device. What I got isn't proof of anything. Claire will need more. Wives usually do. They want to believe they're wrong about their suspicions.
Brian stays another five minutes, probably making sure Sarah's well gone before he leaves. His wedding ring slides back onto his finger—a magic trick in reverse—catching the light as he pays the bill. The prop is back for his perfect little performance of a marriage.
Don't worry, rich boy. Your show's about to get a new critic. And I've never been kind with my reviews.
DANE
I trail Brian's Porsche to his overpriced gym in Tribeca where he meets his trust fund buddies for their daily circle jerk of protein shakes and designer workout gear. Two hours of watching rich assholes spot each other on benches while trading stock tips. Real productive evening.
Done with that. I head home. My key clicks in the lock of my Chelsea apartment—twentieth floor, north-facing. Not penthouse territory, but high enough to see the city's electrical nervous system spread out below. The place isn't much, but it'smine. Clean lines, open space, no clutter. Old hardwood floors that creak in just the right spots to alert me if someone breaks in. Floor-to-ceiling windows that make tactical surveillance a bitch, but the view almost makes up for it.
I drop my jacket on the leather armchair, one of my few concessions to comfort. The rest is minimal: steel and glass coffee table, flat-screen mounted on an exposed brick wall, kitchen with professional-grade appliances I barely use. No photos, no memorabilia. The past stays where it belongs.
My gun safe is hidden behind a false panel in the bedroom closet, old habits die hard. I store my Glock, check the backup piece under the bed. Some people need teddy bears to sleep. I need cold steel within arm's reach.
The fridge holds nothing but milk, cold brew coffee, and leftover Thai from three days ago. Dinner of champions. I grab a beer instead, some craft IPA that costs too much and tastes like pine needles soaked in pretension. But it's cold and it burns, and that's all that matters right now.
The city glitters beyond my windows like broken glass on asphalt, beautiful from a distance, sharp enough to cut up close. Somewhere out there, Brian Langford is probably sliding between expensive sheets next to his wife, dreaming up new ways to prey on desperate college girls. And somewhere else, those same girls are laying awake, wondering if trading their dignity for a shot at success is worth it.
