The Risk (Mindf*ck Series #1)

by Abby, S. T.

  When you read people like I do, you learn who’s honest and who isn’t. You learn to smell intentions.

  “I don’t want to stop,” I say quietly, refusing to break the spell.

  He leans over, grabbing his discarded jeans, and I grin when I hear the familiar rattling sound of a wrapper.

  “Just so you know, I’ve had this thing in my wallet for a while. I really didn’t come with expectations—with hopes, yes, but not expectations,” he says, grinning when he sees my smile.

  I arch an eyebrow playfully, and he kisses me again, getting readjusted on top of me. His hands move between us as he lifts his hips, and I resist the urge to look down and watch.

  It’s sad to say that seeing him roll on a condom would probably send me spiraling into a premature orgasm. It’s surreal. I love this feeling. I want to bottle it and save it for rainy days.

  When he leans up, I’m forced to watch, and I squirm as that ache grows more pronounced, more insistent. Fairly sure that ache is named desire.

  He’s definitely not a small guy, but he’s also not freakishly endowed. Perfect.

  I’m licking my lips before I can stop myself as he starts tugging my panties down. His eyes fall on the bare skin when he removes them completely and he leans down.

  The second I feel his breath hit me, my hips jerk up, and I tug his hair, forcing him up my body.

  “If you do that, I’ll be ruined. I need more,” I say just as my lips find his again.

  I could seriously kiss him all day, as long as we’re also doing more.

  Without any further begging, he pushes inside me in one swift thrust that has me breaking my lips away to gasp for air. He rocks his hips, and I realize there’s more there than I initially thought, because he goes deeper, filling me fuller.

  He stares down at me, lust and longing oozing from his eyes as he keeps eye contact. No words are exchanged as he rocks his hips again, finding a spot inside me that I thought had died.

  Sensory overload is a legit thing.

  Everything on me is strung tight, just waiting to break. The more he moves over me, the tighter the strings get. My nails dig into his shoulders as he continues to watch the myriad of expressions I must be giving him as he unravels me thrust by thrust.

  Then it hits. It hits hard.

  Those strings break, and euphoria crackles across my body like a bomb that detonates in my core and explodes outward. It rolls across me, curling my toes, flashing behind my eyelids that shut at some point, and licks across my skin like hot, incredible flames.

  When I cry out and thrash beneath him wildly, his rhythm changes, becoming more urgent. I hold on as he drags out my orgasm in a way I didn’t know was possible, and then he grunts, his hips jerking against me as he finds his own little version of heaven. At least I hope he feels this good.

  Boneless and spent, my arms fall away from him as he drops to my body and kisses a trail down my neck. Definitely moving too fast, but I don’t care. We’re doomed anyway.

  The monster never gets the prince. It’s always the sweet and innocent princess who wins.

  My hands come up, and my fingers twist in his hair, enjoying this feeling while it lasts.

  “I plan on a round two, but I’m not Superman. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll make sure you want to do this a lot more,” he says against my neck, still nipping and kissing the flesh.

  A smile curves my lips, and I sigh happily under him.

  “I want to do this all the time.”

  He chuckles against me, and I find myself hugging him, even though I don’t know when it started. He holds me to him, hugging me back.

  “Good,” he says against me. “Because that was fucking perfect.”

  It is perfect. Which is why I need to kill the monitoring channel in the living room so that it doesn’t work, lock my murder room, and make sure all my weapons stay in there from now on.

  Chapter 9

  I never came upon any of my discoveries through the process of rational thinking.

  —Albert Einstein

  LOGAN

  “You got laid,” Craig says as I walk in, holding my coffee that I barely managed to get in time this morning.

  I forgot what it was like to lose myself in a girl. And I know I’ve never lost myself in someone so much as I did last night and this morning. Lana is the most unexpected surprise of my life.

  I keep waiting to find a flaw, but can’t seem to find one. No one can be that perfect. Not that I want to jinx it. I also don’t want to find out she’s married or something. So I’m close to doing the unthinkable, because she has my head all kinds of fucked up.

  “Maybe,” I tell him, smirking when he groans.

  “The Ice Princess took you but not me?” he asks as I drop to my desk chair and pull up the databases I need.

  “It drives you that crazy she didn’t eat up your charm,” I drawl.

  “There’s a reason I’m the face of this department, and it isn’t because I’m the best looking—though we both know I am. The point is, girls eat me up. Women, mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, nieces… We fuck up, and I explain it away with a charming smile and an ‘aww shucks’ sort of attitude while throwing in a deep sense of remorse. Anything and everything will be forgiven if you have the right face. It’s the truth. Humans are shallow—all of us. Pardon me for finding it a little suspect that she literally had zero interest in me, yet turns around and fucks you.”

  “I think Logan is way hotter than you,” Hadley chimes in, coming to prop up beside me as Craig scowls at her. “And despite what you think, not all women are that shallow. Most of us find someone attractive if they have the right qualities.”

  “Bullshit,” Craig scoffs. “I’ve done plenty of research on the matter. I’m not just talking out my ass.”

  I roll my eyes as they continue to bicker, and I start my search. No marriage certificate. No divorce. No children—not that I’d mind, but I’d still like to know. No…living relatives… Shit.

  No one? She has no one at all? I already know she doesn’t have any personal social media. Just her business profiles, even though there’s no mention of her partner on any of them.

  I don’t dig any deeper than that. I feel like I’ve invaded her privacy enough. Everything else needs to be things she tells me when she’s ready—like the car accident that scarred her.

  It must have been a bad wreck, considering one scar travels from her left hip to her right breast. Another one is on her right side, jagged and large. They’re old. I could tell from looking at them.

  I should have shown her my scars, but I was too busy exploring her body the rest of the night to give her time to explore mine. Every time she tried, I lost control, feeling her hands on me seemed to turn me into a horny teenager all over again.

  “You have serious trust issues,” Hadley says, drawing me out of my own head.

  I notice Craig is gone, but Hadley is reading the latest search over my shoulder. I close out of it and shrug.

  “You had me research her background for priors, and now you’re checking her facts?”

  She cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “Ever met someone too good to be true? I was almost late for work this morning because I couldn’t seem to pry myself away from her. She literally has no flaws. She’s beautiful, smart, sassy, whimsical, and onboard with my hectic schedule, even though most girls immediately have an issue with it. She hasn’t once gotten annoyed with me having to cancel things. I showed up at her place unannounced, and she was twice as perfect as I thought possible. So yeah…I can’t help but be worried, because a guy can fall fast for a girl like that.”

  She rolls her eyes and mocks a gag, so I flip her off and start pulling up the latest case files.

  “Everyone has flaws. You’re just in the honeymoon phase. Eventually she will get annoyed with cancellations and unavailability. Just like you’ll eventually start noticing things she does that irritate you. Right now is the shiny happy part that everyone loves.
It’s why so many people get married after barely knowing each other. It’s also why they get divorced when they do know each other.”

  She laughs, and I lean back, mulling that over. I don’t remember the ‘honeymoon’ phase being this damn good in the past.

  “I’m overanalyzing this,” I say on a sigh.

  “It’s your nature. It’s what makes you good at this job. But I’m telling you, right now the girl could fart out toxic waste that had you pulling on a mask, and you’d think it was cute. It’s part of the phase.”

  She claps me on the shoulder as she laughs and walks away, and I look down as I get a text.

  LANA: Your boxers are comfortable.

  ME: You’re wearing them? Didn’t know I left them behind.

  LANA: I figured you did it on purpose. So you’d have a reason to come back.

  ME: Already got a reason to come back.

  LANA: Now you have two…

  There’s a picture attached to the last message of her from the waist down, definitely wearing my boxers. I run a hand through my hair, hating the fact I don’t want to be at work for the first time ever. I’ve always loved the job, yet a girl I barely know has me tempted to take my first ever sick day.

  ME: Keep them on. I’ll be back tonight, and I want to see them in person.

  LANA: Lucky for you I have no plans. And I’ll just be wearing these when you get here.

  Groaning in frustration, I put my phone away, and I hurry through some of the slim new leads. The hotline tips get more ridiculous every day. The Boogeyman case is getting about as cold as my murder/mutilation case.

  Several other cases are on the backburner, since no new murders have popped out. The ones that kill once or twice a year are twice as hard to find. Our only hot case is a murder/robbery serial.

  I work, looking through some of the leads, examining the same photos as always. After two hours, I’m at the murder board, still trying to piece together what makes these women the targets.

  None of them are overtly rich. They all have different family backgrounds. Different ethnicities. Different hair colors.

  Though they were all attractive, there was no rape as incentive. Impotence is a possible in our profile, but...there’s something else that is driving him. There’s a reason why he selects and stalks these particular women.

  My eyes look to their eyes, then their noses, then their mouths… Something clicks, and my heartbeat picks up.

  Just as Hadley walks by, I grab her wrist, stopping her as my eyes narrow on one piece of evidence we haven’t been able to figure out.

  “The lab analyzed that clay you found in the apartment, right?” I ask, lost in thought.

  She nods. “Yeah. Nothing special about it. You could buy it at any arts and crafts store. And no one knows why it was there. It wasn’t found on the victim or anywhere else in the apartment. They think the unsub brought it in on his shoes or clothes.”

  “And the faces had all been thoroughly cleaned then bleached. The hair had also been shaven off and the head was cleaned then bleached,” I state, still doing the math.

  “Yes… Why?”

  I look past her to where Donny is.

  “Donny, look up art galleries in the area of the robberies/murders.”

  He looks perplexed, but starts typing.

  “Hadley, I need you to get on all the art sites you can find and see if anyone is selling bronze sculptures of faces. Narrow them down to the ones who started in the past four months, when the killings started,” I go on, walking toward Donny’s desk.

  I turn to see her still standing there, confused.

  “Now!” I urge her, and she scrambles to her desk.

  Donny is typing furiously when I come up behind him. “Four in the area. None are selling bronze sculptures of faces,” he says, frowning. “Or was I supposed to be looking for something different than Hadley?”

  “Call each one and ask if anyone tried to sell them the bronze sculptures. It’ll be faces only.”

  He picks up his phone to do as I ask, and I go back to my computer, pulling up the program I need. I place all the victims’ pictures in the spots, and after a few keystrokes, my suspicions are confirmed.

  “Symmetry,” I say on a long breath.

  “What?” Craig asks, coming to look over my shoulder.

  “He’s choosing them because of the symmetry of their faces. Perfect symmetry, which is supposed to be very rare, if not impossible. He’s choosing them because they have it, and he’s using their faces to mold art. He’s probably trying to sell it, and he’s fixated on anyone who has a symmetrical face. Women in particular. He may have a da Vinci fixation as well.”

  My eyes scan the room, and I spot Lisa clipping her fingernails.

  “Lisa, look at anyone in the comfort zone who might have ordered a lot of Leonardo da Vinci prints, or books on da Vinci. Focus primarily on anything revolving around the Vitruvian Man. The unsub would most likely be obsessed with that work.”

  “And you think this because?” Craig asks, confused.

  “Call it a gut feeling. We’ve solved a lot of cases with my gut.”

  “Yeah, that’s why you keep getting promoted. But how the hell do you fit da Vinci in with clay, robberies, and shaved heads with bleach poured on them?”

  “The bleach is a forensic countermeasure, just as shaving and removing all the hair then bleaching the head. He’s removing all traces of the clay from the body. The hair is probably being saved for the sculpture too. Not all artists can paint or draw.”

  “I’m lost,” Craig goes on.

  “Da Vinci wasn’t just famous for his intellect or paintings. There were large sculptures he created that have historians buzzing too. He drew it first, then he molded it from clay or beeswax—depends on which version of the story you hear. From there, he cast it in bronze to create another masterpiece. A man who is fixated on him and symmetry, but can’t draw or create art from nothing? That’s who we’re looking for.”

  “Nothing,” Hadley says, looking frustrated. “Several molds are made from numerous things, but no bronze. Does it have to be bronze?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, convinced this is the right lead to chase. “It explains the robberies. He’d sell the valuables he stole to buy the amount of bronze he needs. It’s not cheap.”

  “We’ve scoured pawn shops and internet sites looking for anyone selling that stuff though,” Donny interjects.

  “The right shady pawn dealer wouldn’t give a damn if we were asking about it, and would lie to keep from turning it over and losing that profit. If this guy is using forensic counter measures, then he’s done his homework on where to sell.”

  Donny resumes his phone calls, and I do something that probably won’t help. I pull up the buy, sell, and trade site that Lana runs. She mentioned last night that she leaves things up for a month after they sell with a SOLD sign on it to keep people from asking what happened to it.

  I scroll through the jewelry section, since that’s what was mostly stolen. But nothing is on there. Maybe I was just looking for an excuse to speak to her. Because I’ve got it bad and it’s pathetic.

  “Got something!” Donny says, drawing all of our attention as he returns to the conversation he’s having on the phone. “Yes. Did he leave a number or an address to reach him?”

  He scribbles something down as we all stand. I put my jacket on and holster my gun. Looks like I’m going to need my go-bag again. Fortunately it has several pairs of clothes.

  He hangs up and holds up the paper.

  “They’ve got a guy who has come into two of the four places trying to sell them a ‘growing’ set of bronze heads.”

  “Looks like we’re flying to New York,” Craig says, eyeing me like I’m a weird fucking unicorn. “And I guess we’re getting the damn chopper since the department jet is already out on call. Why can’t we get our own private jet like they have in the movies and stuff?”

  Hadely snorts, and they all talk amongst themselves
as I pull out my phone and make a call that actually sucks.

  “Yes, I’m still wearing the boxers. And eating ice cream,” Lana says, sounding bright and fucking giddy.

  I hate my timing now. Usually I’m a hell of a lot more excited about a break in a case than this.

  “I wish I could be there to see it,” I say on a long breath as I grab my vest and other necessities, shoving them into my bag.

  “You have to cancel,” she says simply, her voice devoid of any emotion for me to read.

  “I’m sorry.” I have a feeling I’ll get used to saying those two words if she sticks around long enough to hear them time after time. “We got a break in the case today. At least I hope so. I’m on my way out of town right now.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Logan. You have a job—an important one. I admire you and what you do. You put monsters away, and I believe you’re actually looking for the right man instead of just another merit on your resume.”

  That’s a weird thing to say.

  “I definitely look for the right man. What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s just that…I studied a lot of old cases when I went to college. I took criminology classes. It seemed like a lot of arrests were rushed just to close a case and add another gold star to a stellar reputation. If the killings would stop, people would assume the killers were locked up. If the killings reoccurred, they’d call it a copycat instead of owning the possibility they closed the case with the wrong suspect behind bars.”

  I’m not sure what cases she studied. They don’t tarnish the reputation of the FBI in those classes. If anything, they sing praises to our guys.

  “So you took criminology? But you didn’t join law enforcement?”

  “Decided I didn’t have the stomach for it,” she says dryly. “Blood and guts churn it.”

  I definitely don’t picture her as someone who could handle the shit I’ve seen if she has a weak stomach.

  “Will you be able to text or call when you’re gone?” she asks hopefully.