by Stella Noir
When I started to believe that this girl, Nike, had other reasons to come up to me rather than threatening to report me to the police, a plan started forming in my head. A continuation of that twisted idea I had when I first spotted her tonight.
I could fuck her. She wants me; she would be up for it. The way she is standing in front of me, her hands shaking and her dark eyes wide with desire and fear—I can tell.
After all, I’m a guy she likes. She is attracted to me.
It’s almost too easy.
She is so delicate, so beautifully unaware. Her innocence is driving me mad with lust. It has been far too long since I wanted a woman as much as I want her right now. The fact that she is my only living witness only increases the appeal she has for me. She may look and act innocent as fuck, but there is a certain danger to her.
So fucking delicious.
If it were up to me, I’d grab her by that mass of hair, tilt her head back and get a taste of those sweet, pouty lips. She is wearing lipstick that is too dark for her complexion, and I’m pretty sure that today is the first time she’s ever worn it. It looks misplaced on her. I would love to see it violently smeared across her pale face.
She is talking to me, nervously blabbering cute little nonsense, but I am hardly listening, nodding and smiling at the right places.
In my mind, I am going through all kinds of scenarios that would make it possible for me to have her tonight.
Have her and eliminate her.
While her attraction to me is making it easy to get her close to me and take her away to a secluded place, I cannot risk anyone seeing us leave together.
If I were to go through with this, she would be dead by tomorrow, freshly fucked and my face the last one she saw before closing her eyes forever. It would be ideal.
Ideal, if the circumstances were any different. Already, too many people have seen us talking. And even if it weren’t for them, her friend knows that she has been talking to me. Everyone here knows my name, thanks to that damn laudatory speech.
I’m screwed.
I notice that her voice has risen at the end of her last sentence, suggesting that she has asked me a question. The way she is looking up at me now underlines that assumption.
“Come again?” I say, trying not to sound too much out of it.
“Another drink?” She repeats her question. “I’m going to get myself a mimosa—do you want another, too?”
I shake my head. “No mimosa for me.”
She furls her eyebrows in question, casting a quick glance at the almost empty glass in my hands.
“Are you sure,” she says.
“I am,” I reply. “But let me get you one.”
She makes a move to object, but before she can, I turn around and head for the bar. I’m not going to send a girl off to get her own drink, what kind of move would that be. Killer or not—I know what is to be expected of a gentleman.
I fetch a mimosa for her and a glass of water for myself.
“Already had enough for tonight,” I excuse myself as I come back to her and hand her the mimosa. It’s always better to say that I’ve had my share instead of telling people that I don’t drink. Non-drinkers are suspicious.
She casts me a look of insecurity when she takes the glass out of my hand, but doesn’t say anything about it. We clink glasses, despite me just having a plain water.
I’m not sure what to do. She has me trapped. I thought there was no way that I would find the girl who witnessed my last kill, and now she is standing right in front of me, awkwardly attempting to flirt with me—and looking awfully enticing while she does. The longer she is within my close proximity, the more I want her. Already, I have to restrain myself from pulling her in close, claiming her with a kiss that would make her shiver and blush even more.
I found my last and only living witness, she is right within reach, it would be so easy to eliminate her.
At the same time, it wouldn’t.
What a fucking dilemma.
Usually, I am not one to postpone decisions, but with this one, I just might have to. I cannot decide on the spot what to do with her. But I know I want to have a taste of her. It’s a dangerous game, but one that I’m willing to play. If she hasn’t recognized me now, there is a good chance she never will, even though I cannot be a hundred percent sure of it.
Either way, there is something oddly appealing about her. I can tell from the way she stands and moves, that she is a shy and insecure person in general. There is something vulnerable about her, mixed with a cold and barely visible strength. She is not weak, but she is also not bubbling with energy and life like her friend.
She is the kind of girl who sits alone on a rooftop in the middle of the night, in a dark and dingy neighborhood.
“So, you said you’re with Linwood publishing,” I say.
It is more of a statement than a question, but she quickly nods.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m an editor.”
“Editor,” I repeat. “What does that entail?”
“I polish stories,” she says. There is clear hint of pride in her voice. It’s cute. I bet she has prepared that answer for a long time.
She beams up at me, and it’s the first time that I see her smiling. It pierces through my leathery walls of protection like a hot dagger. I don’t let it show, but her smile causes my chest to tighten up. Suddenly, my ribcage appears too small for the wild heart inside.
“I make sure a story—or a book—is the best it can be, before it is presented to the audience,” she adds, finishing her elaboration with a sip of her mimosa.
“But you don’t create stories yourself,” I try to mock her, mainly to get that disarming smile off of her face. “You just do the finishing touches on someone else’s creative work.”
She is startled for a second. The smile does disappear, but just for a moment before she tilts her head and looks at me with a smile unlike the one before. There is a condescending note to it.
I fucking hate it.
“I believe in labor division,” she explains. “There are certain things that I am better at than other people—and vice versa. I’m not a storyteller, but I can make them shine in a way the author couldn’t.”
Her self-confidence surprises me. Here I was, thinking she was a vulnerable lamb, easily weakened by a little mockery, and she just uses it as an opportunity to brag.
I give her an appreciative nod.
“Smart,” I comment. “And very pragmatic.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asks.
Her question surprises me, and so does the way she is looking at me now. She is tilting her head back to the side again, looking up at me with those big, dark eyes.
Her gaze is so intense, so aware. How can she not see who I am? Maybe she is playing tricks on me after all.
No matter what, I have to be careful with her. I know I cannot let her get away just like that, but getting her too close to me poses a danger in itself.
“A very good thing for the most part,” I say without making it sound like too much of a compliment.
A shy smile scurries across her face. She looks up at me with trembling lips, again sipping on her drink. She is close to finishing another glass, and must be a good drinker compared to me. Her cheeks are flushed and so is the pale skin on her delicate cleavage. Soon, she will start to stumble like a newborn deer, if she doesn’t watch it. I need to decide what drink to offer her next after this one is gone—water or coffee to clear her head or another alcoholic drink?
If I fuck her tonight, I don’t want her too drunk. Necrophilia is just not my thing.
Then again, it all depends on what I’ll try to get from her tonight. Children and drunks are the most honest, they say. A wasted girl might talk and reveal whatever she might be hiding from me.
But why would she get drunk and go home with me if she knew who I am?
My inability to decide drives me wild with rage. She has told me her name and her workplace, s
o it shouldn’t be too hard to find her again, even if I don’t claim her tonight, either to try to get her to talk or to fuck her.
She looks up to me and her lips part slightly as if she is about to speak. There seems to be a question lingering on her tongue that she doesn’t yet dare to ask.
“Are you okay?” I want to know, hoping that this little nudge might make it easier for her to speak.
She nods and swallows hard.
“Yes, um, I was just wondering…,” she stutters, furling her eyebrows as if she was mad at herself. “What exactly is it that you do?”
“I’m a stockbroker,” I give my well practiced reply. “I research the financial market and help others to get the best return on their money. Like I have.”
“How did you get there?” she asks, gazing up at me like a curious child.
An unpleasant question, one that I am prepared for but still hope that not many people pose it.
The truth?
I made a lot of money killing for the mob, for years, and instead of blowing my income away on drugs and women, like many others in my profession have, I was smart about it. I saved as much as I could and educated myself. It’s easy to gain the information necessary to succeed in the stock market—you just have to know how to use it accordingly.
Killing and saving up allowed me to start out with a big amount of seed money.
Of course, that is not a story I am willing to share.
“Careful investment with little starter cash,” I lie. “It took some time, but if you play the market well and don’t lose your head over hasty decisions, it can be done.”
“Mhm,” she says, dreamingly looking down at her empty glass.
She is starting to falter. It is barely visible, but her stance has lost a lot of its stability, and I can tell that she is struggling not to let it show.
I glance over to her friend. The black haired girl is no longer paying attention to us, but is deeply immersed in a conversation with another guy who is towering over her, possessively shielding her from others in their immediate proximity.
I know she will be informed about whatever will happen tonight. Yet another reason for me to be careful.
“I think you could need some fresh air,” I suggest.
She raises her head, her cheeks blushing even more than before.
“Care to take a step outside?” I ask—and she doesn’t hesitate one second before she nods.
CHAPTER TEN
Nike
My head is spinning. It’s the alcohol for sure, but also the fact that this man is actually showing interest in me. This incredibly handsome, wealthy man!
He is so out of my league! How can he not see it?
When I stumble back to Amanda and her boss to let her know that he just asked to step outside with me, she casts me the broadest grin I have ever seen on her face.
“You go girl!” She cheers, luckily in a whisper that no one but me hears. “Go with him! I knew all you needed was a little nudge in the right direction!”
I hesitate and throw a quick look back over my shoulder. He is watching me from afar, his face unreadable.
“We’re just getting some fresh air,” I say, turning back to Amanda. Even I don’t believe that and I cannot blame her and boss for exchanging a suggestive look.
“Text me, if you’re not coming home,” she says, winking at me. “Just so I don’t have to worry.”
“Yes, Mom,” I joke, sticking my tongue out to her, before I turn around and make my way back to him.
Joe Mars.
He is standing where I left him, tall, dark, with his legs slightly apart, hands in his suit pants’ pockets and his broad shoulders pulled back. A faint smirk appears on his face when I get back to him. He places his hand on my lower back and gently pushes me toward the exit of the venue.
When we reach the elevator, he pushes the button for going up instead of down. I look up at him in surprise.
“I thought we’re stepping outside?” I ask, hugging my little clutch as if I was trying to protect myself from him.
He winks at me. “We are. I just prefer the view from up there.”
“Is there a terrace on the roof?” I want to know.
“I don’t know,” he replies, shrugging. “We will have to find out for ourselves. I just have a thing for rooftops.”
I flinch at his words, trying to fight the colder shudder that takes a hold of me.
Of course, he notices.
“You don’t?” he probes.
I shake my head. “Not in particular.”
That’s a huge lie. Rooftops have always been my escape. The one place I felt comfortable in.
Until that night…
“You seem distressed,” he says when we step inside the elevator.
I shake my head.
“It might be a little cold,” I try to interject.
He ignores me and pushes the button for the top floor.
“We won’t stay long,” he says. “Just to clear the head a little. I think a fresh breeze would do you good.”
He gives me a look from the side, somewhat dangerous and threatening. The elevator starts moving and I am almost surprised that he doesn’t make a move to get closer to me. Grab me. Kiss me. Isn’t that what they do in the movies once the guy has the girl lured into the privacy and confinement of an elevator?
But he is a gentleman, it seems. He keeps his distance, even though I am sure he can feel the tension between us just as much as I can. He has to. It’s undeniable.
I’m almost disappointed when the door opens and reveals an empty hallway in front of us. He beckons me to step out before him.
“Now what?” I ask, sounding a bit more bitchy than I planned.
“Now we’ll find a way to get on the roof,” he says, stepping out of the elevator behind me. He scans the hallway, but there is not much to see. It is just one long corridor that gives way to a bunch of doors, all of them looking exactly the same. The hall is painted in a light gray and lit with bright and unflattering lights.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here,” I whisper.
He nods. “Probably not.”
I expect him to turn back to the elevator to bring us back down and head out on the street as I originally thought we would, but instead he takes my hand and leads me across the corridor.
“What are you—”
“I like being in places that I’m not supposed to be in,” he says. His voice has changed. He sounds more like an excited boy right now than the sullen man he was before.
“I said I want to go up on the roof,” he adds. “So that’s what we’ll do.”
“But how?” I ask while he keeps pulling me along the hallway.
He is checking every door as we walk by, but I don’t know what he is looking for. They all look the same and seem to be locked. He tries a few of them and checks the locks on them, but none open.
“Ah!” he exclaims as we reach one of the last doors on the right. He squats in front of the door handle and examines the lock in more detail, while I stand next him, confused.
He looks up at me, casting me a mischievous smile.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says. “This will be our little secret.”
“Um,” I utter, unsure what is going on.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks, and his gaze darkens. It’s intimidating. I don’t know if he is trying to scare me of if he is just joking around.
Either way, it excites me.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound cool.
“Look away,” he orders.
“What? But w—”
“Look away!” he repeats, now glaring at me. “It’s for your own safety. If you don’t see anything, you don’t know anything. Simple as that.”
I furl my eyebrows, but follow his command.
“What are you doing?” I ask, once my back is turned to him.
“What do you think I’m doing?” he retorts. I can hear him fiddling with the lock.
“Something you’re not supposed to,” I assume. “Breaking into a door.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” he objects. “I’m opening a door. But you’re right, I’m not supposed to be doing this.”
“How do you know that this one leads out to the rooftop?” I want to know. “It could just be some storage or… whatever.”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I have a strong suspicion that it does.”
I hear a click sound and turn around just in time to see him get back up on his feet and open the door. A cold breeze greets us as he slowly pushes it open.
“Thought so,” he says triumphantly, beckoning for me to step outside.
I gulp and hesitate for a moment. A sudden and inexplicable fear claims me as I see the rooftop in front of me.
It’s a different roof. A different building. A different area. Everything is different, except for the fact that it is night and that I am standing high above the city when I step outside.
Yet something causes me to feel exceptionally uncomfortable.
Is it him?
I turn around and see him standing closely behind me. The heavy door closes with a loud click behind us, reminding me that he just fiddled with the lock for a few seconds to open it.
“How did you learn how to do this?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “Boy scouts.”
I furl my eyebrows and throw him a skeptical look.
He laughs and steps forward, placing one hand on my shoulder to guide me forward.
“Don’t worry about it,” he whispers. “Let’s get some air and enjoy the view.”
We walk toward the edge of the roof. It is securely surrounded by a high balustrade that almost reaches up to my chest.
Still, I cannot help the feeling that something is off, something is wrong. I feel as if I am in danger, a feeling that would be easy to explain if I didn’t have this particular rooftop affinity. Despite the height and despite the rather risky steps I have been willing to take to get to where I wanted to, I have never felt unsafe or as if I was putting my life in danger.
Rooftops are my safe place.
So, why am I feeling this way?