Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Did she beg or accept her fate for breaking his rules?
Did she wish she’d kept going after dropping the little girl off at the hospital, or was she grateful that her education was complete?
I pull out my phone, my teeth grinding as I type out the message. Wife dead, transaction refunded.
My skin crawls with irritation as I go through the steps of sending Henry Murphy his money back, each second spent hating the bullshit satisfaction or your money-back guarantee promise that comes with each of my jobs.
What kind of educator would I be if I didn’t suffer from my own mistakes, if there wasn’t punishment for my own errors?
Sunlight from the expansive windows casts Greta in a radiant glow, glinting off the knife sunk deep in her chest.
There’s a certain kind of beauty in death.
The silence.
The splashes of red were a magnificent contrast to the gray of her skin.
Pretty blue eyes open and knowing.
“Women will never learn,” I mutter, before turning and walking out the front door.
Chapter 2
Lauren
I’ve perfected the art of being who people expect.
I’m an excellent FBI agent for my handler and those at the Bureau above him.
I’m skilled at my job, impressing those around me.
Terrified and fearful? I can be that woman in the blink of an eye, trembling with tears running down my cheeks.
All it takes is channeling memories from my past to make me a little insane and emotional.
A hard-ass who won’t take no for an answer? Step back and watch me work.
Somber and grief-stricken? I’m so sorry for your loss.
All of it is easy as pie.
What I struggle with is misplaced pity. People with opinions they’re too couth to speak out loud.
The only problem is their eyes can’t hide it as well as they think they can.
Several pairs of those eyes watch me as I mingle around the Cerberus clubhouse. Of course, they have smiles on their faces. Tonight is a celebration, after all.
Cheers to a new year, new me.
All of it bullshit.
These people.
This place.
As fake as the designer fingernails on a debutante.
As fake as a housewife’s orgasm, thirty seconds into her husband’s rooting.
I fucking hate fake.
People who pretend everything is perfect make my skin crawl.
This can’t be real. This can’t be the paradise they all try to convince me it is.
Yet, when the women look at their men, I don’t see that familiar fear I’ve learned to read when I’m working.
They don’t flinch when one of the guys hoots and hollers.
I don’t catch them with contemplative looks, as if they’re dreaming of a better life when they think no one is watching.
Even Cara, who was one of the trafficking victims I helped rescue a few years ago in El Salvador, leans against former FBI agent turned Cerberus member, Thumper.
She thought the man raped me the night she and I were pulled from the back of a truck and sold.
Maybe he told her the truth. Maybe she knows I came hard on his dick that night, overcome with pleasure at his violence.
Is that why they pity me?
They think I’m damaged, broken somehow for enjoying the things I do.
I chuckle as I look around the room. Maybe they are as happy as they try to make people think they are.
Maybe vanilla is the only fucking flavor they can stomach.
They’d look at me with more than just pity if they knew the things I’ve done, knew of the things I seek while working.
Pain, degradation, humiliation. I feed off of it. Welcome it. Yearn for it.
Mommy issues? Daddy issues? Sister issues? Hell, Grandmother issues. I’ve got it all, not that I would ever speak of them out loud.
I know I’m different. I know most people would read my full story and use it to commit me to a mental ward. The women would want to help me get better. No sane person would seek such things out, right?
The men, on the other hand? They know more. Hell, I provided the video when I showed up on their doorstep years ago, in a bid to help Thumper after the FBI refused to help him because it would compromise another case.
They thought he was the villain, a man who infiltrated their sanctuary. They were actively searching for him so they could end him for the betrayal.
The video showcased the second time I met Thumper that night I arrived with Cara. It was more graphic, more violent than I’m sure many of them had seen before. It also had my voice begging for more.
I explained my prior relationship with Javier Sosa, aka Thumper, along with providing the video evidence. It didn’t take long to believe what they had wanted to all along, which was that Thumper wasn’t the epitome of what they despised. He was undercover, in need of their help, not the monster they were led to believe.
Fucking do-gooders.
Movement across the room catches my eye, and I give one of the wives a quick smile before moving on.