Lincoln Major is another killer like me, a pain in my ass since we kindled a friendship when I first started in this business. He’s the only person I trust to watch Adeline for me while I take jobs, and he knows she is a serious pain in the ass.
Much like the majority of patrons now inching their way into Black Orchid, I’m dressed in head to toe black, my hair as dark as my clothing, my eyes a hard, steel grey. I’m older than most of them by seven years, but I left my hair disheveled and my face unshaved for a few days so I can pull off the appearance of youth.
I knew Adeline’s birthday was coming up and I would be forced to blend in to this type of place.
Rather than getting in line like the rest of the plebeian hopefuls, I approach the door, pay the bouncer more than he makes in two weeks, and I’m walking inside to scan my gaze over the multiple dance floors, stages and cages, looking for one seriously fucking aggravating girl I can’t get out of my head.
My trigger finger twitches when I find her at the bar, the stick of a lollipop poking out from between her full lips while the idiot she brought with her has his hands on her ass and his face buried in her neck.
I have to restrain myself from marching over there and breaking every part of his body that touches her. Every single one of them.
Not that she enjoys it. He thinks so. But I know better.
The smile she’s giving him now is as fake as the stud glimmering in his ear. Cubic zirconia because he can’t afford diamonds. He has exactly two hundred, seventy-three dollars and twenty two cents to his name. Not that I’ve kept tabs on his accounts ever since she started dating him.
Okay, fine. I know everything there is to know about Jason Ayers, but only because I’m looking out for her best interests.
He chucks her chin with his finger before turning to grab the drinks she paid for.
My teeth clench and I watch as they wind their way through the growing crowd to set their drinks on a high-top table in the dungeon room, fake whips and chains adorning the walls while half-dressed women dance in the cages.
Jason remains near the table while Adeline takes her place against a pole close by, her hands lifting to grip the black metal above her as her hips begin to sway to the dumbass emo/retro/alternative shit music mix that makes my ears bleed…and that I will always associate with Adeline for as often as I find myself listening to it because of her.
The sight of her, though, it almost makes the music enjoyable. I’m as entranced in the way she moves as her no dick, no ass boyfriend, which only pisses me off more.
I feel like a pedo, but still I slip into the room, blend into a dark wall and watch Adeline move, her hips becoming liquid, her body becoming the music itself.
Real Life’s Send me an Angel is blasting through the speakers, the fast tempo forcing her body to sway, her arms to stretch out, her hips to move in such a way that desire rattles in my chest. Eyes jealous of the strobe lights that flash against her face and the colored lights that roll over her skin like a lover’s hands, I become engrossed, my head falling back against the wall while my tongue slides slowly across my teeth.
It doesn’t help that her mini skirt hangs low on round hips, the length barely traveling mid-thigh, or that the scrap of cloth she calls a shirt does nothing to cover her sculpted stomach. Tight over her chest, the shirt leaves nothing to the imagination, not that she takes issue with people knowing what she looks like.
Adeline likes being naked and I often wonder if she knows I’m watching.
She’s a temptress with tragic eyes and a black soul, her heart locked behind steel bars. Only I possess the key to it, but she doesn’t know that. And she never will.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch for what feels like hours. Her boyfriend keeps running for drinks - on her tab, I might add - and she keeps dancing while consuming them, the temptation of her drawing the gaze of many predators, all circling like the sharks they are.