Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
He’ll never know that it was just me alone in here. I’m too good at my own game, and now he’s going to spend his day wondering what this other mystery guy has that he doesn’t. Ahhhhh, it’s only too easy to get inside his head and mess with him. But hell, when he’s losing his mind and being driven insane with someone else’s late-night sexcapades, he’ll have to remember that he asked for this.
Sure, I have much better things to do with my morning. I should have headed out for a run and then spent a few hours training, but when you give someone a tranquilizer and also have morals—despite those morals being somewhat questionable—it’s important to make sure the moron you knocked out doesn’t accidentally swallow his own tongue and suffocate.
He was fine, though, just lying there for almost two days with his soft dick flopped out onto his thigh and the used condom struggling to hold on. It was impressive. Most guys, it would have popped right off, but not Raiden. Even unconscious, he still managed to hold on to his dignity. Mostly.
The thought has a laugh rumbling through my chest as I reach for my laptop and get comfortable. I’ve been neglecting my blog too much over the past few days. Comments have gone ignored, and that’s not me. I’m not the post-and-ghost type. I like my followers to feel my presence with them. My blog isn’t just where I post my travel pics to brag about where I’ve been in the world; I’m a real person wanting to share the beautiful hidden gems across the globe.
I spend an hour working and am just about to hit accept on another post about my beautiful, picturesque beach vacation to the South of France when the buzzer for the main door sounds through my apartment.
My brows furrow, and I get up off the couch, cutting to my front door and pressing the button on my intercom as I glance at the little screen, showing me who stands on the stoop of the apartment complex. “Hello?”
“Delivery for Kiara St. James,” a dude in a delivery uniform says while holding a large box, his hat pulled down just enough to conceal his face and send a wave of unease pounding through my veins.
I’m not expecting anything, and as far as I’m aware, I haven’t bought any random weapons off the black market recently. Besides, when I do, I have them delivered to my warehouse, not directly to my front door. But the curiosity eats at me, and I buzz the delivery driver in, needing to know what’s in that package and if my cover has been blown. This could be someone’s attempt to eliminate me.
As the driver makes his way through the main door of the apartment complex, I prepare myself, pulling on a pair of sneakers in case I need to make a break for it and grabbing the gun I keep stashed under the hallway entry table. Then, striding into my bedroom, I grab Spikezilla, who sits happily in her new pot, and hurry right back out.
With Spikezilla in one hand and my gun in the other, I prepare for the worst, having everything I could possibly need to start a new life right here in the palm of my hands.
A wave of calm washes over me just as it does every time I’m on a job, only this time, I’m potentially the target. Sure, roles might be reversed, but there’s nothing I love more than a little roleplay. Who doesn’t?
Counting down the seconds until the delivery driver appears, I settle myself just to the left of my door until I hear footsteps pacing down the hallway toward my apartment.
I listen intently, figuring out exactly who I’m dealing with by the sound of his footfalls on the old carpeted floor. He’s got to be just under two hundred pounds, has a slight limp on his left, and from what I could tell from the security feed at the main door, he has to be just shy of six feet. Not exactly a hard target. So either this guy really is a delivery driver, or whoever sent him has disgustingly underestimated me.
The driver moves in front of my door and knocks three times, but instead of peeking through the peephole and risking a bullet to the chest, I watch the shadows beneath the door.
There’s too much movement. He’s not a trained killer.
An assassin would be motionless, standing with exact precision, not positioned directly in front of the door, shifting around like he’s about to shit himself.
Reaching for the door, I unlatch the chain before turning the handle and slowly pulling it open. A seventeen-year-old kid with a massive gift-wrapped box in his hand steps forward awkwardly. “Kiara St. James?” he questions with a monotone voice, clearly wishing he could be doing anything else but this.