Page 2 of Heat Lightning

Or for being a serial rapist.

Pulling out my phone, I tucked back against the alley wall and turned the brightness all the way down before shooting off a quick text message.

Who’s the blonde working with our target?

The reply was quick. It always was when I was on a job.

…

There are a few. Which one?

Along with the reply came a handful of photos. Quickly scanning, I found him.

Number three. With the glasses.

Weber said something else that had the boy blushing again before he put out his cigarette, this time squishing it beneath his boot, and sauntered back inside. The blonde watched him go, then leaned against the light pole and stared up at the smoke-obscured sky.

Under the harsh light, his lashes were long enough to cast a shadow across his cheeks. Sweat beaded along his nape, curling the fine hairs at the base of his skull.

It seemed almost indecent to bare the back of his soft, delicate neck like that. I bet it smelled fresh.

The perfect place to leave a mark.

The quiet buzz of my phone pulled my attention away. I shook off my distracted haze—clearly, I needed more rest—and zoomed in on the screenshot of a driver’s license.

Name: Max Mayweather

Sex: Male

Designation: Omega

Birthday: May 13th, 2003

Eye color: Brown

Height: 5’9”

Weight: 175lbs

I balked at the birth year beginning with a two, but then realized that meant he was twenty-three years old. Fully an adult. Fucking hell. I was only five years older, but that two was jarring.

Everything about the omega screamed INNOCENT. It set my canines on edge.

Glancing back up, my eye caught on the way he bit his lip and smiled down at something on his phone. Was he still thinking about Weber? Or was someone else making him smile? Another piece-of-shit alpha who was absolutely no good for an omega like him?

Why was he drawn to a scumbag like that, anyway? Was he lonely? My God, get a hobby. Or a friend. Not me, obviously. But someone who could tell him he deserved better.

Maybe he was completely deficient in situational awareness instincts. Self-defense classes were useful, but not cheap. I doubted he had the budget, working at a place like this.

Or, maybe he was just drawn to the tortured frat boy look. Tall, with brown hair, wide shoulders, and a perpetual sneer, Joseph Weber was the type to look harmless while concealing the monster underneath.

Something dark simmered in my chest, like raking an ancient bed of coals back to life until they glowed red. I reached for the hilt of my knife, squeezing tightly.

I could show the omega the frightening reality of desiring a dangerous man. I could scare it out of him entirely. I should scare it out of him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to step out of the shadows, brandish the knife, and send him screaming.

Doe-eyed Max Mayweather didn’t even belong in the same zip code as a man like Weber. Or a man like me, for that matter.

But that would mean blowing my cover.