Page 7 of Vicious Like Me

My finger hovers over the trigger before settling.

Then, movement catches my eye.

A beautiful vision in a silk scarf walks in. A man holding a bottle and two wine glasses in one hand.

My heart slams against my chest. What. The. Fuck? I’d recognize that lean, sexy body anywhere. Hell, I’ve spent countless hours jerking off to the sight of that body. Heat floods my face as my cock jerks in my pants. I lower my rifle, baffled.

Skylar King.

Skylar King is walking toward the man I was set on killing with a motherfucking smile on his face. Though walking isn’t the right word, he’s sauntering. Moving with liquid grace. Sex personified, or some poetic shit like that. Either way, my brain is misfiring, and I’m completely caught off guard.

Goon number one tenses, placing a hand on his gun. My heart rate picks up speed, but Franko shakes his head, causing everyone in the room to relax. Skylar pulls out a chair and gracefully slides into the seat. What the hell is Skylar doing here?

Sure, they both work in the porn industry, but I’ve never seen the beautiful man participate in any of the shady shit The Director is involved in. He doesn’t belong here.

This is all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

That sudden urge to protect the smiling beauty causes a cold sweat to break out across my chest. But how the hell can I protect the man when I’m the fucking killer?

Skylar and The Director start chatting, and it’s obvious the two of them are familiar with each other. My gut roils. Skylar leans forward in a flirtatious manner before he reaches for the bottle of wine he brought with him. He pours the burgundy liquid into two glasses.

I can’t get distracted now. I need to end this. Kill the target and save the beautiful man in front of me. Get him as far away from this evil piece of shit as possible.

I adjust my rifle. Skylar hands Franko a glass of wine and sips from his own glass. I steady my breath. Franko lifts the glass of wine to his lips. It’s the perfect shot. All I need to do is pull the fucking trigger.

But of course, that’s the moment Skylar laughs, a beautiful tinkling sound that always seems to undo me. Then he glances up, searching. His eyes scan the area before settling in my general direction. The world around me feels like it freezes in time, and suddenly it’s as if his eyes snag on mine.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ve been spotted. Instead of fear, Skylar’s expression is one of furious rage.

My focus crumbles, and my usually steady hands begin to tremble. I don’t think. I react.

I squeeze the trigger.

Bang.

The kickback slams against my shoulder, but it’s all so fucking wrong. For the first time in my thirty-eight years of life… I miss.

In front of me, chaos erupts. Franko is screaming, clutching a mangled, bloody arm. Goon number one is already moving, barking out orders, and kicking the table over for cover. All the while, Skylar is just standing there, like the eye of the storm. Unmoving. Not taking cover. Just standing there with fury all over his striking face, like a god of Wrath personified.

Chapter three

Skylar

There’s something different about the restaurant tonight. A week of scouting and preparing, and of course, tonight of all nights would be slightly off. It’s almost as if something dangerous and charged lingers in the air. The kitchen pulses with urgency, as quick, clipped chatter replaces the usual clinking of dishes and silverware. I peer out from my hiding spot to see the staff turning off the ovens and gathering their things.

“The boss said we need to leave immediately; all staff are to be out the door in two minutes or less. We need to move quietly,” says Erica, the head chef of The Gilded Cage. “In other words, the VIP guest can’t know what’s going on.”

Pierre, her sous chef, turns off the overhead lights, leaving me in the dark. “Did he say why?”

Erica shakes her head. “Nope. Just that we will be compensated with double time if we don’t ask questions.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pierre says, chuckling. “It’s probably some mafia thing. Better we leave now rather than get caught in the crossfire.”

Erica sighs. “I already told you that the mafia stuff is just bullshit. It’s all rumors,” she replies, voice fading as the last two employees leave the room. When I’m positive the area is clear, I slip on a pair of latex gloves and pull up the feed of my hidden cameras on my phone.

A small smile tips my lips as my fingers trace the tip of my hidden blade, before wandering up to my necklace. A sick thrill rushes over me as I twist the pendant between my fingers, a reminder that tonight Franko Warner is going to die a painful death. I linger in the silence for a few more seconds, imagining when the neurotoxin hidden in my pendant hits Franko’s system.

The staff is gone, and there are currently only three figures on my screen: Franko, his guard, and the woman Franko is trying to impress. Does she know what kind of snake she’s dining with?