Allison Brennan - Love me to death

I know Lucy Kincaid. I know where she lives. I know where she works, where she gets her coffee, where her brother lives, where she runs in the park .

She gets into the taxi and it drives off. Taking her home? Taking her to dinner? I do not know, but I am patient .

Her family makes me nervous. A brother who is a private investigator. A sister-in-law who is an FBI agent. This is why I am cautious-I cannot afford to make a mistake .

Should I walk away and wash my hands of Lucy Kincaid? I could easily kill her and run, but would they hunt me down? Her family? The organization she works for? Can I defeat them? I want to believe I can, but I’m not an idiot .

I am patient, but my time is valuable. I keep a log of the time she has cost me. That time will be repaid .

No one understands the concept of time as I do. I sleep exactly six hours every night. No more, no less. I exercise for twenty-two minutes each morning, followed by four minutes in the shower. And while I understand the need for flexibility, if I am not disciplined, how can I expect my females to be disciplined?

I am the keeper of truth, and I will not forget her betrayal. I will forget no betrayals. They will all be disciplined in turn. They will all be nothing, not even a speck of DNA. Which seems appropriate since they are merely females; worse, females who do not obey .

But Lucy Kincaid is by far the most disobedient woman I have come across. I need to act wisely or else I should disappear .

But walking away from her is not an option. What kind of man would I be if a female scared me off?

I consider my options. I can take her almost anytime I want. I let two good opportunities pass me by because I do not want to be hasty. Rash action leads to mistakes, and because of her family, I cannot afford to err. I need a plan .

No woman will defeat me . She started this game. She is the mightier-than-thou female who does not know her proper place .

I do not fear Lucy Kincaid. She is no threat. The men in her life are potential threats, but by the time they figure it out, if they can, I will be gone .

This situation presents a certain challenge .

I exit the deli and walk to my car. Ideas flood my brain: how and when to take her. I must have as much time with her as possible to teach her. All the time she has cost me will be repaid with her obedience, or it will be repaid with blood .

There was a time when Sean could have gone either way-become a criminal mastermind or choose the law-abiding road. If he’d ever doubted that staying more or less on the side of the law was the right choice, he didn’t now.

Sean drove to the east side, the most depressed part of D.C., with his notes on known Morton and Scott associates who lived in the greater D.C. area. Their criminal enterprise had lasted nearly two decades, and while several of their associates were dead or in prison-and a few appeared to have cleaned up their act-most were still criminals ranging from petty to Mafia.

He had time to hit at least one today. Because she was the easiest to track down, he chose the lone female on the list.

Former prostitute Melinda Winslow had been released from prison six months ago after serving three years for possession of heroin with the intent to sell. It was her fourth conviction in eleven years. According to the information Jayne sent to Sean, she’d been a regular “star” at Trask Enterprises. When Trask closed up after Scott and Morton went underground following the murder of federal agent Paige Henshaw-Kate Donovan’s partner-Winslow lost control of her addiction and had spiraled farther downward.

When she answered the door of her hovel, Sean nearly left, certain he had the wrong person. Melinda Winslow was thirty-six; this woman looked fifty on a good day.

It was not a good day. If drugs didn’t kill you outright, they certainly sucked the life out of you.

“Well, fuck me, you pricks can waltz in here whenever you fucking please? Pig.”

“Hello, Ms. Winslow,” Sean said, mildly amused. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Like I can? Last time one of you tossed me back in jail because I wouldn’t give you a blow job, and fuck that.”

She thought he was a cop, and Sean did nothing to dissuade her. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with law enforcement. Some cops were just fine; others were too black-and-white for his taste. And some were, as Ms. Winslow so ungraciously stated, simply pricks.

“I don’t want to see you back in jail.”

She snorted, then rubbed her wet nose with the back of her hand. Sean wouldn’t be touching her or anything in her filthy apartment.

“I have only a couple questions, like I said. May I?”

“Like you need to ask.” She flung the door open, knocking a teetering stack of yellowed tabloid newspapers off a sagging bookshelf. She didn’t seem to notice, stepping over the fallen rags.

Sean stepped in, keeping his hands to himself. “You had a business relationship eleven years ago with two men-Adam Scott, also known as ‘Trask,’ and Roger Morton.”

At the mention of the names, her pasty face paled even more, then she thrust her chin out. “I haven’t seen them. Trask is dead, I heard. Roger in prison. I wouldn’t talk to him if he were the last john on the planet.”

“You were an employee of Trask Enterprises, correct?”

She cackled. “ Employee . You know what I was. They paid me for sex tapes. It was legal, all legal-at least on my end it was.”

Sean highly doubted she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t know what they were doing on the side. I fucking swear to God.”

“You associated with them for how long?”

“A few months. And then-a few times here and there when I needed the money. They paid more for hard-core action. But-shit, Trask nearly killed me once while getting off. Roger gave me two g’s to keep silent. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t dead, and not to come back or call. I didn’t. That was years ago. I went to jail after that, in Minnesota, for drugs. Cleaned myself up.” She nodded in pride. Sean noted the plethora of empty wine jugs around the apartment, and the stale smell of human body odor and spilled alcohol. Maybe she didn’t shoot heroin anymore, but she was still slowly killing herself.

“Did Roger contact you within the last six months?” he asked.

“No. And if he tried, I’d tell him to go to Hell.” She glared at Sean. “I thought he was in prison.”

“Yes, ma’am, he was. He was released on probation in July.”

She laughed, a hearty laugh, and Sean saw for a brief moment that she had once been a beautiful woman. “Probation? After the shit he did? I got three fucking years for drug possession, and he got what? Five? Ten? For prostitution, murder, drugs, and fuck knows what else.”

She pulled down the collar of her T-shirt, revealing her neck. “See this scar?”

Sean saw a two-inch scar at the base of her throat. His jaw tightened as his protective instincts surged.

“Roger did that to you?”

She shook her head and let go of her collar. “Trask. I thought I was dead. But Roger watched and then later he paid me. I heard they made a fortune on that tape of Trask fucking me. Roger did everything for that bastard. We all knew Trask was a psycho, and Roger covered for him. So why’d he get out?”

“Because the justice system is fucked.”

Sean dropped fifty dollars on her sofa and left, unable to stay another minute.

To say what happened with Morton was due to a messed-up justice system was the world’s greatest understatement. Winslow wasn’t a saint, but no one deserved to be treated as she had been, nearly killed in such a vicious manner. Adam Scott was the psychopath, but Morton had watched from the sidelines, helped clean up Scott’s messes, kept the damn trains running on time.