Maybe I’d watched one too many Bruce Willis action flicks, which were my favorite. I’d certainly consumed more glasses of wine during the last couple of days than any human should be allowed. All in an effort to boost my courage.
So here I was intent on committing a crime.
As he strolled through the club, acting very much like the king of crime he’d become, I studied every inch, my gaze lingering on his carotid artery.
He was flanked by three of his soldiers, brutal savages who enjoyed the same rush of adrenaline I was feeling.
Even the brutal act of slicing open Navarro’s jugular wouldn’t satisfy the rage that continued to build deep inside.
I wasn’t usually prone to violence.
I’d never been a woman hell-bent on revenge.
I’d never craved ending a life the way I’d felt over the last few days.
After years of hard work and time spent healing, I’d earned the bohemian lifestyle of a famous artist. Critics called me a talented painter who thrived on portraying the colors of the world, depicting the deep-seated emotions that would captivate an audience.
The quote was from my last gallery showing in Chicago during the days when my life had been turned upside down. Up until then, my mantra and my life had been simple and peaceful.
Sleep late. Work hard. Play even harder.
Coffee injected intravenously in a continuous stream.
Ocean breezes.
A quaint house with just the right vibe to inspire my wild imagination.
Dating? Men?
On the backburner, but certainly the subject of many paintings in vibrant colors. That way, I could work on managing my anger and hatred for the species with a dick stuck between their legs.
Now I was using the angst to fuel the hunger that had nothing to do with hot, rough sex.
I’d never been the girl who’d craved seeing slasher flicks with her girlfriends, squealing even though the victim on screen was an idiot and deserved to die for his or her stupidity alone.
I’d protected small animals, rescuing everything from butterflies who’d lost their wings to squirrels who’d been attacked by the neighborhood cats. I’d taken the time to nurse them back tohealth much to my mother’s chagrin, even indulging myself and urging everyone in my family to watch as I ceremoniously set them free.
I’d been the soft, sweet girl, the one in pigtails with freckles haphazardly stamped across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
Once upon a time I’d fainted from the sight of blood.
I’d been the kid all doctors hated, screaming and crying every time I received a single pinprick of a needle.
I’d also been the girl who’d fantasized about fairytale endings and heroes on big, brooding horses saving the day.
That wasn’t reality.
No longer could I pretend the ugliness wasn’t real.
Tonight, I was a femme fatale, a black widow.
A killer.
I shifted closer and at this point I should feel panic clawing at my heart, a reminder that I was in over my head.
But that’s not what was happening.
My heart was pulsing rapidly, but that was from giddiness. It had taken me days to track him down, two more to study his actions, his regular routines firmly embedded in my mind. I’d hoped for a single kiss of karma that would allow me to get close.
