Shooting a man ain't like in the movies. Sure, the mechanical part's a cinch: cock, point, bang, done. But they don't show the emotional cost of taking a life. The endless replays. The blast. The recoil jolting me from wrist to shoulder. The way Brennan ragdolled back onto the motel bed, his blood smearing then pooling on the crumpled sheets we'd recently occupied.

Doubt I'll ever forget the surprise. The finality etched on his face as the entry wound in his forehead bloomed. Frozen shock as he flopped to the sheets, my pink cum-stained panties looping his cock, sticking up from the fly of business pants like a pervert's ring toss.

Between bouts of racing to the mold-ridden bathroom to throw up, I sat on the floor, my back to the bed, wondering what his last thought was just before the bullet bit into his brain. Each time the visions threatened to consume me, I placed the cold gun barrel to my temple. Trembled as I applied steady pressure to the trigger. Squeezed. Tighter. Then tugged it away.

Sob.

Puke.

Hyperventilate.

Repeat.

It'd been less than an hour. Was this a blueprint for the rest of my life? Or would it fade like the fringes of late afternoon sun streaming into the stark motel room through the Venetian blinds?

I stared through the slats, light scattering off the particles that hung between the acrid stench of Nitroglycerin and graphite from the bullet. I expected the wail of distant sirens to grow louder, followed by a screech of tires against the worn parking lot asphalt. Clattering steel-toed boots up the concrete stairs. The door kicked in. Barked commands: Freeze, Bitch! Catch the wrong cop on the wrong day and it'd be fifty-fifty between being hauled up and bundled downtown, or riddled with bullets where I sat. Corruption in Rock Point was unstable like that. Icing the mayor in cold blood would have blowback. The guy was connected.

Resting the hammer of the gun on my forehead, I sighed. Drifted my eyes shut and fought the urge to vomit again. Fuck. FUCK. Why didn't Brennan take the offer? Why had he played hardball?

I needed to think. Plan. Run. But I also needed cleanup. And my underwear.

Reaching back over my head, I brushed his clammy arm and recoiled. Nearly threw up again. Fuck going anywhere near his dick. Maybe later. Gingerly running my hand over the sheets, I located his pants pocket. Swallowed and dipped in to slip out his phone.

Placing the device face up, I steeled. Breathed. Eased it beneath his lifeless hand and slid the sensor around until it matched his print. Yeah, two can play that game, asshole.

I scrolled through the gallery. Deleted the interior photos of my apartment he'd staged. Made sure it synced the changes online. Prayed he hadn't sent copies, or his goons hadn't kept some. I checked his emails and IMs. Nothing but lunch appointments and one-liners from sleazeball lawyers and Congress cronies wanting a slice of Rock Point pie.

Unclipping the back, I ejected the SIM and kept it. Might be useful. Placed the memory card on the bare floorboards and smashed it to pieces with the butt of the gun. One more problem down.

Breathing fast, I slid my own phone from inside my short leather jacket. Swiped. Entered the unlock code. Twelve digits committed to memory. Unique so it dies with me. No more fucking thumbprints. That's what got me into this whole mess in the first place.

Sure, biometrics was easy. Convenient. Unlock your phone with a print claimed the ads. Faster and safer than passwords. Fucking liars. That's where it started. The beginning of the end. Because from there it escalated to using the same print to unlock your car. Start the ignition. Unlock your house. Authorize bank transfers. Yahde yahde. One, unchangeable password for everything.

Everything.

I shivered. Stared at the screen, its icy hue illuminating the soft taper of my cheeks and stray, matted locks of inky hair either side. Hitting phonebook, I hovered over the number in the recent calls list. Paused. Dialled and lifted the receiver to my ear until the purr of the ringtone gave way to a click and the gravelly texture that only twenty years of cigarettes delivers.

"Yeah?"

"It's done."

There was a pause. "Done? Or handled?"

I squeezed my eyes shut a moment and saw Brennan's expression again as the bullet's force propelled him back to the sheets. "Done."

"Fuck. Hang tight. Don't breathe a word. We'll be right over."

I hung up. Stared at everything and nothing. Thought of her. Kylia. Scrolled to her number and brushed my fingertip over the avatar as if it was an extension of her soul. As if I were stroking her cheek moments before our lips connected, magnetized by lust. Just like we'd done in the quiet of her fancy bedroom the week before, sitting on her bed, faces a few inches apart.

She smelled of petals after a downpour. Always had. I loved the tiny moans that buzzed between us as our lips met and tongues clashed. The way she scuffed her petite hand up my side to cradle my head and crush our mouths together as need rampaged. The way she took over, almost on impulse. Pushed me back to the bed, hauled her thin sweater up over that honeyed mane and sank on top of me, predatory stare flicking to mine before her lips landed once more.

Skimming her torso, I fumbled to undo her bra, the straps loosening over her shoulders as I dove under to massage soft flesh. Teasing and pinching led to ferocious kisses and bites before she broke free, a dewy string of saliva stretching between us. I adored her hunger; wildness caged by amber irises as she began undoing the buttons of my pale blouse from the top down. Starting slow then accelerating, she struggled near the pool of my belly, desire overtaking dexterity. Giving up, she yanked the garment open instead.

The cooler air in the room raised gooseflesh. Her hands slithered up my abdomen and connected with my breasts, squeezing the sensitive orbs through the material. She scooped them out. Gripped and lowered hot breath to hover a firm nipple. A kiss. A lick. A bite as I arched into her touch. I rolled my head, a tangled corona of dark hair against the brightness of the Egyptian cotton.

Sitting on my thighs, she slithered both hands down to tug the buttons of my jeans apart. I bit my lip and watched those piano-player's fingers snake beneath the elastic of my panties. Almost missed her mouth reconnecting with mine. Her hips ground against the angle formed by her wrist wedged between us as she curled warm digits into my depths, moaning into the kiss.

She rocked and I gasped when her palm connected with my needy clit. Twisted and writhed in her grip as she played me like a piece in one of her virtuoso performances. Crests and peaks, pianissimo to crescendo, she drove the dynamics of my cries until I spilled; came hard, struggling for breath under her watchful lust.

There was something liberating about giving myself to Kylia. Relinquishing control. She made everything right. Restored balance. A balance that the man gradually rotting behind me had threatened to rip away.

I kept telling myself I had no choice. That he'd forced me into it.

But we all have choices.

Don't we?

Swallowing again, I outstretched my arms ahead of me and turned the Beretta's barrel to face my forehead, thumbs shaking on the trigger. Took in the same vista as his last sight. It was menacing, staring into the darkness of the 9mm bore hole. My throat rippled, cheeks watering, stomach retching. It was the coward's way out but maybe it was for the best. He was right: I was good as dead anyway.

I tightened my grip on the trigger and images of the last few years flashed through my head like flipping through my brother's comics—graphic novels, he insisted. Worn pages. Stills in frames flicking by almost too fast to take in. Kylia's smile. Her curves. Soft moans and the shlick shlick of lapping her delicious pussy. Gripping her hands as she came. Stroking. Chasing her downstairs. Laughing. Pleading in her driveway. Tugging her hand to coax her away from home. Her reticence to leave the city's hellish grip. The heated arguments. The make-up sex. Hot city days. Humid city nights. Bars and clubs, lasers and beats. Meeting Yousef in a crowded bistro. Conversation. Connection. Having my eyes opened to the stink of corruption in this metropolitan excuse for living. Plans. Covert meetings. Training. Kylia's radiance. Her heat. Sex. More sex. Breathless fucking in alleys and mall changing rooms and secluded woods. Combat. Guns. The mayor's threats.

The imagery slowed. Froze on the scene where I'd given him the choice to back down, impersonating his mistress. The borders of the mental freeze frame gave way. Became the crowded underground bar where we met.

Finding Marissa hadn't been hard. I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a PI. A few hundred bucks and a pack of smokes was all it took to track her down. An anonymous phone call on a burner to meet at La Nautica or I'd spill her sordid secret.

She agreed.

I was already in place, tucked into a booth. Chasing droplets of condensation off a beer bottle while thrash metal and raucous conversation filled the space. Ten stairs and two bouncers away from a different kind of filth at street level.

She was skittish, clearly unused to rowdy bars. Scanned over heads and spied me wearing the cherry bandana I'd described. Approached. Easy to see what Brennan saw in her. Thirties. Strawberry blonde. Big chest. Curvaceous. The perfect trophy girl. Everything his hag of a wife wasn't. No doubt fulfilled the kinks she wouldn't, too. Spanking. Pegging. Anal. Maybe she even pissed on him. Takes all sorts, and Marissa oozed slut. Not your everyday attorney.

She slid into the seat opposite, placing her stars and stripes clutch bag aside. Glanced around. Fucked if I knew whether it was for cameras or to check she'd not been followed. Maybe she plain didn't trust me. Her gaze eventually settled my way, dark jade in smoky wells that spelled trouble. "Hi."

"Hey." I raised my eyebrows. "Drink?"

She screwed up that delicate nose, gazing to the bar in the middle distance then at my beer. Nodded at it.

Draining mine, I attracted the attention of the scantily clad waitress with the local accent and ordered two more.

I eyed Miss Middle America across from me as she stroked the edge of a cardboard beer mat with a manicured pink nail. Let her stew a moment longer before speaking. "So you've guessed why you're here, right?"

She paused stroking. "You want me to stop seeing Cal."

I fixed her a steely gaze. Said nothing.

"So what is this? You muscling in? This his way of saying it's over?" Her eyes glazed and she blinked it away. "Wouldn't surprise me. Younger, fitter model. You’re his type."

A wry smile played on my lips. "Trust me, he's not mine. I just need a chat. To negotiate."

Confusion registered. "On our date?"

I flicked my eyes away a moment. "Something like that."

She chipped a corner from the beer mat. "Look, you don't have to be totally straight with me, but I deserve to know what's going on. Or I walk. Right now. Tell him about you. This. Fuck the consequences."

"Don't." My hand flew to cover hers and she flinched. I pulled back, apologetic. "I just need his attention. Focused. To present my side of the story. And you have direct access…" I tailed off.

"The fastest route to counsel?" she finished.

I nodded as the waitress slammed the beers on the table. She took the money I offered and fake smiled, turning to flirt with Budget George Clooney at the table across from us.

The beer's icy tendrils in my throat gave way to warmth on their way down. "I need to know a few things."

"Such as?"

I looked away again. "What he likes. Dislikes."

She paused. Waited for me to slide my gaze to hers. "In the bedroom?"

I breathed out and nodded. She took a pull from the neck of her beer then lifted one corner of her mouth like the aftertaste was diesel.

"And why would I tell you that?"

Fishing in the inside pocket of my jacket, I slid an envelope across the table. "There's five hundred tax-free reasons."

She paused. Reached and drummed her fingernails on top of it. Lifted the flap. Poker sure ain't her calling.

Dragging the envelope towards her, she bagged it. Took another swig of alcohol. "One meet."

One was all I needed. And the information Marissa provided was the reason I was dressed the way I was. The micro dress. The fishnet stay-ups. The jacket. No panties. And indirectly the reason there was a corpse behind me and I was staring into the barrel of a loaded Beretta.

I shut my eyes tight and shook. Wished I'd brought my meds. Calm the warring voices that raged in my head. Death was all I deserved. I'd be hunted forever. A rabbit awaiting the inevitable teeth of the Lurcher. No place on Earth safe. And for what? Selfish gain? Love?

Yeah, love.

Another memory of Kylia formed. A park on the outskirts of the city. 'bout as far from corruption as made no difference. Or all the difference. Back when the world had color in it.

We'd been lying side by side on the grass bank facing the azure heavens, breeze tickling the skin on the back of our entwined fingers. Just enjoying the sun. The companionship. Joking how we could see musical instruments in the cloud shapes.

I pointed with my free hand. "There's a violin."

She followed my gaze and giggled. "Silly. It's too big for a violin. Clearly a viola."

I rolled my head to catch the twinkle in her eye. "Scale's relative. I say it's a violin."

Kylia stuck out her tongue and gazed up. "Ooh, see that one?" I focused beyond her fingertip. "That's a crumhorn."

I burst out laughing. "A whatnow?"

An effortless plum British accent flowed from those crossbow lips I'd kissed a thousand times. "Crumhorn, darling. Ye olde medieval instrument."

"You're making shit up."

Her giggle lit me inside. "Am not."

"Huh. Looks like an anal hook to me."

She giggled again. "You, my love, have a dirty mind."

"And it's all yours for the taking."

A circuit flowed between us, from my jumpstarted heart down my arm, through our fingertips. Tugging my hand, she pulled until I sat astride her. She carried on moving my hand until it rested on her breast. I glanced around at the other park goers. Dog walkers. Joggers. Businesspeople on lunch break. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Forget about them. Focus on me."

I gently squeezed her breast, her sigh driving me to cup the other. I massaged both and she rolled her hips beneath me. Slid a hand down her toned midriff between our bodies and snaked fingers under cutoffs and panties. Her eyes rolled back as she zeroed on her slit. Dug inside while I pinched and rolled her nipples through her crop top.

Her face told me what was going on beneath the cotton that clung to her bare pussy. Wide eyes, fire brimming behind them. Jaw slackening before catching her lower lip with teeth. She loved crushing her clit under the palm of her hand while she fingered herself and I watched.

My exhibitionist.

I concentrated on her chest, increasing the intensity of my pinches in response to her actions and groans. Part of me worried we'd draw attention. The majority of me didn't give a shit, the thrill of discovery electrifying. Magnetic.

She somehow kept herself in check. Chewed her bottom lip as the orgasm rose, mouth dropping open, breath held until the gasp eventually escaped as a concentrated huff, and she shuddered under me. I held her tits as support. Massaged them throughout her fluttering climax. She plucked her hand free and offered fingertips up for me to clean. Those rainy petals again. Almond sweetness and Balsamic. It coursed my body and I dripped into my panties as I dismounted and sat alongside her, stroking her midsection.

We watched the afternoon unfold, knees hugged to our chests. Ate ice cream. Kissed. Acted normal, like two people in love, not two people who couldn't be together because Brennan decreed it.

A group of animated students strode across the hillside by us. Kylia nudged me and nodded. They were a mishmash of colors and styles. From ripped jeans, faded tees, piercings and Dockers to tie dye tops and cutoffs, they had one thing in common: they all wore Pride badges. Kylia leaned in and brushed her fingertips over mine. "One day we'll win and everyone will be wearing those."

I watched them a moment, all excited chatter and outspoken ideals. Swiveled my gaze to Kylia and smiled. "We'll have won when nobody needs to wear them."

That thought swirled. That thought presaged everything since. The idea we could be free of tyranny, free of judgment, free of the need to belong to an exclusive club, because there was no need for that club to exist. Because we were normal.

It sickened me that I had to be the one to do it. That I had to choose between the dead mayor behind me and my own freedom to love who I damn well pleased. Gamble whether one bullet would galvanize others. Light the touch paper and inspire change, or make things worse. Guess it depended which slimeball took Brennan's place. But maybe they'd think twice now the untouchable had been touched. Choose a different path. A brighter path. Then it would all be worth it.

The motel's events replayed in my head yet again, the cycle seemingly endless. Maybe my way of dealing with it. I needed a drink. Fuck, ten drinks. Silence the doubts swirling my head. Knowing my luck, it'd amplify them.

Maybe I was crazy, like my shrink scribbles in her little notebook as I stare at the ceiling tiles and unload. Who was I to say who was damned and who could be saved in this monochrome shithole of a city? Who was Brennan to have done likewise?

When he swaggered into the motel room, confidence incarnate, if he suspected anything, he didn't show it. I was already there behind the door. Boots, fishnets and a thundering pulse that radiated the same perfume Marissa favored. No chances.

He carried that complacent air of knowing he could do anything he wanted. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Fuck. He knew everyone in his city that hadn't already been bought, could be.

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he tossed it on the chair by the dresser. Stepped to the foot of the shabby double bed and loosened his necktie.

At the snap of the riding crop by my thigh, he spun. Grinned. He seemed bigger up close than on TV. More imposing, and I feared he'd see through the black, sequined masquerade mask. Maybe notice the way I didn't fill the clothes well enough. Marissa and I were similar builds, the inch or so height difference compensated by the boot heels. But curves like hers are harder to fake.

I twirled my finger in the air and he turned away from me again, no wiser. Only saw what he wanted to see. The dominatrix. There was an edge to his voice; definite excitement in his drawl. "This is new. Been thinking about our last conversation?"

"Shhhh." I snapped the crop again. Tapped it to his ass. He bent forward at the waist, knuckles deforming the mattress. Presented himself for punishment.

I could have led with the gun, but needed his trust to get the panic button. Pants pocket, she said. One click of that and his security team would swarm in. Game over.

The good news? Due to the nature of his trysts with Marissa, the cavalry were up the road in the strip mall lot. Safer not to advertise his location. That gave me a ninety-second window. Maybe less. Barely enough time to get out if it all went south, but a head start nonetheless. I wasn't intending to need it.

I stepped forward for a better angle. Side on. Tapped the leather crop head to the seat of his pants. Once. Twice. Then swished. The tip connected and he stiffened as the strike registered. Nothing more.

Switching to the other cheek, I tapped again. Prepared him for the swish and the crack that echoed off the walls. Took some perverse satisfaction that his breathing hitched and a sigh escaped when the leather landed. It was almost fun.

I lost count of how many times I struck him. His sighs turned to moans with each swat as I strengthened my strokes. Varied the landing points. Pushed him. The irony? What he thought was pleasure I was doing to hurt him. Payback. Guess it's true that the chemical rush is the same and it's how the brain interprets the signal that determines the feeling. He took everything.

Standing, he rubbed his ass. "Stings so good. Thanks, baby."

I grabbed the red headscarf from the dresser and approached. Wrapped it round his eyes and tied it behind his head. Didn't want him noticing my hands were different to hers as I removed his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. I was thinking on my feet. Trying to work a way of getting to his pockets. But some part of me wanted to take my time. Hurt him on the way.

Starting at the top I popped each button until his torso was exposed. Peeled the shirt from him and tossed it to the bed. Not in bad shape for a man his age. Slight belly from the excesses, the parties, the kickbacks, but taut muscle otherwise. Either workouts or all the extramarital fucking. Despite what Marissa wanted to believe, I doubted she was the only one.

I ran finger pads then nails across his nipples. Twirled the wiry hair. Pinched and made him hiss. I traced outward, under his arms. Snaked nails down his back, hard enough to leave red trails in their wake. He sucked in air through his teeth. "Jeez, Marissa. You're an animal today."

If only he knew.

Returning to the dresser, I picked up the black flogger. Paced the gap to the bed and set it swinging in a pendulum motion so the falls dusted his back. His muscles flexed beneath the skin, one gnarly twist of cartilage above his waistband on the left. A bullet extraction, she'd said.

I let the flogger scuff his back harder. Then harder as he tensed, finally lashing it in a diagonal stripe from shoulder blade to kidney.

He gasped. Stiffened as I returned to swinging. Then he breathed, "Again."

I picked up speed. Spun the flogger in a circle, disturbed air swishing in the quiet, before cracking it against his skin. Brennan groaned when I traced the welt with my fingertips.

To his credit, he let me do what I wanted until his back was criss-crossed with hundreds of angry pink lines. How the fuck he would ever explain them to his wife was beyond me. Maybe she was the forgiving type.

He did nothing for a while. Flexed his back. Sighed. "You've usually given me your panties by now."

I stiffened. Considered deflecting the request. Then the opportunity dawned.

Hiking the hem, I thumbed down my underwear, the cool air of the room filling the gap between my thighs and making me shiver. Balling them up, I slid them into his palm.

He immediately unzipped his pants, freeing his firm cock and wrapping the material around its length. His ass jiggled as he masturbated into the warmth of my underwear.

Stepping in, I placed one hand on his. Slowed the pace a little. Got him used to the idea of me exerting control. The flared tip of his rigid cock rhythmically entered and left the confines of my panties as we shuffled his meat inside them. The ripple of his skin brushed my hand on some strokes. His snorts and huffs filled the room, events clearly beginning to overwhelm him.

Now or never.

Slithering my hands back over his hips I reached his pockets. Dipped both hands in and scratched the edges of his balls through the silky material. He growled. "Perfect."

I scuffed my nails over the sensitive skin, swiping up with one finger and down with the other, matching his rhythm. He snarled through bared teeth, hips jerking. "Yeah, baby. A little more... that's it. Love it when you treat me bad, then gimme a reward. Fuck."

His hips locked, a sharp inhalation signaling loss of control. He gripped the tip of his shaft, cupping my panties under it and groaned as jets of milky cum splashed into the fabric, staining dark rose patches across the gusset. Marissa said she usually put them back on after and he loved watching his spunk smearing against her pussy, matting in her pubes when she traced her lips through the material.

With his attention diverted, I slipped my hands from his pocket, the panic device in my grasp. Stole to the dresser and swapped it for the Beretta in the drawer. Whirled and trained it on him, trying to maintain a steady hand like Yousef taught me. He said half the battle was showing front. Being composed. Businesslike. Helped with detachment, he claimed.

Brennan breathed hard, hanging my panties from his cock to catch the remnants. Slipped the blindfold off and dropped it on the bed. "Thank you, baby."

He turned. And to his credit didn't flinch. Maybe he was used to the wrong end of a gun. Instead, he smiled.

That simple act threw me for a moment, until I steeled, paced forward, jabbed the weapon in his chest and shoved him to sit on the bed. His hands came to rest alongside his legs on the cotton bedspread.

For the first time, we made eye contact. He stared. Cocked his head. Recognition flickered. "Nina. I might have known."

No further need for pretence, I slid the mask off and tossed it aside. "Back off, Brennan. Leave me alone. Leave us alone."

He scoffed. "Or what?"

I flexed my gun arm in his direction. A clear warning. Stared him down.

The guy chuckled. "Look at you acting tough. Aquí hasta los gatos quieren zapatos, eh?"

I let the insinuation wash over me. Bristled. "No, I'm wearing the fucking shoes." To demonstrate the point, I placed my boot between his thighs on the edge of the bed. "Call off the hounds."

"You're in no position to make demands."

"I think you'll find I'm holding the gun. Now delete whatever pictures you Photoshopped and leave us the fuck alone."

He said nothing. Looked vaguely amused, which pissed me off.

"Don't play dumb. Your team broke into my home."

He smirked. "You should review your security practices."

A twinge of regret knotted my stomach. Yousef had been right: How many things do you touch a day? A hundred? Two? Every door handle. Every handrail. Every elevator call button. Even your phone case. You might as well write your password on scraps of paper and litter them behind you.

It seemed so fucking obvious, but I'd been blindsided like everyone else. Hoodwinked by TV. The revelation was too little too late, the damage done. Brennan had sent his thugs round. Scammed my door sensor. Staged my office to brand me a terrorist; aiding and abetting to bomb a shopping mall in L.A. That's life, or Gitmo. Same animal; different level of torture.

The photos carried a warning when they hit my inbox: Leave her or your life's over, bitch.

He studied me. Smirked again. "If it's any consolation, we don’t need your fucking prints. Your precious Yousef friend could tell you all about that. But—" he waved his hand dismissively, "you won't leave this room alive. And then we'll take him too."

And so it came down to this moment. This choice. Nobody else I could turn to.

Cops? In Brennan's pocket.

Senate? Corrupt.

God? Took one look at the city and fled.

No choice.

I'd turned to Yousef instead, and we hatched the plan to shake Brennan up. Seems we'd underestimated his arrogance. But I had to stay the course. Make him see sense.

I improvised. Focused on Brennan. "How 'bout I take photos of you right now?" I nudged his balls with the boot toe and pulled my phone out. "I can see the headlines: Rock Point Mayor in Motel Sleaze Romp. I'm sure your wife would love the detail of my stained panties wrapped around your dick."

He was unflappable. "Please. You think she doesn't know? Think she married me for lurve?" He scoffed. "Money and power rule. Love is dead."

I bristled again. Phone in one hand. Gun in the other. I pocketed the tech. Nobody'd believe the pictures were real anyway. "Dead?!" I spat. "Try telling that to Kylia. She chose love. She chose me."

The first hint of emotion crossed his face, brow knitting. His words were slow and clear, dripping with venom. "You don't know the first fucking thing about my daughter. I raised her right. You corrupted her. Turned her gay."

"Jesus, Brennan, how d'you get to be mayor and be that naïve?" I almost laughed at his stubbornness. "We love each other. If anything, she seduced me."

He slammed his hands on the bed, making me blink. "Liar! She was fine until you got your twisted talons into her panties."

I returned my foot to the floor, jabbed the barrel into his chest and applied pressure until he winced. "Fuck you, Brennan."

The guy somehow remained composed. "You don't have the nerve. You pull that trigger, you might as well use the second bullet on yourself."

I cocked the hammer. A satisfying click. He didn't flinch. Even when I lifted the barrel to his forehead.

"Leave us. The fuck. Alone."

I was standing slightly off center from him, as Yousef had instructed. So he couldn't lash out with his foot and catch me off guard. Instead of sweating, Brennan chuckled. "You know why I like this room, Nina?" He glanced around. "For the fancy décor? Nooo. For the security. One call from my team and the tapes are released. So think long and hard, little L word." He fixed his gaze on mine. "You touch that trigger, you're dead."

I flicked my eyes to the corner of the room. He was right. A tiny lens. A complication. Lifting the weapon I trained it on the camera and squeezed the trigger. The device exploded and I swung the barrel back to his forehead. Recocked.

"Last chance, fucko. Call it off or die."

He steeled. Stared up at me. Pure evil. "Rot in hell, you sniveling little cunt."

Adrenaline flooded my veins. I saw red. "You first."

I pulled the trigger. Then saw a different red as he started to bleed out. Watched him slump with surprise frozen on his face.

The adrenaline turned to fear, heart pounding. Then the trembling kicked in.

I'd killed.

Ended someone's life.

Blown away my girlfriend's daddy.

Fuck.

I let the still smoking barrel drop to my side. Weakened. As if the floorboards were draining my strength.

When my feet finally responded to brain function, I raced to the bathroom and threw up.

On my return, I avoided looking at the blood spray, sliding to the floor by the bed, staring alternately through the blinds and into 9mm of darkness. Lost in my thoughts.

Only the hammering on the door jolted me to the present, damn well nearly making me pull the trigger. I stiffened. Spun the gun and trained it on the scuffed doorway. "Who is it?"

"Me."

Yousef.

I breathed out. Lowered the weapon. "It's open."

He forged in, few-day-old stubble on chiseled jaw and a shock of curly black hair like laurel hedging. Quickly and expertly surveying the scene, he waved his team in and paced to me, kneeling by my side to extricate the gun from my grip. "Hey, hey. You okay?"

Tears welled from nowhere and I buried them in his shoulder, my hoarse whisper muffled. "What have I done?"

He cradled my head. "Shhhh, hey. You did what you had to." His fingers tangled and brushed my scalp. "You’ve made the world a better place for a lot of people today."

I sobbed. Sniffed. "But not for Kylia."

He didn’t have an answer for that. Held me until the shaking faded slightly, stroking my hair. Then voiced the concern I knew would haunt me. "You know you can't tell her, right? Ever."

The trembling restarted and I barely recognized the ghostly, hollow, "I know," that tumbled from my lips.

We stayed like that until I stopped shaking properly, and the pungent stench of cleaning reagent filled the room. Scrubbing and rustling scratched at my periphery. I lifted my head, wiping my eyes.

With Yousef providing support, I stood and surveyed the precision of the team cleansing the scene. Plastic sheeting. Solvents. Black bags for the linen. Scourers. Hand-held vacuum cleaners. It was a ballet of hygiene. I didn't wanna know how he knew them.

One of the team brought my panties over, gripped between the jaws of a pair of plastic tongs. Any other day I'd be offended. If they'd been a cheap pair I'd have let them be incinerated with the rest of the evidence, but I ain't throwing away my Agent Provocateur Yara's at sixty bucks a pop. I held out my hand for him to deposit them. I'd have to put fresh ones on at home.

I pocketed the material. Fumbled in the air beside my leg for Yousef's hand and gripped it, watching the scene ahead of me unfolding like an episode of CSI.

"What they gonna do with the body?"

"Dump it in the river is probably best. Let nature wash away anything we can't. Makes forensics harder when he's eventually found." He ran his free hand through his hair. "They'll know he was transported, but unless his security team speak up and reveal this place, there ain't gonna be much left to go on. With luck they'll think it was a hit. He had enemies."

We watched the team work. 'Thorough' didn't do them justice. 'Meticulous' was closer.

I nodded at the bullet in the corner of the room. "What about that?"

"We'll sort it."

"And the footage?"

"We'll have it erased. You were never here."

Something gnawed at my subconscious. Scratched like a caged rat. I went cold when it surfaced. "Marissa will know."

The room breathed with us. "She can't say anything without revealing her affair."

"But she might."

"She might."

Fuck.

We stood in silence as they hoisted Brennan into a bag and zipped it for transport, then started with the caustic on the sheets and mattress. I shook my head. "All this over a fingerprint. If I'd been more careful…"

Yousef didn't reply immediately. "It's not your fault. But you can see why I do what I do."

"The password app?"

"Yeah."

I wrinkled my forehead. "Brennan said he didn't even need my print to get in. Said to ask you about it. Right before threatening to have you whacked."

"He did, huh? What do you wanna know?"

I shrugged. "Just curious."

He thought a moment. "You know two prints from the same person are rarely alike? Even two impressions taken immediately after one another."

"I didn't, but go on."

"Dirt. Finger movement. Finger pressure. Any number of things can alter it."

"So, what, sensors work on good enough?"

"Exactly. They have to tolerate variations in the ridges and indentations or the real owner wouldn't match half the time."

I nodded. Studied him. "There's more, huh?" I could see his inner geek surfacing.

"Yeah. BioSyn ran algorithms on thousands of fingerprint samples and the tolerances. Worked out the common traits. They engineered a single Master Print that can unlock, get this, two-thirds of smartphones in the world."

"Get real!" It didn't even bear thinking about.

"It's real. Two-thirds of systems compromised, without even needing a real print. Only a matter of time before they create another print or two that unlock the rest." He raised his eyebrow. "And guess who had majority shares in BioSyn?"

I didn't need to voice it. Cal fucking Brennan.

Yousef nodded. "Brennan kept blocking my tech. Maybe now we'll stand a chance, thanks to you."

His words filtered in. Mixed with everything else that had been bouncing round my brain. Brennan's stubbornness. The nature of the crime he was trying to pin on me. Yousef's training. His pep talks about one person's terrorist being another's freedom fighter.

My head started to bang. Weighing it all up, everything seemed too coincidental. And I don't believe in coincidences.

A slow crawl of realization crept through me. I pulled my hand free. "Wait. You… you used me?"

He faltered. "It's not like that. We only planned to shake him up, remember? A scare. But now that you've blown him away, well…" He breathed in. "It creates opportunities the city never had. Maybe further afield."

I stared. Couldn't process it all, the room suddenly tiny. "I need some air."

Stalking to the exit, I hauled open the door. The gun hammer cocked behind me and I froze. Waited.

"Don't do anything stupid, Nina. Remember who your friends are."

Turning just my head halfway in his direction, I called over my shoulder. "Friends don't pull guns on one another. The day I've had, you can shoot me or fuck off. I don't care."

There was a long pause before the hammer released. I strode into the approaching evening, Yousef's call of lay low and stick to the backstreets fading as the sprung door clicked shut.

I stomped down the steps, boot heels ringing out across the parking lot. The graying downtown skyline in the hazy looming darkness was peppered with yellow lights. The scared. The diligent. People who gave more fucks than me 'bout the economy.

At the foot of the stairs was an alleyway that cut beneath the first floor rooms to the back of the motel. I took it. Squeezed through a gap in the chain link fence that bordered the wasteland of the old cement works. Crossed forgotten concrete laced with weeds, and emerged on Drake.

The Chinese quarter lay ahead, the scent of ginger and fried noodles staining the air. I salivated. Cut through another alley between Millionhairs and the pawn shop, ignoring a hooker in the shadows haggling with a dealer over an eighth. Fucking city was rotten to the core.

Jade avenue was buzzing, even this early. Flashes of electric neon above shop fronts offered gaudy contrast reflected in puddles where vendors had sluiced their stores after the day's trading.

I selected my favorite haunt, Lucille's, and ordered sesame chicken. Spicy and fragrant, it would hit the spot.

Sitting at a beaten Formica table, I slid the soy sauce back and forth between fingertips, thinking, piecing events together until the sizzling of the wok ceased.

Wizened by age with more wrinkles than the beach at low tide, Lucille brought the dish to me herself. I tucked in as she tidied behind the counter, then came out to stand nearby.

"Why so down, dragonfly?"

I still had no idea if she called everyone that, or just me. I wiped my mouth. "Life is… complicated."

She grinned, baring teeth that knew they were on borrowed time. "If life easy, nobody would play, righ'?"

"I guess. But this place, this city. It grinds you down and won't let you leave."

She clicked her tongue. "Maybe you need good fortune. Here." She reached over the counter and presented a basket full of small packets. "For luck."

I selected a fortune cookie and thanked her. Finished my main course, tore the outer, broke the cracker in two and pulled out the ticker tape. I crunched the sweet first half, and unfolded the message:

Accept your past without regrets. Your present with confidence. Your future without fear.

I showed Lucille and she grinned again. "See? Universe has design for us all. Take heed." She pointed skyward. "What has happen is done. What will happen," she tapped my chest with a bony finger, "is in here."

I nodded. Sighed. Thanked her again, paid, tipped and left.

Dusk had given way to the approaching night, skyscrapers towering beneath an angry purple-tinged hue. Every distant wailing siren sent a shiver through me as I trudged through the remainder of the Chinese quarter. The splashes of color faded to grayscale, then to featureless concrete buildings the closer I got to home. I crossed the parking lot and up to the seventh floor.

My apartment wasn't much. What it lacked in square footage, it made up for in stairwell junkies on the approach. I slammed the door, pulled a stubby beer from the fridge, cracked the top off and drained it. Brennan's face with its bullet hole was still there behind each blink, so I sank another. And a third. Tossed the empties in the sink and shed my clothes on the way to the bedroom, flopping into bed.

I tossed and turned. Tried some trashy romance novel to take my mind off the day, until I found myself rereading the same paragraph and not taking it in. Pulled the pillow over my head to drown out the drunken shouts below and fell into troubled sleep, visions of Brennan's last moment on Earth piercing every dream sequence.

In the small hours, tired and irritable, even my usual go-to of masturbating didn't help. As my fingers walked clammy skin, thoughts of Kylia's body against mine were ultimately invaded by the moment I took her father away from her. I gritted my teeth. Persevered. Arched my back. Came with a sharp gasp, fingers of one hand clutching the sheet, the other digging inside my wet furrow, but it was ultimately unsatisfactory. It merely took the edge off.

After what felt like half an hour of actual sleep, the sun streamed through the bare window, warming my naked upturned ass on the sheets. I blinked and cursed. Got up.

The bathroom mirror confirmed I looked twice as shitty as I felt. The shower only made half as much improvement. I popped the meds from the various bottles. Lined them up, an array of colors and shapes. Anger flashed and I swiped them to skitter across the tiled bathroom floor. Stared at my reflection. The bags under my eyes. Changed my mind. Picked up the pills and swallowed them.

I couldn't face work. Called in sick and took the tongue lashing from my boss over my apparent lack of respect for the industry. Like people would notice an extra five minutes hanging on the phone to talk through an insurance claim. I let him drone. Asshole just didn't like me 'cos I was the only employee who wouldn't suck his cock for favors.

Daytime TV was uninspiring, chat and reality show banality probably designed to drive the idle to work. I kept checking the news. Brennan hadn't turned up for work either and had missed an important opening of a new ward at the local hospital. Nobody seemed concerned.

That changed at 3pm on day shooting-plus-two when the world went to hell on a hovercraft.

A shopping mall in L.A. got bombed. Nobody claimed responsibility. Yousef didn't answer my calls. When Brennan washed up on the banks of the Schootanega with a bullet hole in his skull a few hours later, the media speculated the mall was linked, and it was a pro hit.

Once reporters got their teeth into that idea, financial irregularities quickly surfaced: Brennan was implicated in a scheme to short the stock options of the company that owned the mall. The media added two and two, mixed in greed to make eleven, and left me clear.

Mostly.

Only two dangling threads could tie me to the murder: Marissa, and the sobbing call from Kylia I didn't wanna face. It came early, the morning after the news of her father's murder hit the airwaves.

Her voice trembled, barely a whisper. "Sorry to wake you. Can't sleep." She stifled a sob. "Who would do such a thing?"

My grogginess at the hour evaporated, heart thudding, both from hearing her distress and the adrenaline. I bit my lip. "I don't know, baby. I'm still trying to process it."

She barreled on as if I'd not spoken. "I mean, he wasn't a saint, but why have him—" she drew a breath like the next word weighed more than War and Peace, "killed?"

Even to me, my voice sounded hollow and I feared she'd make the connection. See through me. "Maybe wrong place, wrong time?"

Kylia sniffed. "Yeah, maybe."

The emptiness on the line stretched between us. I waited for her to carry on.

"I know it's early but can you… can you come over?"

"Of course. Be right there. And Kylia…" There was another gap. Just her breathing. My mouth was dry, the urge to confess unrelenting. "You know I love you."

"I know. See you soon."

I hung up, showered, spritzed, and tugged on leggings and ankle boots to complement the tee and hoodie. Headed East on Laker, towards the river as dawn loomed.

A fog rolled in from fuck knows where, streetlights offering muted silvery cones onto the leafy sidewalk I traipsed. The air was crisp, cold, maybe a month away from the annual defrosting of Michael Bublé.

The open driveway of Kylia's house swept past immaculate lawns and hedges. A handful of stone steps led to the house entrance. She was already there, illuminated in the jaws of the heavy front door, and she rushed out to greet me as I reached the top step. Wrapping herself around my body, I held her, our hearts thudding together.

When the hug ended, we headed inside the cottage paid for by Daddy's dime. She put on tea and we drank side by side on the bed in the relative silence of her room. I didn't wanna start a sentence in case it mistakenly cornered me into a confession. A hundred times in my head I blurted out it was me but held my tongue. Waited. Cast pitying glances towards her defeated form.

She reached out. Held my hand and it took every ounce of strength not to pull away from her warmth. Her hug followed, melting into my arms and I comforted her as she sobbed into my neck, "God, it hurts."

"I know, baby. I'm sorry."

Empathy was the closest I could get to a confession. Guilt twisted in my gut, then wrenched as her fingertips trailed up my side and she whispered, "Help take away the pain."

I stiffened, pulled away and gazed into her reddened eyes moments before her lips landed on mine. She was impossible to resist. Despite the situation, I found myself beginning to respond, hands sliding to cup her cheeks, smearing tears with my thumb pads. The kiss intensified, the introduction of tongues natural. Heat swirled between us and I became swept up in the moment. Raked fingers through her hair and crushed our lips together, tongues lancing.

The raindrop flavor of her kiss was familiar but somehow different. Lacking fire. She usually drove events. Took control. But this time she was subdued. Broken, in need of rebuilding. As our hands wandered it dawned on me that, in some twisted way, maybe I could begin to make amends by being the scaffold she needed. Provide the spark to reignite her.

It felt unfamiliar leading, but I worked my kisses to her cheek. Her ear. Nibbled the lobe and worked down, sweeping locks to one side as she sighed at the caresses to her neck. She tipped her head back and let me nuzzle her throat, the tiny vibrations beneath spurring my exploration of her skin.

Clothes soon got in the way and I slid down to tug the hem of her T-shirt up and off. She was braless and I drank in the path of her crescent of freckles that led from neck to the swell of her chest. Rolled her to face upward and dove down, showering her collarbone and shoulders in kisses as I gradually worked my way to her slopes.

Her nipples, always sensitive, begged for attention. Without her guidance, the landscape seemed alien yet familiar. Same street name, different city. One gaze up into her battered soul both emptied and filled my heart. I plowed on, dusting freckles with my lips as the texture of her skin altered the closer to the peak they roamed. She remained patient. Mine.

I opened my mouth and hovered a nipple, closing gently and kissing it. The second kiss was firmer. Wetter. I swirled my tongue, drew her peak into my mouth with suction and she gasped. Skipping to the other cap, I licked and nibbled, flitting my eyes to hers. Need danced and I introduced my teeth, the tiniest graze of her areola causing her expression to flash with desire. Clamping, I drew her nipple up. Her hiss and arched back told me everything.

Swishing my tongue to soothe the sting, she purred. I alternated nipples. Alternated bites with laps, each one animating her further. Restless on the sheets, hips swishing, she reveled in my attention.

I pulled away and traced a fingertip from one pinkened nipple to the taut skin of her belly. Followed it with a trail of kisses, pausing to whisper, "God you're beautiful. I don't deserve you."

The words I'm so sorry formed and I swallowed them. Gazed into her eyes fighting back tears.

She ran a fingertip along the same path my kisses had traveled, an edge to her voice. "Yes you do." Her finger pressed to my lips. "Make me forget. Just feast."

I stared. Breathed in, recognizing it as her way of dealing with the loss. Playfully, I snapped at her finger. Sucked it and sat up. With her help I rocked her hips clear of pajama bottoms and tugged them all the way off. Paused at her feet and kissed them both, one after the other. Ran my tongue over her toes. Nibbled and swirled my tongue until the digits glimmered in the low dawn creeping through the window.

I peppered kisses up her legs. Shins. Knees. Thighs that parted, the scent drawing me inward, intoxicating as I neared the swell of her lips, dewy with arousal and slightly open. My nibbles blazed a path inward, sweeping to her center and I paused fractionally to catch her attention, eyes locking as I kissed her pussy. Her moans punctured the air and I lost myself in her buttery essence.

The caresses became firmer, hands snaking over her thigh tops to use as leverage, pulling my hungry mouth to her. I probed my tongue, French kissing her naked pussy lips, such a contrast to my own dark, wiry triangle. She groaned and rocked against me, arms splayed to the side, bunching the sheets in her fists as she gave herself to me.

I devoured her slit. Mashed my nose to her peeking jewel. Inhaled and clamped my face tighter, flashing my tongue and chin against her dripping mound. Her cries crested, legs clamped around me, and she shook.

Her honey flowed and I lapped throughout, taste dancing on my tongue. The silky texture was occasionally punctuated by slightly grainy pockets of a more intense flavor that I swirled and swallowed.

When her mewls slowed and her thighs released me, I tenderly lapped her folds clean, avoiding her sensitive clit. Crawling forward, I pressed our mouths together and we shared a languid, scented kiss, her hands stroking my back and sides. I swallowed her breathless whimpers and knew there was more she wanted.

Breaking the kiss, I sat up, yanked off my hoodie, tee and bra, and crawled further forward. Fed her my tits, moaning as her lips wrapped around them and tugged. Kylia took her time, randomly choosing tender swipes of her tongue or savage bites that made me hiss. I was on edge and she knew it when she finally pulled away. She grabbed the back of my head and pulled my ear to her mouth, nipping the lobe.

"Fuck me, Nina."

Releasing me I reared up. Stared down at the wildness in her eyes. Climbed off and peeled my leggings and soaked panties down. In her bedside drawer I rummaged for the strap-on and watched her fingering herself as I stepped into the harness and did up the buckles. The toy was unfamiliar; she normally wore it for me, but as the sun rose and cast long shadows of me and the meaty phallus on the far wall, I crawled up onto the bed and shoved her legs wide. Predatory.

My eyes found hers. "You want this?" I gripped the shaft. She nodded. "Sure you can take it all?" She nodded again, biting her lip. I reached out and moved her hand from her pussy, taking over stroking it, drawing ovals up to her clit and flicking gently. "You want me to ravage this pretty slit?" Her eyes widened and her nod was fast. I slicked my finger with her juices and drew more shapes, dipping a pair of digits inside. "Want me to split this gorgeous cunt? Make you mine?"

Kylia gasped, "Yes. Take me."

I patted her slit over and over, increasing the strength of each strike until her eyes crossed and mouth gaped, spanks ringing off the walls with her groans. When she was out of her mind with lust, I hauled her legs to me. Positioned our hips together and sank the toy into her slippery depths.

She cried out at the invasion. Started chanting, "Fuck me, fuck meee," as I built up the pace, hammering into her. I slid my hands up her body and cupped her chest, squeezing as I pounded her pussy with the toy. Our hips slapped together in the quiet and the rhythmic pressure of the rear nub on the toy's shaft against my clit propelled me to climax. I moaned into her room and quivered, trying to maintain the beat of the fucking as fire rolled from my hips outward.

Her hands slid to my wrists and tugged them towards her throat. She positioned my grip around it and a tear sprung from her eye. "Take the pain away."

I shook my head fast, orgasm still beating my insides, but she nodded and tightened her grip around mine. Held me there, clamping her throat. My hammering slowed and her expression flared, voice almost a squawk, "Fuck me!"

I started again, slow yet deep.

"Harder!" she snarled.

Conflicted and struggling to release the pressure on her throat from beneath her grasp, I picked up the pace again, until her gurgled cries were expelled in sync with each thrust. I buffeted her dripping pussy. Tears streamed down my cheeks too at seeing her this way. The words it was me died in my mouth again and again, her eyes gradually rolling back, breathing labored.

Mustering all my strength, I yanked free and reversed the grip so I had her wrists. I slammed them wide on the bed and gazed into her eyes as she gulped oxygen, chest heaving. Pulling my hips back, I let loose, fucking her like a savage. The base of the strap-on ground her clit on each thrust and she panted hard, lungfuls of air fueling the growl that spilled into a guttural cry as she tensed and came.

Her chest arched up and I dropped my head to bite her offered nipples, one after the other. She hissed hard, writhing in ecstasy pinned to the bed, and I let her have her moment. Let her moan and rock and grind and sigh and gradually slow as her movements drifted to a contented end.

Then I let her wrists go and slapped her. "Don’t you fucking dare pull a stunt like that again, you hear me?"

She looked away and I twisted her face upright again, thundering, "Do. You. Understand?"

Kylia nodded, fresh tears forming, her voice a meek whisper, "Sorry. I don't… don't know what came over me."

My heart hollowed, ashamed at my outburst given all she'd been through because of me. I released my grip on her chin. Stroked the mark on her cheek and brushed away the salty line. "Fuck. Sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Forgive me. You scared the crap outta me is all."

Her reply was to stretch up and plant a firm kiss on my lips, wrapping her arms around my neck. I melted into her embrace, still buried inside her.

We held one another in the quiet opulence as dawn rose. Disentangled. I unbuckled and dropped the strap-on over the edge of the bed to thud to the floor, dripping, and crawled back alongside her.

She rolled to face the window and I snuggled into her back, cupping her chest. Her heartbeat beneath my palm was both a reminder of her strength and fragility.

Between periods of silence and her quaking in my arms among stifled sobs, we lay. Shared our separate, yet connected torments, the chasm I felt between us at odds with our physical closeness. I was torn. Stroked her hair. She purred and spoke at exactly the same moment I whispered we need to talk.

We both stopped. I brushed her naked shoulder. "You first."

Her voice was dreamy. Faraway. "Just hold me. I feel secure in your arms. Need you more than ever now to get through this." She took a shaky breath and kissed my hand. "Thank you for looking after me, baby. Means the world to me."

A single tear rolled down my cheek and splashed to the pillow by her hair. I held her tight. Stayed silent.

She nuzzled my thumb, breath soft on the digit. "What did you want to talk about?"

It was my turn to inhale deeply. My mouth opened and all that came out was, "It's okay. It can wait."

--------------------

Author's note: Though the story is fictional, the Master Fingerprint is real. Further reading:

https://aadhaar.fail/security-fails/how-unique-are-fingerprints/

https://mathblog.com/are-fingerprints-unique/