It felt so good, that her rouge lips parted delicately to let out a breathless moan. He's the cat who got the cream and couldn't stop licking it, she thought to herself as his tongue played between her quivering thighs.
CHAPTER ONE | THE PHOTO
It was after midnight in the city when his metallic convertible glided down an empty rain-slicked street that reflected the neon-purple light from orbs, hovering where streetlamps once stood.
The driver was a clean-cut gent with a precisely combed fade, rugged-but-trimmed beard, and wearing a retro designer suit that cost more than the original. As for the final touch, a pair of hi-tech glasses with sleek buttons framed his tired brown eyes. The man gently turned into a vacant lot and eased up to a brick building with a novelty magnifying glass flickering neon-orange light in the window.
Inside, his dark minimalistic office was dramatically lit in the center by a neon-blue orb hovering above the antique mahogany desk and hazed in cigarette smoke. The flickering orange light from the novelty magnifying glass in the window, spliced through the blinds to enhance the moody aesthetic.
The clean-cut gent placed his blazer on the back of his office chair and took a seat at the desk, which contained a stack of case folders, a rotary phone, an empty glass for scotch, and a large magnifying glass. His hand, with the futuristic binary watch strapped at the wrist, slid open a desk drawer containing a red legal folder and a bottle of scotch.
He grabbed the bottle, filled his glass, took a sip, then, had a thoughtful moment before retrieving the folder. The man tapped it with his fingers and hesitantly considered whether to open it. An act that lasted but only a moment. He flipped the cover, and proceeded to gaze inside at the surveillance photo of a mysterious woman, wearing rouge lipstick and dark shades. In permanent marker, he jotted the name “Lady Rouge,” beside her.
Next, the man took off his hi-tech eyewear and landed them onto the desk next to a stray business card, revealing him to be Mr. Fox, a private investigator. His heartbeat increased, and his mind raced a marathon while continuing to stare at the photo of Lady Rouge.
Ten years on the job and I never thought it would be me. ...But I've fallen... ...fallen for a mark.
Fox hovered the magnifying glass over her face, doubling it in size.
I'm not even a figment of her imagination. And yet, I can't get her out of mine. …It's her fucking mystique. …It haunts me.
The tip of his index finger enlarged when he placed it underneath the magnifying glass and caressed Lady Rouge's face. “Take a picture. It'll last longer,” a woman's sultry voice spoke out from the shadows.
Fox, nearly startled out of his skin, scoured for the hidden intruder. But just then, in the darkest corner, a metallic lighter flicked and flamed a cigarette while revealing the luscious rouge lips of his fantasy fuck. Her eyes remained hidden as she capped the lighter and returned to darkness. Fox scrambled to place on his glasses.
He quickly tapped a button on his frames to cast a spotlight on the classy, sexy, mature, raven-haired woman in the corner, who wore her edgy undercut in a slicked-back style and sat with her toned thighs crossed in a red skirt suit, and barefoot.
A glass of scotch rested in the hand that was covered by a black velvet glove, and a shimmering diamnd ring over the middle finger. Fox was captivated, and nervous. The way her intense eyes defined by mascara, pierced in his direction, was unreal. Thus, he attempted to mask his truth with a legal threat. “Breaking and entering. A hundred twenty days, max.”
“Useful trivia,” Lady Rouge sarcastically replied, as she proceeded to take a drag, exhale, and comfortably inquire, “Why're you following me?”
The question stumped Fox just before responding, “It's my job.”
Lady Rouge skeptically offered a, “Hmm,” as she flicked cigarette ash down to the floor and said, “Is it? Or... was it?”
Once again, Fox's mask briefly slipped when he broke eye contact. Lady Rouge smirked, took a drag, and eye-scanned what she perceived to be the latter in their game of cat-and-mouse.
Fox pathetically tried to play it stern, but wasn't fooling anyone. His actions spoke when he chugged the rest of his scotch and asked, “How'd you get in?”
"How is for amateurs,” she replied. “Isn't why far more interesting?”
Fox bit the bait, and continued in a charmingly-rude tone. “I'll rephrase. Why, the fuck are you here?”
Lady Rouge raised her glass with celebratory flare. “Because you're a man who packs an incredibly stiff drink. Yes?” She would bring the glass to her lips, cascade it down, and delicately place it onto a nearby stand that contained an ashtray she neglected to use.
The private eye followed the glass and zeroed in on the lipstick smear. And after noticing her noticing him, Fox went out of his way not to ogle at her well manicured hands once she removed the diamond ring from her left middle finger, and slid off the black velvet gloves to reveal rouge-painted nails
Instead, he retrieved a cigarette from the Art Deco case inside his blazer that remained draped over the back of his chair.
Lady Rouge observed the way Fox's hand trembled when applying flame to tobacco. And yet, she was fully aware that it wasn't due to any fear on his part, but rather, his massive anticipation of just how explosive things might get.
This is why Lady Rouge uncrossed her legs for a peek at her black panties that sparkled hints of gold glitter, as she casually continued her game. “When people get the feeling they're being watched, it places them in a state of discomfort. ...But me?” Lady Rouge paused for dramatic effect, and whispered, “It turns me on.”
CHAPTER TWO | THE WATCHER
A charming two-story home in a cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood was being watched by Fox as he sank into the driver seat of an unmarked sedan. His fedora elevated just a tad when he spotted Lady Rouge exiting the home in a disguise straight out of a film noir. Classic trench coat, scarf over the head, dark pair of shades, and two sexy red heels swinging in her dainty hand.
At this point, Fox was used to tailing and photographing her from afar. But on this particular day, for a split second, there was something different about her. The private eye raised his 35 mm film camera when she stopped for a moment to ponder.
In the brief interval, he snapped the perfect photo just before she could strut barefoot to her black convertible, which had an identity scanner on the automated door that slid open just as Lady Rouge approached the driver's side. She hopped in, the door automatically slid shut, and then she proceeded to pull down the visor mirror, which doubled as a touchscreen device. Lady Rouge selected an option on the mirror, activating a facial scan, which isolated her lips as an area for retouch.
Through his zoom lens, Fox watched the tender way she applied the lipstick while replaying in his mind the exact moment he snapped her photo. He desperately wanted to know what compelled her to stop, and what exactly was she thinking.
The thought crossed his mind. Was she mentally weighing the guilt of fucking around on her husband of eight years? Or, was she momentarily paralyzed by the inescapable thought of her lover tearing her body apart in the middle of the day, while her faithful fool of a husband punched a clock just to buy her new jewelry to get fucked in?
Fox broke free of his judgment, and felt somewhat bad for thinking of her in such a way. Though, on the other hand, he truly believed that everything about her was suspicious. And it really pissed him off that after two weeks, he had not one shred of evidence to show her suspecting husband.
Every bone in Fox's body believed that she was a cheater, and that every afternoon when he followed her, she enjoyed some sort of delight inside of the private establishments she visited. Never public. And what really bothered him, was the way that her hair looked every time she exited. It appeared to have been disturbed, but skillfully put back together in a way that no one probably noticed but him.
This is because, when Fox was in his twenties, he photographed national beauty conventions that celebrated leading brands in the industry and offered education to hair stylists. Thus, inadvertently learning a great deal about different hair types and how they behaved under various circumstances.
However, as a man of reason, Fox did consider that it wasn't completely unreasonable for a woman of means to conduct a 'complicated' life behind high societal walls, that restricted common, unevolved, trash such as himself.
Because yes, no matter how well groomed, or how expensive his retro designer suits were, as a private investigator, Fox understood that everyone viewed him as a bottom feeder. Especially, during his early years as a P.I. The cheaters and crooks had an audaciously dark way of making him feel as if he were somehow ruining their lives by bringing truth to light.
