I’m not proud of what I do next. I’m not happy that I sit in the driveway a few doors down from Skye’s parking lot to watch in my rearview mirror as she climbs into her car to leave for work.

Ah, fuck it, I enjoy the watching her climb into the car part. I could watch that woman spread her legs 24/7.

But the part I fucking hate is creeping back to the entrance to her building, picking the lock and tiptoeing up the staircase to the door of her apartment. The whole time, I try to imagine that I’m with her. That she’s the one leading me up these stairs by the hand, her delicious ass swaying just inches from my face, daring me to lean up and sneak a bite before we reach her doorway.

I imagine, when I pick the lock to her door and it swings inward, that she was pushing it open eagerly and pulling me inside—where I don’t even wait for her to shut it before I grab her face in both hands and press my lips to hers, crushing her body against mine, her soft curves making my cock throb instantly.

I wish that instead of me studying the ceiling for cracks, for fan fixtures and easily hidden areas, I was lying her down on that long green sofa and fucking her until she screamed my name.

Instead, I drag her couch to the center of the room and balance on it to fix one of the three small cameras I’ve brought with me into one of the blades.

After I dropped Skye at her apartment this morning, I circled around the block to the nearest coffee shop and wasted an hour there downing black coffee. I hadn’t gotten any sleep last night—not that I’m complaining—but I needed a quick pick me up. After I finished, I swung by my place again to pick up the supplies I’d need. I’ll need this surveillance footage after I leave her the clues I plan to drop about her brother. Hopefully she’ll either bring him over here for a serious heart-to-heart, or she’ll call him from here and I can hear at least half the conversation.

Either way, I need more information about Ian Banner and I need it fast. Otherwise Rich will hang me out to dry.

When I move the couch back into place, my eyes wander across the paintings she’s hung on her walls. They’re simple. Photographs of places I recognize, like the beach after the last hurricane hit and a photo of the interior of one of the casinos, shot in black-and-white film while some costume event was happening. It’s shot in a way that makes the whole casino seem classy and beautiful, like a still-frame from a 1950s noir movie instead of a den of assholes like me and her brother.

My chest clenches even tighter.

I ignore the rest of the room, feeling like if I have to watch this place, the least I can do is give Skye’s personal possessions some privacy. I stalk toward kitchen. Planting the camera there is easy—it blends in with the exhaust fan above her stove, which is clearly out-of-order and probably hasn’t been turned on in a decade.

In her bedroom, I have another flash, this time seeing the two of us sprawled across her queen-size bed, sliding across the white cotton sheets that are visible because the comforter is crumpled on the floor. She’s got what looks like half her wardrobe piled on a chair in the corner or scattered across the bed, and somehow the mess makes me like her better, because real women let their hair down and their apartments go messy sometimes.

I can picture my head between her legs as she straddles that office chair. I can see her lying spread-eagle on the bed, hands and ankles bound at the corners, bared for me to savor. I can see her kneeling beside the bed, sucking me into that perfect mouth of hers while I grip the headboard with white knuckles.

I ignore the raging hard-on I’ve got and knock a few clothes off the chair, dragging it over to the top of the closer, where a small crack in the wall gives me just enough space to wedge in the final camera.

My stomach churns. I have never felt this way during a job before.

I’ve hated myself, yes. Thought the worst of the man I’ve become. Known I’m doomed to a shitty future because of all the fucked-up jobs I’ve pulled for Rich in the past. I’ve always known that if I’m ever caught doing one of these jobs, if I’m ever arrested or shot or worse, I’ll deserve every ounce of pain and punishment I get.

But I’ve never felt bad about the people I’ve had to target before. They’ve always been people like Ian Banner. Gamblers, addicts, losers, con artists. Men like Rich himself, or women like the hookers he hires to suck him off.

Never a woman like this. Never a person like Skye.

Fucking hell. I creep out of the apartment again, depositing the final piece to this elaborate puzzle into her mailbox as I leave, making sure to lock the door behind me as I go.

I keep worrying that she’ll find out what I’m doing. That she’ll learn how I’ve betrayed her, how I’ve been betraying her since before we even met. I worry about how I’ll never be able to make it work if she discovers this secret—if she learns the kind of work I’ve done for Rich in the past, the things I’m still doing for him now, and to her, of all people.

But maybe that’s the problem. I don’t deserve a happily ever after.

I just can’t help wanting one with her.