“If Blake’s an easy target, what does that make you?” She pulls a wallet out from under her dress. Son of a bitch. She holds it up like a trophy, and the initials RV glint in gold under the spotlights. My own name, taunting me with how fucking complacent I’ve become. With a lazy smirk, she flips open my wallet and peers inside. She tugs out a hundred-dollar bill and slides it into her bra. “That’s for winning the bet.” She pulls out another hundred. “Plus VAT.” She cocks her head in thought, then pulls out another. “Plus tip.” I watch in dark amusement as she tosses my wallet onto the bench
...more
