Blake needs a date to his enemy's destination wedding. And not just anyone-a professional. The billionaire genius behind 215 Tech doesn't have time to nurture a real relationship. He hires Lucy to be his fake girlfriend, but things become real when...
Heat rises from the asphalt in blurry waves, forcing people to seek shelter indoors. The early evening sidewalks in South Philly are empty, apart from the less fortunate, who are using stained cardboard boxes and torn tarps to shield themselves from the relentless sun.
I exit the convenience store, handing a sweating bottle of water and a cellophane-wrapped turkey sandwich to the homeless man camped outside. He reaches a weathered hand out, accepting the small fortune with gratitude. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I take a seat on a pale blue bench, studying the building across the street.
"Sup, G," I answer after checking the caller ID.
"How'd it go?" Gordon asks, eager.
"It went," I say, pressing the phone between my cheek and shoulder so I can open a Snickers bar.
"More details. Is she hot?"
I roll my eyes. "By 'she,' I assume you mean the escort."
"I'm waiting."
I shove a bite of chocolate and caramel into my mouth, studying the corner window on the third floor of the building across the street. Lucy Nyx steps into view, brushing her hair aside as she fills a pot of water at the sink.
I've come into contact with a lot of beautiful women in my life—my family is full of them—and Lucy is definitely up there in terms of aesthetics. With long hair spanning a wide variant of colors from deep wine to burnt orange, and pale skin dotted with finite freckles, she's stunning. She's average height for a woman and small-boned. Her curves are subtle in most places, more prominent in others. Her disproportionate stature reminds me of a child's doll, pleasing but lacking functionality.
Most men probably take note of her ass first. I feel accomplished. Her ass was the third thing I perused, after her full, rosebud lips and emerald eyes. But I'm not going to tell my best friend the hooker I hired has hair that reminds me of the autumn leaves on the trees at my father's grave.
Instead, I mumble around a mouthful of candy, "She'll suffice."
"How complimentary," Gordon snorts. "Did you say that to her face?"
I toss my wrapper into a nearby trashcan, removing the handheld tablet from the pocket of a pair of sweatpants I changed into in my truck. I pull up a homemade application to access the rootkit I installed in Ms. Orlova's office. It was easy enough to hijack her computer while she went to fetch Lucy Nyx. With a few lines of code, my malware breaks through her firewalls.
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A mirror of Orlova's office computer appears on my own screen. Even if she's using it right now, she won't know I'm here. As I wait for my bot to decrypt her files, I continue my conversation with Gordon.
"I can't figure out why the escort lives two blocks away from Kensington," I ramble, a bead of sweat dripping down my temple. "With how much she charges, you'd think she could afford to live in a neighborhood that isn't riddled with hypodermic needles."
