Half the time I can’t understand what the hell he’s saying. The other half, I don’t want to know what he’s saying. “What time are you going?”

“Sundown.”

“Where exactly?” “The cuts”—what he refers to as the rougher part of the Mission District, is a six-block stretch of city, going from Ninth to Fifteenth.

“The ol’ depot. You down?”

“Yeah. I’m just going to grab a few hours of sleep, but I’ll be there. Wait for me.”

“Fo sho. Gonna be epic!”

“See you later.” I hang up before he can say anything else. I’m too tired to deal with him right now. Plugging my phone into the charger by my nightstand, I briefly consider just passing out, but I run hot when I sleep, and I always regret it when I wake up sweaty and uncomfortable. Forcing my tired body to a sitting position, I grasp the hem of my shirt and peel it over my head and toss it toward the hamper. I miss. Oh well. Something new to add to the pile.

I wriggle out of my bra and panties, kicking them to the floor. I’m most comfortable sleeping naked. I don’t even bother brushing my teeth or washing my face, or pulling the curtains closed so it’s not so bright in here. I simply climb back into my bed, pull the sheet up and over my head, and close my eyes.

Expecting sleep to find me.

Waiting for it.

Wondering why, if my body wants to shut down, can’t my mind just let me rest?

It’s the same thing, night after night. It takes forever for me to push the guilt and anger and hurt aside long enough to give my mind and heart some peace so I can drift off.

And here, I thought tonight would be different.

I kick off my sheet with frustration and roll out of bed, going straight for my sketchbook and charcoal pencil. Even with blurry eyes, it’s been my therapy for these times, distracting my inner thoughts, lulling my distress.

Flipping to the back, I stare at the profile sketch of the cash register man. The one that the sketch artist did was all wrong. I kept telling him it was all wrong, and he kept asking me to tell him what to change. Problem was, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Me, whose skill with recalling and drawing faces is probably better than any police sketch artist.

I’ve tried sketching his face myself the last couple of nights, to see if that makes a difference. So far, it hasn’t. I can’t figure out why it’s wrong. I just know it is. Trying again tonight is only going to frustrate me.

I flip to a fresh page.

I met three people today. A confused delivery guy with the wrong address; Bobby, the enormous teddy bear biker who swindled a tattoo out of me; and the mystery guy, whom I likely won’t ever see again.

His is the face I want to see on my page tonight, even if it ends up being an indistinct version of it. Settling back on my bed on my stomach, the cool air from the open window skating across my bare skin, I begin with long, even strokes of my pencil to capture that hard jaw, using the side to shade in the chiseled contours. Even with the dark beard, I could see them. Next I focus on his eyes. The charcoal makes them more menacing. I like that about this medium. It intensifies emotion.

My pencil flies as I unload my memory of his face, which is more sharp and detailed than I had expected. When I’m finished, I find myself staring at a portrait of an extremely handsome man—the first one I’ve met in San Francisco—whom I turned away today. A man who exuded strength and confidence and something I can’t put my finger on. A man who stepped in and helped me without my asking for it, but when I needed it. When I hated that I needed it.

Clearly I was not thinking straight today. I could have locked the door and sent him to the back room, and spent hours with him, my hands on his flesh—which I can already tell is hard and sculpted—and my mind on something other than my grief and stress.

I wonder if he’d be interested in a girl who looks like me. With my luck, he’s more into a girl like Amber. Everyone wants an Amber. Even I’ve considered an Amber once or twice, when I was drunk and horny and wondering if maybe I’ve been confused about liking penis all along, and perhaps that’s why I’ve felt no drive to seek out a real relationship.

But I’m not confused at all. I like men, and I definitely would have made myself available for this one had my world not been turned upside down only a week ago.

It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, since I’ve felt that release.

Getting one last long, good look at the face in front of me, I toss the book to the floor beside me.

And reach into my nightstand drawer, hoping the brief distraction will help my mind settle into sleep.

EIGHT

SEBASTIAN

Patience and control are necessary assets in my line of work.

Thank Christ I have both, especially now, as I hold my breath and all movement, afraid to make a sound that will announce my presence.

My assignment was nearly blown tonight. Pure adrenaline coursed through my veins as I watched the girl approach through the slats in the door of this cramped, cluttered closet, waiting for the moment that she caught the glint of my eyes on her. Her hand reached for the handle, and I instinctively ran a series of countermeasures that involved rope and gags and scare tactics through my mind. Things that Bentley wouldn’t want me doing just yet.

Things that, frankly, I have no interest in doing to her at all.

But her phone rang and she abandoned her task, and I was saved. Only for a short time, though, because then she stripped down to skin while I spied like a pervert, my gaze glued to her form beneath that sheet, then to her form lying above the sheet¸ as she worked on something in her sketchbook, the last of the day’s sunlight streaming in through the window to give me the most uninhibited view.

And now . . .

I hadn’t expected such soft, round curves on her tiny frame, but they are there, in the form of a small but tight ass that I got a good glimpse of when she leaned over for her sketchbook, and tits that stand up so well, they could be fake, but I can tell they’re not. She hid her assets well beneath that loose-fitting shirt today.

I’m doing my best to control my breathing, even as hers quickens into soft pants, and her hand begins moving more furtively, and her legs fall apart until each knee is resting against the mattress. My fingers tingle with anticipation, because I had that bubble-gum-pink wand in my hand earlier, and now she has it against herself—in herself—and it’s like my hand is right there with it. Almost.

Is she thinking about me right now? I heard everything she said; I’m guessing I’m the “hot guy” she turned away today, whom she would have made strip. That makes me smile, because there was nothing about our encounter that would suggest she’d ever give me the time of day. It sounds, though, like she doesn’t give many guys the time of day. Or at least not a lot of time. I’ll have to be careful about how I approach her. I don’t want her getting bored with me before I’ve gotten what I need.

This, I can say for sure, has never happened to me. I’m letting my mind wander as I wait, her body tempting a weaker side that I have learned to suppress until now. That has frankly never threatened to sway me during an assignment, where I hunt threats and criminals, vile human beings that the world is better off without.

I do not hunt young, attractive—albeit sharp-tongued—women who pleasure themselves in bed in front of me, who cause me to entertain thoughts of slipping out of this closet and not leaving this house. Of walking over to her bed. Of her opening her eyes and reaching for me. Of my stripping and climbing onto her, tossing that wand to the side and finishing her off with my hands, or my mouth.