Page 3 of Tracked By the Fixer

Conceding that she’s right, I get out of her car, but not before turning my phone off. After all, I’m job hunting; I can’t be distracted checking for Mr. Tomlinson’s reply. I’ll worry about that later.

Chapter Two

Isaiah

The gun is still warm in my hands when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I glance between the body crumpled on the floor and my Glock. This mark isn’t going anywhere, not with a bullet lodged in his chest.

I reach for the device, furrowing my brow when I see the message is from an unknown number. Sometimes my clients will contact me from burner phones, so I open the message. It’s not what I’m expecting, though.

Instead of coordinates or code words, it’s a fiery attack against… someone. This message isn’t intended for me, that much is obvious. I don’t have a wife, nor a daughter. I also don’t employ anyone, so the threats of resigning if the inappropriate behavior continues don’t apply to me in the slightest.

My brain attempts to conjure up the person — very likely a woman — who sent this. I imagine a little firecracker of a girl, someone who knows what she wants and gets it. And, whoever she is, I’m sure she’s beautiful. She’d have to be if some sleaze-bag has a family and is still making advances on her.

I stare at the words for a few more seconds, a smirk on my face.

Unknown:I am sick of your inappropriate actions. You have a wife and a daughter! If you continue to make me feel uncomfortable, I’ll quit. And, if you try anything like what you tried today again, I won’t hesitate to kick your ass.

Without thinking too hard about it, I respond, “Prove it.” Then, I pocket my phone. I’ll have to investigate that when I get back to my loft. It won’t take much to trace the number to see who it’s registered to. For now, I have a body to dispose of and a check to collect.

I’m one of the best in the business, mostly because I do things so cleanly. The person never knows what hits them, which some clients resent, but I’m not here to torture anyone. I just do my job and the cleanup crew disposes of the evidence.

It’s impossible to avoid any bloodshed, though, so I clean myself off when I get back to my apartment. I take my phone, open the text message, and sit down in front of my computer. I’ve never traced a number for personal reasons, but it’ll work just the same as when I do it professionally. Actually, it might be easier, considering whoever sent me this text probably isn’t concerned about being found, like some of my marks.

Almost immediately, I get a return on my trace. The phone number that sent me that angry, threatening (and slightly amusing, if we’re being honest) message is registered to Lilly Sinclair. So, I was right. It was a woman who contacted me.

I could leave it there, but I’m even more compelled to investigate, now that my suspicions about her identity have been confirmed. So, I run a search on her name and find out some more information. She’s twenty-one and just had her birthday a few months ago. She’s local, staying in the same neighborhood she grew up in. And, from what I can tell, she works as a nanny.

Based on that text she sent, she won’t be a nanny for much longer.

Now I have to know what she looks like. Is she really the sparky girl I’ve conjured in my mind: red or black hair framing fiery dark eyes? Or maybe her beauty is something completely different from what I’ve been imagining.

I’ve never been one to use social media. My job requires me to keep a low profile, and even if it didn’t, I can’t imagine myself keeping a diary of my life online. Lilly doesn’t have those qualms, though. All of her social media is public, and she loves posting photos, inspirational quotes, and pilates workouts.

I scroll through a few group shots before I come to a photo of Lilly smiling at the camera. Her long, blonde hair is curled, curtain bangs framing her face. Long, full eyelashes showcase her ocean-blue eyes. She’s gorgeous, show-stopping, even in pictures that only show her face. I can see why a man would consider throwing his whole marriage away for her.

The longer I browse through her page, the tighter my pants become. I don’t realize how aroused I am until my cock is pressing against the front of my gray sweatpants begging for attention. When I reach down, palming myself through the material, I hiss in relief.

Maybe it’s weird to be rock hard from looking at photos of a girl I don’t know, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’d like to do a hell of a lot more than look at her. If I saw her in person, even without knowing she’s fiery and bold enough to send a threatening text message, I’d do everything I could to make her mine for the night.

So, that thought in mind, I shove my pants down, taking hold of my cock. I begin stroking myself slowly with one hand while I continue to browse her social media with the other. Each photo of her I come across makes me ache even more.

I keep the motion of my hand slow, imagining taking my time with her. I’m not one for relationships, choosing instead to pick up women at bars, fucking them hard and fast to get my frustration out before never speaking to them again. Looking at Lilly… I feel differently, like I could spend the rest of my life worshiping her body.

My hips jerk upward when I land on a photo of her stretched out on a yoga mat, doing some sort of Pilates pose that showcases her flexibility. She’s wearing pink leggings and a matching sports bra, and she looksdamn goodin the set. The leggings leave hardly anything to the imagination, and even in a sports bra, it’s obvious that she has nice tits, fuller than you’d expect on her small frame. My mouth waters as I envision pinning her to that mat and fucking her until she can’t walk.

I groan, flicking my thumb over the tip of my cock to collect the precum gathering there. I spread it over my length, letting it make each of my strokes smoother and faster. The entire time, I keep my eyes locked on the photo of Lilly.

In my mind, I hear her begging for more. I turn her over, putting her on her hands and knees. I hold onto her hips for leverage as I fuck her ruthlessly. I make her cum again and again because a pretty little thing like her deserves that kind of pleasure.

As my stomach tightens and my balls tug up into my body, I grit my teeth. A guttural noise escapes me as I get closer to my release. This girl… fuck, I would break every rule I’ve ever set for myself for her and I’ve never even met her.

“Shit, Lilly,” I curse, her name falling from my lips easily. It tastes like it belongs there. I say it two more times for good measure.

My cock twitches in my grasp, and I blow my load. It paints my hand, landing on my knuckles and the bottom of my shirt. As I stroke myself through it, I imagine I’m cumming deep inside her, claiming her as mine. The fucked up part, it feels right.

I give myself a few minutes to catch my breath, still sitting in front of my computer with that picture of her on the screen. Even though I only know the most basic of information about her, I know I could change her life. I could give her everything she ever wanted.

I wipe my hand on my already-soiled shirt before tearing it off and tossing it aside. Then, I do a little more digging, finding her employer — the Tomlinson family. They’re fairly high-profile; Karlie Tomlinson is a fashion designer, and Brian Tomlinson is an investment banker. Their address isn’t difficult to find once I know who they are.

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