Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 05 - The Devil's Breath by Emily Kimelman Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Kimelman
who screwed me six ways from Sunday. Right as I was exacting my revenge on her, exposing the rat that she was, Robert sent stupid men with lots of guns after me and my friends, including fucking Mulberry. In the end, Robert disposed of Ana Maria more permanently than I planned. He also killed Joy Humbolt. Her body was found, her case closed, the manhunt ended, and I was free to be Sydney Rye. So, again, I didn’t try to kill him.
But here’s the fucked up thing. While I didn’t kill Bobby Maxim, I killed a shit ton of other people in my time as Sydney Rye. A shit ton of men, to be more specific. Guys who took advantage of their strength and cruelty to subjugate others. But more important than any moral ground I thought I stood on was the hole in the pit of my stomach, the unfulfilled promise that made me want to tear everything apart. Did Hugh have the same hole? No, I thought turning away from the restaurant and heading down the street. Hugh was innocent and I was going to prove it. But first, I needed some clothing.
#
L incoln Road ran east to west away from the beach toward the bay. It was like an outdoor mall with a wide plaza between the stores where restaurants had seating and street performers entertained for tips. Waiters and waitresses were setting the tables in the center. They hurried from inside the restaurants out into the sun, carrying cutlery wrapped in napkins, plates, and glasses. There were few pedestrians at this hour but the place buzzed with the anticipation of the lunch crowd.
Between the restaurants were clothing and accessories stores, their brightly lit windows filled with proposed outfits. Doors propped open letting the air conditioning float out. Looking at the displays I tried to imagine myself in a pair of straight leg jeans, a button-down shirt, and a fitted blazer but it seemed so wholly ridiculous. Blue and I wandered in and out of the shops, working our way lazily down the street, my mind mulling and turning.
A gold flash flickered at the corner of my eye and I turned to see a darkened store front. Except one of the mannequins was wearing a gold sequined dress that caught the sun in a brilliant display of twinkles. I walked over to it. The dress was strapless and short, not the kind of thing you could bend over in. Too short even for a knife on the inner thigh. But with that much leg you could probably keep a small pistol between…my eyes shifted focus and I saw a group of people standing in the store.
It was dark inside. I flicked my eyes to the closed sign on the front door, then back to the group. Three women, thin, drawn, frightened, dressed provocatively like the mannequins in the window. And two men, thick brows and flattened noses, short hair, eyes that told me to fuck off. Blue nuzzled my hip. I decided to try the door.
It was mirrored, reflecting the plaza behind me, the growing lunch crowd, a man setting up to play an accordion, the sun a bright globe of light almost at its apex. I tested the handle, pulling slightly, not locked. A small panel listed the store hours. They were supposed to be open.
I was sure the group inside could see me. So I yanked hard, jumping out of the way . The sun shot through in a blinding ray. I stepped into the beam, backlit. The men squinted at me, their pupils little pin pricks. The women shielded their eyes, holding up forearms against the light. There were finger bruises on the pale flesh of one girl. Ligature marks, fading but still visible, on the wrists of the other two. Blue’s and my shadow stopped five feet in front of the cluster.
“We’re closed,” the bigger of the two men yelled, his accent Slavic. He was a little closer to me, to the left of the girls who stood between the men. He wore a pair of jeans with an Eastern European cut and faux wear on the knees and thighs. The smaller guy was balding, his head shaved. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed off a defined chest and strong shoulders. Tattoos started at his
But here’s the fucked up thing. While I didn’t kill Bobby Maxim, I killed a shit ton of other people in my time as Sydney Rye. A shit ton of men, to be more specific. Guys who took advantage of their strength and cruelty to subjugate others. But more important than any moral ground I thought I stood on was the hole in the pit of my stomach, the unfulfilled promise that made me want to tear everything apart. Did Hugh have the same hole? No, I thought turning away from the restaurant and heading down the street. Hugh was innocent and I was going to prove it. But first, I needed some clothing.
#
L incoln Road ran east to west away from the beach toward the bay. It was like an outdoor mall with a wide plaza between the stores where restaurants had seating and street performers entertained for tips. Waiters and waitresses were setting the tables in the center. They hurried from inside the restaurants out into the sun, carrying cutlery wrapped in napkins, plates, and glasses. There were few pedestrians at this hour but the place buzzed with the anticipation of the lunch crowd.
Between the restaurants were clothing and accessories stores, their brightly lit windows filled with proposed outfits. Doors propped open letting the air conditioning float out. Looking at the displays I tried to imagine myself in a pair of straight leg jeans, a button-down shirt, and a fitted blazer but it seemed so wholly ridiculous. Blue and I wandered in and out of the shops, working our way lazily down the street, my mind mulling and turning.
A gold flash flickered at the corner of my eye and I turned to see a darkened store front. Except one of the mannequins was wearing a gold sequined dress that caught the sun in a brilliant display of twinkles. I walked over to it. The dress was strapless and short, not the kind of thing you could bend over in. Too short even for a knife on the inner thigh. But with that much leg you could probably keep a small pistol between…my eyes shifted focus and I saw a group of people standing in the store.
It was dark inside. I flicked my eyes to the closed sign on the front door, then back to the group. Three women, thin, drawn, frightened, dressed provocatively like the mannequins in the window. And two men, thick brows and flattened noses, short hair, eyes that told me to fuck off. Blue nuzzled my hip. I decided to try the door.
It was mirrored, reflecting the plaza behind me, the growing lunch crowd, a man setting up to play an accordion, the sun a bright globe of light almost at its apex. I tested the handle, pulling slightly, not locked. A small panel listed the store hours. They were supposed to be open.
I was sure the group inside could see me. So I yanked hard, jumping out of the way . The sun shot through in a blinding ray. I stepped into the beam, backlit. The men squinted at me, their pupils little pin pricks. The women shielded their eyes, holding up forearms against the light. There were finger bruises on the pale flesh of one girl. Ligature marks, fading but still visible, on the wrists of the other two. Blue’s and my shadow stopped five feet in front of the cluster.
“We’re closed,” the bigger of the two men yelled, his accent Slavic. He was a little closer to me, to the left of the girls who stood between the men. He wore a pair of jeans with an Eastern European cut and faux wear on the knees and thighs. The smaller guy was balding, his head shaved. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed off a defined chest and strong shoulders. Tattoos started at his
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