Rachel Roxxx | Best

Rachel thought of the paperweight on her desk. Desire is a product. She had been wrong. She had never sold desire. She had sold a mirror. And now the mirror was staring back, hungry.

Rachel wasn't here for the ambiance. She was here because it was the designated rendezvous point, though 'designated' was a strong word for a scribbled note left under her apartment door two hours ago. In her line of work, notes under doors were usually bad news. But this one had a signature she hadn't seen in five years: D.K. rachel roxxx

Her finger hovered. The hum of the server felt like a heartbeat. Outside, the city was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone was inside, watching leaks that didn't exist, living stories that hadn't been written, feeling feelings they hadn't known they were allowed to have. Rachel thought of the paperweight on her desk

Kane was already sprinting toward the kitchen door. Rachel followed, vaulting over the bar counter as the first gunshot rang out, chipping the wood where her head had been a second earlier. The bartender ducked, cursing, while the stockbrokers screamed and dived for cover. She had never sold desire

"Deal," Rachel said. "Now, tell me about Locker 42."