She held my head like that for just a few seconds-- long enough for me to get one of my brilliant, deranged ideas. I grabbed my iPhone from beside her leg, raised it so my arm bent around her leg, pressed the camera app and snapped a picture of her. Her head was cocked back, her eyes were shut, her mouth formed a jagged O, her tits jangled on either corner--they were bouncy, future soccer mom tits-- and her very Irish dimples had a staring contest with me, as if to say, 'Are ye having as blarney of a time as Janis, bogle??' That was what the picture looked like.I let the phone fall on her sheets. I reached up and touched Janis' cheek with the hand I’d been fingering her with as if to say I was also a strong, sentimental lover. She let me hold the side of her face for a few seconds. Then she smacked my hand away and completely changed tempo.She screamed, "Fuck you, Dennis, fuck you!" I tried to look confused and said; "What??" Take your fucking phone away from me, fuck you, Oh My God,. He had to force himself not to see threats in the interplaying shadows swaying across the canvas. His hand found the hilt of the dagger under his pillow and took small comfort from it. This would not be an isolated incident. The attack had been blatant, with no real effort made at disguising it. Rael might have called it an incompetent attempt, only the measures used were not the tools and means of an amateur. No, Rael did not believe his assassin was incompetent, but instead was arrogant. Whoever he was, the man probably had not imagined his attack would fail. That it had would not stop him. And Rael was in a precarious position; he was surrounded by guards and soldiers and security, true, but he was also stuck to a fixed location, followed a predictable routine, and regularly found himself vulnerable and exposed during battles. The assassin would strike again, and this time he would be careful and sure of the kill. And he could do it at any time, at his leisure; where was Rael.
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