Chris Diamond - Miss Lexa

The rain over Los Angeles wasn’t the cleansing kind. It was the sticky, neon-refracting kind that made the city look like a broken slot machine. Chris Diamond knew this because he’d been staring at it for three hours from the penthouse window of a man he’d just robbed.

“Because, Chris,” she said, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume—oud and gasoline, like a billionaire’s funeral, “I don’t need a thief anymore. I need a bodyguard. One who thinks on his feet. One who noticed the frame was wrong.” chris diamond miss lexa

Chris froze. His eyes darted to the painting. The Monet was lovely—hazy water lilies, soft light. But he’d noticed it the moment he lifted it off the wall. The frame was slightly thicker on the bottom edge. Just a millimeter. But a man who steals art for a living notices millimeters. The rain over Los Angeles wasn’t the cleansing kind

The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside, and just before they closed, she added, “Oh, and Chris? The tracker in your shoe? I was lying about that. The real tracker is in your watch. Vane’s men already know where you are.” “Because, Chris,” she said, stepping close enough that