Free Fear Nothing by Lisa Gardner

beneath that tight-fitting skirt . . .
    I followed him to his room, never having to give away that I didn’t have one of my own, because in this day and age rooms required photo ID and these were not the kinds of evenings I wanted connected back to me.
    Once inside, it was all pretty straightforward. Nothing special, nothing kinky. I always marveled at this. All these men, straying beyond the bonds of marriage to engage in the same old sex acts. A set repertoire on their part? Or maybe they didn’t require variety as much as they thought. Even with a new partner, they instinctively sought out the routine they were most comfortable with.
    My one request: Leave the lights on.
    He liked that. Most of them did. Men are visual, after all.
    I let him remove my tall leather boots. Unpeel my tight skirt to find the black lace thong. Then my fingers worked the clasp of his slacks, the buttons of his shirt. Clothes on the floor, two bodies on the bed, condom on the nightstand. I smelled his aftershave, probably applied right before he journeyed downstairs in search of conquest. I heard his guttural words of praise as his hands ran down my naked body.
    I sighed, let myself go. The pressure of his fingers gripping my hips. The roughness of his whiskers against my nipples. The first, penetrating feel of him thrusting into my body. The sensations I could feel. A physical act I could register.
    Then that suspended moment, his head arched back, teeth gritting, arms trembling . . .
    I opened my eyes. I always did. I had to know, if even for an instant, that this person’s ecstasy had something to do with me.
    I touched his cheek. I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair. And I permitted him to see, for this second when he was aware of nothing, just how much this fleeting moment of contact meant to someone like me.
    A woman who controlled all, having spent her entire life being told it would be physically dangerous to trust in what she could feel. A child, still trying to unravel the mystery of pain and still absolutely, positively terrified of sounds in the dark.
    Afterward, he collapsed. I reached over, snapped off the light.
    “I have an early morning flight,” I said, the only words that needed to be spoken.
    Reassured, he dozed off while I lay next to him, stroking the muscular outline of his upper arm, concentrating on the ripples of his shoulders and triceps, as if mapping the planes of his body with my fingertips.
    I counted off the minutes in my mind. After five had passed and his breathing dropped to a slower, heavier tone, dulled by whiskey, sated by sex, I made my move.
    First order of business, snapping on the bathroom light. I grabbed my purse, then moved into the lit space, closing the door behind me. Not thinking anymore. What I was going to do next defied rational thought or well-adjusted reasoning.
    What had I tried to explain to my new patient, Detective Warren, earlier in the day? Without balance, difference pieces of Self sought dominance. Meaning even the strongest Manager mind couldn’t run the ship 24/7. Sooner or later, the weak, hurting Exiles were bound to break out and wreak havoc for the Firefighters to handle next.
    By engaging in various acts of self-destruction. By creating drama for the sake of drama. By ensuring for at least a brief period of time, the rest of the world felt their pain.
    Slim black plastic kit out of my purse. Easing it open. Removing the square packages of lidocaine-soaked wipes. Tearing open the pack, removing the sheet. Holding it in my right hand, while picking up the slender, stainless steel scalpel in my left.
    Cracking open the bathroom door. Adjusting until the glowing strip of white light fell across my target’s sleeping form like a thin spotlight. Pausing, then, when he remained snoring lightly, padding naked to his side of the bed.
    First, the lidocaine wipe. With light, even strokes, applying the topical anesthetic down the length of the salesman’s left shoulder,