Vengeance by Shana Figueroa

it bare save for bottles of ketchup and mustard and other assorted condiments that would keep well into the next decade. She shut it and grumbled, shivering and hungry for a moment, then noticed the outline of the guest house through the window, behind a crop of trees. Val took a deep breath, steeling herself for the biting chill of the morning air, then opened the side door and ran across the cobblestone path to Max’s house.
    Strains of rock music reached her about halfway down the path, and she was grateful she wouldn’t have to wake him up as she pounded on his cherrywood door. A few seconds later the door opened, and Max’s eyes widened when he saw her outfit. She couldn’t help gawking at him, too, shirtless in a pair of drawstring shorts and light boxing gloves, rippled muscles glistening with sweat. Her hands itched with the urge to touch him, and by the look on his face, he was thinking the same thing about her. Then she remembered how the last two times she jumped into bed with someone on a whim had ended in disaster, and she kicked the attraction away as she shoved past him.
    “I need to talk to Barrister today,” she said, rubbing the cold out of her arms. Stepping inside the doorway, she froze for a moment as Max’s essence overwhelmed her. The scent of his workout infused the studio-style house, musk and male with overtones of sweat. She took in the worn punching bag still swinging from a chain in the corner, as well as his bed shoved against the wall, a tiny kitchen, and a bathtub shower all in the same space. It had the same aesthetic feel and open floor plan as the main house, except someone obviously lived here. Clothes lay piled in a corner, one of his expensive suits crumpled on top. Another suit was sheathed in plastic and draped across a love seat. A couple dirty dishes sat in the sink. Shelving with a hundred or more books took up the spot where a television would have been, next to more books stacked on the ground and a whiteboard with equations scrawled across its face.
    Val felt as if she’d walked into a physical version of his mind, intimate and fascinating. Though she felt a little guilty for invading his personal space, she immediately liked it, and knew that was bad if she hoped to keep her distance.
    “Funny,” he said as he closed the door behind her, “you don’t strike me as the suicidal type, but I’ve been wrong about people before.” He pushed a button on his phone mounted atop a couple small speakers and the music turned off.
    In his kitchen, she slathered peanut butter on a slice of bread she found paired together on his countertop. “We know he’s somehow connected to Robby’s and your father’s deaths.” She ate between sentences. “He’s our only viable lead right now. If we move fast, he won’t be expecting us. We can catch him off guard, rattle his cage.”
    “ If he’s involved—which we don’t know for sure yet—then he’s capable of murder, or at least fine with having other people do it for him. We don’t know what he’ll do if you confront him. It’s not a good idea.”
    “Fine. You stay here. I’ll go and let you know what happens.”
    He sighed and ripped the Velcro straps off his gloves, pulled them off. “When?”
    “Now.”
    “May I suggest you put some real clothes on first?” He cocked his head to a stack of neatly folded women’s garments on his bed.
    Val finished her peanut butter bread, walked to the edge of the bed, and picked through the clothes. She was surprised to see them all in her correct size, including a pair of soft leather boots. “I’m impressed your girlfriend was able to guess my size after seeing me for only a few minutes.”
    “Who, Kitty?” He slipped off his shorts, and then his underwear, so he stood completely naked as he pulled his shower curtain back and turned on the water.
    Val gasped and tried to avert her eyes away from his toned muscles and full endowment; she failed. A collection of deltoids,