"Can you come over and help me?" -Blink

With trembling fingers, Amelia typed out the exact message Marcus dictated to her in the dark.

Amelia: Hi Samuel. I have some heavy boxes to move tomorrow morning. Can you come over and help me?

She hit send, placing the phone on the nightstand before curling against Marcus’s side. Believing her husband's promise that he would just "talk normally," she closed her eyes and let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.

"Samuel, huh? Let's hope you're exactly the guy Amelia thinks you are. If not..." Marcus also closed his eyes, anticipating tomorrow's meeting.

*** ***

Across the street, the atmosphere in Samuel’s dim, smoke-filled living room was anything but peaceful.

The rhythmic slap of playing cards hitting a cheap folding table was drowned out by the loud, cynical laughter of five men. The air reeked of stale beer, cheap cigars, and cheap cologne.

"I'm telling you, the whole game is going to shit," Frank grunted, his raspy voice grating as he tossed two stacks of a thousand each into the pot. At forty-nine, he looked like a deflated bulldog. "Nobody keeps cash in the mattress anymore. Fucking ring cameras on every porch. People are getting way too vigilant."

"Stop your bitching and call or fold, Wank-off," Henry, a heavy-set man with a face like a worn leather boot, slammed his cards down in disgust. "These fucking stupid ass cards! First some goddamn Karen calls me out at the supermarket for shoplifting and now this. Today was a total dumpster fire."

"Tell me about it, hemorrhoid." Leo, a fine-looking middle-aged man muttered from the corner, lighting a fresh cigar. "I tried to run the sweetheart scam on a lonely widow last week. Bitch asked to FaceTime me just to verify my identity before she sent the wire. People are getting too damn vigilant."

"Everyone's got a Ring camera, a security app, or a paranoid kid monitoring their bank accounts," Patrick agreed, taking a swig of his beer. "My captain's got us cracking down on local fraud, too. If you old farts don't find a fat wallet or a gullible rich housewife soon, I'm actually gonna have to do my job and arrest one of you fuckers just to meet my quota."

"Fuck your quota, and fuck the modern woman," Henry grunted, scratching his stubble. "I miss the old days. You'd smile at a bored housewife, compliment her tits, and she'd be writing you a blank check by Tuesday. Now they all think they're true-crime detectives."

"I guess that's true. But still..." Patrick said, adjusting his wife-beater and off-duty blue uniform pants as he showed his cards "you old fucks are losing your touch. You don't have the stamina to sweet-talk the good ones anymore. And there, full-house! Motherfuckers!"

"And you're the 'oh-so-saintly Pat-my-dick' that girls throw their panties at on first glance, huh?" Samuel sat at the head of the table, casually shuffling a fresh deck. "Don't forget all those cuts you zipped up just to keep our files clean, Muppet. Otherwise there ain't nothing your broke ass can afford with that meager salary for your hoes."

Just then, Samuel’s phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, glancing at the glowing screen.

Amelia: Hi Samuel. I have some heavy boxes to move tomorrow morning. Can you come over and help me?

Samuel’s eyebrows raised, a spark of pure lust flashing in his eyes before he quickly turned the screen over.

Patrick leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse. "Who the hell is texting you at midnight, Farter? You got a new mark on the hook?"

"Just a little personal project I'm working on," Samuel said smoothly, dealing the cards. "A secret for now. I'll let you boys know if it pays out. Alright, this is the last one for me, I've got to do some early morning preparation for tomorrow."

Fifteen minutes later, the crew finally cleared out, leaving Samuel alone in the quiet, smoky house. He pulled his phone back out, settling into his recliner with a fresh beer, ready to text the gorgeous, clueless blonde back.

He pulled up the message, a triumphant smile on his face. But as he stared at the glowing words, the smile slowly faded. His seasoned instincts began to prickle at the back of his neck.

He read the message again. And then a third time.

Something is wrong.

11:45 PM. Why the hell was a naive, obedient little housewife texting him in the middle of the night when she was terrified of her husband finding out?

Then, the content. Help me move some heavy boxes? Earlier that afternoon, she had explicitly texted that she wanted him to come over to "keep her company" because she was bored. And now this?

And most importantly, she hadn't given him Marcus's schedule like she had eagerly promised earlier that afternoon.

Samuel narrowed his eyes. He quickly typed out a response to test the waters.

Samuel: Sure thing, beautiful. I'd love to help out. Did you ask your husband for his daily schedule?

He hit send and stared at the screen. One minute passed. Then five. No "read" receipt. No typing bubbles.

Samuel sat up straight, his heart hammering against his ribs. She didn't even wait for a reply? If she was just asking for help, why wouldn't she text him at eight in the morning? Why fire off a sterile message at midnight and instantly go to sleep?

She didn't write it, Samuel realized, the blood draining from his face. The fucking husband did.

The massive, violently jealous cop husband of hers had found the messages, and now he was sitting across the street, using his clueless wife's phone as bait.

Samuel's survival instinct screamed at him to pack a bag, get in his car, and disappear for a few weeks until the cop cooled off. Messing with an angry alpha-male with a 'badge' was a **** sentence.

He stood up, ready to pack. But as he did, his hand brushed against his pocket, feeling the cold, hard metal of the medallion he had stolen from their counter.

His mind flashed to the kitchen counter earlier that day. He remembered the heavy, bouncing weight of Amelia's braless breasts under that sheer floral dress. He remembered the unbelievably soft skin of her bare thighs, and the wide, trusting, cluelessly eager look in her ocean-blue eyes when she leaned into his touch. She was a once-in-a-lifetime prize.

A heavy, demanding throb pulsed in his groin. She was the most beautiful, innocent piece of meat he had ever seen in his life. And probably the best one he'd ever see while his dick was still working.

Fuck it, Samuel thought, a dark, wicked grin spreading across his face. The cop probably thinks I'm some random Joe trying to get into his wife's panties. He has no idea what I've been doing in the last 35 years of my life...

He looked back down at his phone and typed his final response, deciding to step right into the jaws of the trap. Let's give Amelia a surprise tomorrow. And Marcus too.

Samuel: I'll be there at 10 AM. Sweet dreams.

After that, he didn't immediately put the phone back in his pocket. Instead he called a friend "Hey Patrick... I know you just pulled out of my driveway, but I need a massive favor... yeah it's related to my new project. So, did you have a new transfer named Marcus at your station?..."

"Right, Marcus Valente, perfect. Your shift starts at morning 6 right? I'm sending you a list, please look some things up for me. Yeah yeah, beers' on me. And send me the info before 9:30 by any means necessary..."