SAINT.
I stepped out, tightening the cuffs of my black silk shirt. One quick glance in the mirror on the passenger's sun visor and I barely recognized the bastard staring back at me.
The wax in my hair had hardened to a matte crust, pulling the strands flat against my scalp. The color – muddy dark brown, almost black – looked like it belonged on someone who filed taxes early and waved at neighbors.
Thin contact lenses dulled my eye color to a murky hazel. A thin scar, courtesy of some theatre-quality latex and a little makeup artistry, ran from the corner of my lip to just beneath my jaw—long enough to pull attention away from the bone structure and curve recognition.
I wasn't Saint anymore.
Tonight, I was Crivel Carson, just another filthy rich bastard in search of flesh and fantasy.
