“Everybody makes mistakes,” Ashton said. “Maybe this time, he’ll believe he actually did.” But even as he said that, Zachariah could hear the doubt in his voice, and he couldn’t help but feel it himself.
Eight
The following night, as they entered the same bar they’d been at the previous night, Ashton felt like his feet were dragging and his head was as heavy as lead. He and Zachariah had spent most of the day huddled in their respective beds, hung over and exhausted; one of them would occasionally stagger up to order food from room service, but other than that and a few phone calls Ashton made to Angelique to make arrangements and give her better details on the scheduled meeting, both of them had been content to do absolutely nothing.
Never again would he drink that much whiskey. Especially not alone.
Thankfully, the music wasn’t cranked up as loudly as it had been the night before, and the lights weren’t quite as flashy. Ashton thought that, if the atmosphere had been the same as last night, he’d have probably puked on the floor.
“I still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” Zachariah muttered from his right as he led him to the same table they sat at the night before. “Remind me to never befriend a talented bartender again. When drinks are free, it’s too easy to lose track of how many I’ve had.”
“You definitely drank more than I did last night,” Ashton agreed. “So how long did you spend with the bartender?” He glanced toward the bar in question, searching for the bartender that Zachariah had spent so much time with, like he wanted to measure himself up against the other man and see where he stood. Ridiculous, he admonished himself. The bartender wasn’t there. Instead, there was a blond woman behind the bar this time, mixing drinks and serving up glasses with less finesse than the young man had been doing the night before. He tore his eyes away from the bar and dropped into one of the chairs at the table. “Please tell me you remembered the package.”
“I’ve got the package,” Zachariah grumbled. He patted his pocket where, Ashton assumed, the thumb drive was. They’d repackaged it in an envelope identical to the one Brandon had given to Zachariah. Hopefully, Chambers wouldn’t realize that they had snooped.
“How long do we have until he’s supposed to show up?” he asked. He’d forgotten his watch in the hotel room and had no desire to go back for it.
Zachariah pushed his sleeve back to look at his own watch and reported, “A little less than an hour. I predict he’ll be late.”
“Why do you say that?” Ashton asked, testing him.
“Show of power,” he explained. “He’ll want to demonstrate who exactly is in charge of this meeting. He’s going to force us onto his timeline rather than our own.”
Ashton nodded. “You’re learning,” he commented.
“Yeah, I figured that out back when I was a level one and Brandon started sending me out on package drops,” Zachariah said. He glanced toward the bar and asked, “You want something to drink?”
“Drink? What, we didn’t drink enough last night?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Call it hair of the dog,” Zachariah said. “I need something to take the edge off my hangover. Especially for this meeting.” He pushed away from the table and started in the direction of the bar, not bothering to wait on Ashton’s answer. Ashton watched him walk through the crowd—which was blessedly sparser than it had been the night before—and watched as a man stopped him and said something to him, a smile on his face that made it clear what was on his mind. He scowled at the sight, feeling the urge to get up and insert himself into the discussion, but Zachariah seemed to handle it just fine, simply laughing and waving off the man’s advances. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, cursing his own sudden surge of protectiveness and jealousy. Where the hell had that come from?
He shifted in his chair and kept his eyes on Zachariah as the man ordered and received two tumblers and two shot glasses. He carried all four of them back to their table without getting accosted by another random person again and set one of each in front of Ashton. “Hair of the dog,” he said again, motioning to the shot glass. The tumblers held what appeared to be rum and Coke.
“I thought the whole point was to get un-drunk,” Ashton said, even as he picked the shot glass up and tossed it back. It was whiskey, and it burned going down. He quickly chased it with a sip from the tumbler.
“And yet you drink it anyway,” Zachariah said with a laugh. He drank down his own shot of whiskey and reclined in his chair, his green eyes scanning the entirety of the bar, swinging across the crowd of bar-hoppers to the front door, then skimming back to Ashton. “So, do you have a plan in place yet?” he asked, his words intentionally vague.
“I’ve made some arrangements with a contact of mine,” he said, swirling his drink in its glass. “She’s taking care of things for me.”
“She reliable?”
“She’s never let me down yet,” Ashton said honestly. “And considering what she’s costing me, she better handle it.” There was a pause between them. He swirled the liquid in his glass again; a sip’s worth made it over the rim to wet his hand, seeping into the cuff of his pinstriped white button-up. He scowled but made no moves to clean it off. Instead, he stared at the spreading stain and said, just loud enough to be heard over the somewhat mellow rock song playing over the bar’s sound system, “I’m sorry.” He paused then added, as an attempt to elaborate, “About last night.”
Zachariah stared at him for a long moment, took a sip of his drink, then suddenly smiled. “Hey, I get it. Old habits die hard and shit. No big deal.” He gave Ashton a one-shouldered shrug, much like the one he’d given him the night before, when Ashton had pinned him against the wall in his drunken anger over his hours-long disappearance. The memory was enough to make his entire body tense up with an unidentifiable instinct. Restraint, maybe? What the hell was he restraining himself from doing? Going over the table at the other man?
That thought only prompted the memory of Ashton’s chosen diversionary tactic last night—one that had been so successfully accomplished that it had almost diverted him from what he was supposed to be doing—and a shiver of something roiled down his spine. He shoved it aside and took another sip of his drink. He set the glass down with careful deliberateness and picked up one of the small napkins stacked in the center of the table, dabbing gently at the alcohol soaked into his shirt cuff.
“Don’t look now, but I think Chambers just walked in,” Zachariah suddenly said, his voice low and his tone casual. He raised his glass and took a sip of his drink then cut his eyes toward Ashton. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said. “This is your show, so you’re taking the lead. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Zachariah nodded and slouched in his chair, looking on almost carelessly as three men approached their table. Ashton picked up his tumbler and took a sip of his drink then discreetly slid his hand over his hip, checking for the twelfth time since leaving his hotel room that his pistol was still there. He might have forgotten his watch, but he never went anywhere unarmed.
Nathan Chambers was an older man that Ashton put somewhere in his early to mid-fifties, somewhat short but broad shouldered and obviously muscular, a physical cut that was highlighted by his expensive suit’s tailoring. His medium brown hair was peppered with gray, which surprised Ashton; the man was so well put together and so obviously concerned with his presentation that Ashton would have thought that he’d have dyed his hair. A smartphone rested in a holster on his hip. His tie looked like it cost more than the phone.
Chambers gave Ashton a quick once-over before focusing his attention solely on Zachariah. His steel-colored eyes looked Zachariah over with naked curiosity, and his gaze was too penetrating for Ashton’s tastes. It was like the man could read right through Zachariah’s casualness to the real emotions underneath, and Ashton fought to not squirm in his own seat. Something about the man’s eyes was downright unsettling, almost frightening, but he couldn’
t put his finger on what it was about them that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His instincts were screaming at him to get away from this man at the soonest available opportunity.
Chambers took the seat across from them, and the two men who were with him spread out to stand guard behind him. Chambers spoke first. “You must be the man sent to deliver my package,” he said, his voice calculating and his words obviously chosen with great care.
“That’s me,” Zachariah said with false cheerfulness. “You have the money?”
“Of course.” Chambers lifted a hand, holding it at shoulder height. One of the bodyguards stepped forward, deposited a thick envelope into his hand, and stepped back without uttering a sound. Chambers held the envelope in his hand for a moment then set it on the table. “How about I buy you another drink,” he said, but the way he said it indicated it wasn’t a question. “What are you having?”
Zachariah looked fairly derailed by the man’s question, and he gave Ashton a slightly panicked expression that Ashton had no doubt Chambers picked up on. Clearly, Zachariah had thought this was going to be a quick, covert swap of envelopes, but Ashton could have warned him otherwise. Men like Chambers liked to talk, if only to try to ferret out any information they thought they could use for later.
“Bourbon,” Ashton said, taking control of the situation. He pointed to Zachariah’s glass. “Rum and Coke.” One of the bodyguards stepped away to retrieve the drinks without being told to, and Chambers settled back in his chair, studying Ashton more closely than before. Ashton stared back at him, doing his best to remain unperturbed by the man’s almost animalistic gaze.
“How long have you two worked for Damon Hartley?” Chambers asked as the bodyguard came back with three drinks. He served them out to their respective owners, but Ashton ignored it in favor of focusing his attention on Chambers instead.
“We don’t answer questions,” he said. “We’re not allowed to, so don’t bother asking us any.” He motioned to Zachariah, indicating his pocket, and he caught the hint and took the envelope with the thumb drive out. “Let’s just make the trade. We have other business to attend to, and you’re holding us up.”
“You young ones are never any fun,” Chambers said, almost in a wistful tone, and he slid the envelope across the table to Zachariah. Zachariah took it and passed it to Ashton without looking in it; Ashton thumbed it open and skimmed the stack of bills inside. He gave Zachariah a short nod, and the other man handed his envelope over to Chambers. Ashton could barely suppress the chill that ran up his spine as Chambers squeezed the envelope and a smile spread across his face as he felt the thumb drive inside. His teeth were too sharp looking, and it gave him an almost wolfish appearance that was solidly in the realm of unnerving. Coupled with the thought of what was on the drive, it was enough to give Ashton pause, but considering he wasn’t supposed to know anything about it, he managed to keep a straight face as he tucked the envelope of cash into his pocket.
Chambers tossed back his drink and slid his newly acquired envelope into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “It was a pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” he said, standing. “Unfortunate that we could not get to know each other better.”
Ashton gave him a barely perceptible nod, and Chambers stepped back from the table. His bodyguards flanked him once more, then he moved toward the exit. Ashton waited impatiently until he was out of sight then tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed Angelique.
“He’s gone,” he said into the phone the moment she picked up. “He just left the bar.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Angelique said, then the line disconnected.
Ashton tucked his cell phone back into his pocket and turned to Zachariah. The other man looked back at him, eyebrows raised in silent question, and he said, “She’s working on it. Hopefully, the problem will be taken care of before the night is through.”
The expression of relief on Zachariah’s face was palpable. “Oh, thank God,” he said with a shake of his head. “Is it just me, or was that man creepy as fuck? I can see how he’s managed to be so successful so far. He just scares the hell out of anybody he’s dealing with.”
“That he does,” Ashton agreed. He pushed the drink Chambers’ bodyguard had brought away and stood. “What do you say we get the hell out of here? I don’t feel comfortable sitting around with all this money on me.”
Zachariah finished off his original drink, also leaving the drink Chambers had bought him untouched. “You know if somebody tried to take it off of you, you could just break them in half, right?” he said with a slight smile.
“That would draw way too much attention to us, you realize.”
Ashton weaved through the evening crowd of partiers, leading the other man to the front doors. The sun had set while they had been inside, and the early night air was mostly cool, though it still clung to a hint of the warmth from earlier in the day. He paused on the sidewalk just beyond the doors, looking in either direction, searching for Chambers. When he didn’t see him anywhere, he nodded and motioned to Zachariah. They hurried across the street and into the lobby of their hotel, but Zachariah slowed as they started for the elevators, looking toward the hotel’s bar. Ashton realized he wasn’t with him and glanced back, following his gaze.
“Oh God, please tell me you’re not seriously considering more alcohol,” Ashton groaned.
“Hey, I just successfully completed an assignment—two assignments, if you want to get technical about it—and I’m getting my promotion,” Zachariah said. “I think that deserves at least a little bit of celebration, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I never celebrated any of my promotions.”
Zachariah looked at him with wide, astounded eyes. “Really?” he said, sounding both amazed and horrified.
“Well, I had a drink after one of them, I think when I made it to level five, but that was just a coincidence at the time,” he said. “I was already drinking said drink when I found out about the promotion.”
“That doesn’t count,” Zachariah declared. He grabbed Ashton’s wrist and dragged him toward the bar. “Come on, let’s at least buy a bottle of bourbon or something and take it up to the room.”
Ashton sighed but allowed him to drag him along as he purchased his bourbon at an exorbitant, hotel-padded price before they headed upstairs. His half-finished bottle of whiskey was still on the bedside table, and he retrieved it and set it beside Zachariah’s bourbon. “My contribution to your celebration,” he said before sitting down on his still-unmade bed and stretching out. He tucked his arms underneath his head and stared at the ceiling as Zachariah banged around near the desk. A moment later, after the crack of a bottle’s cap met his ears, Zachariah brought him one of the room’s water glasses with three fingers of bourbon in it.
“So, amnesia, huh?” Zachariah said, sitting on the edge of Ashton’s bed, a glass in his own hand. Ashton took the one he offered him and sat up just enough to sip from it before letting his head fall back against the bed.
“Yeah, amnesia,” he said noncommittally.
“So humor me here,” Zachariah said. He paused to take a drink from his glass. “I’ve always wondered about people with amnesia. Like, the philosophical level of the problem. If something happened, and you don’t remember that it happened, does that mean it didn’t actually happen? Sort of a tree-falls-in-the-forest kind of thing, you know?”
Ashton sighed. “What are you getting at, exactly?”
“Well, one of those philosophical questions,” Zachariah said. “If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? That kind of thing. So, by that logic, if you have amnesia, and you don’t remember ever having had sex, does that mean in all technicality you’re still a virgin?”
“Well, that’s not out of left field or anything,” Ashton muttered, finishing off what was in his glass. Zachariah immediately poured more alcohol into it.
“Come on,
I said humor me,” Zachariah said.
“I never said I actually would.”
“I’m just curious,” he grumbled into his glass.
“Of all the things to ask a person with amnesia, why are you asking that in particular?” he asked. “Is this your way of trying to find out if I’ve had sex in the past ten years?”
“Maybe,” Zachariah drawled out a singsong type of voice. Ashton rolled his eyes and drank down his drink. “Have you?”
“I honestly don’t know if it’s any of your business,” he retorted. Zachariah simply stared at him and poured another helping of bourbon into his glass. Finally, unable to take the man’s staring any longer and trying to be mature about the whole thing, he muttered, “No. I haven’t.”
Zachariah snorted out a laugh. “Seriously?” he said, sounding aghast and amused in equal measure.
“You must really want to get yourself punched in the face,” Ashton snarled.
“No, I just…wow.” He took a swallow of his drink and added, “Ten years. Wow. What a dry spell.”
“You trying to make me feel horrible about myself or something?” Ashton asked. “Because if you keep that tone up, it’s going to work.”
“Sorry. That’s not my intention,” Zachariah said, and he actually sounded genuinely contrite. He sighed and finished off his drink then stretched to set the bottle and glass on the bedside table before flopping flat beside him.
“So what is your intention then?” Ashton dared to ask.
“Well, I figure we can be adults about this,” Zachariah said, his tone the definition of reasonable. “I find you attractive, and I know you find me attractive.” He said this as if there was no way Ashton would protest the assertion, and he was right—he wouldn’t. “We’re both adults, so it would be consenting. That is, of course, if you wanted to.”
“You’re assuming I would want to,” Ashton said before bolting down the remains of his bourbon. He didn’t want to admit that Zachariah was right. Even so, with the thought of indulging in something like that came a serious case of nervous butterflies in his gut. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he hadn’t had sex in the past ten years—for all he knew, he’d never had sex. The idea of not having any idea of what he was doing, of being potentially out of control of something—for once in his life—was enough to make him feel a little sick. With that came the typical thoughts of someone who was uncertain of the action he was about to take: what if he was bad at it?
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