Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  Maybe it’s my lucky night, because there's another guy down the bar who's eyeing me as I read. He's attractive in a very ordinary way. As I turn the pages of my book, I try to imagine flirting with him.

  But, nope. It doesn't take. The book turns out to be more appealing than flirting with a stranger. This one is about a football player who's in love with the coach's daughter. And when they have shower sex, I forget all about the guy down the bar. By the time the scene is over, I've finished my second cocktail, and I need a cold shower myself.

  And it's only eight-thirty.

  I close the book and take a deep, calming breath. I should get home. Maybe Ginny and I can watch a movie together after Aaron goes to sleep. I tip the bartender and slide off my bar stool.

  Just as I'm walking toward the door, I see someone emerge from the building across the street. I stop short when I realize it's Gunnar. And he's wearing a tuxedo.

  Holy hell. My hormones are already in a weakened state, and the sight of Gunnar in a bow tie and a well-tailored black tux makes me go a little weak in the knees. He stops on the sidewalk, checking his smart watch. It’s a big, fancy gadget that he often glances at during the workday.

  His bow tie is slightly askew. The look is very devil-may-care. Very Brad-Pitt-on-the-way-to-the-Oscars. He looks fabulous, but I still have the urge to go over there and straighten his tie, just so I can touch him.

  I wouldn’t stop there, though. I’d probably untie it instead. And then the buttons of his shirt would beckon, and I’d undress him just so I could see that tattoo again. Those vines that I would like to trace with my tongue. And—

  Wait.

  Hold on.

  That key on his chest. I’ve seen it before.

  I’m still standing inside the bar, staring out the door like a weirdo. But I dig the bill out of my purse anyway. And there it is, right on the invoice. The same key, facing the same way.

  It could be a coincidence. Old keys are very pretty. But that doesn’t stop me from opening the door and stepping out onto Spring Street anyway, determined to ask Gunnar to tell me more about the security company that fixed my window.

  But Gunnar is already walking away. I trail after him with my eyes until his sun-tipped hair turns the corner onto Thompson Street.

  Later, I won’t be able to explain why I did what I did. For no good reason, my feet turn east in hot pursuit. It’s a nice night, and there are a lot of people on the sidewalk, ambling around SoHo. I dodge them from time to time, hanging back, watching Gunnar walk farther downtown. He crosses Broome and then Grand, then slows as he approaches the Soho Luxe hotel.

  As I watch, he gazes up at the building. Is that where he’s headed? There’s a lovely bar on the roof, although Gunnar is a bit overdressed. He looks more like a maître d’ than a party-hopping hipster.

  He turns sharply before he reaches the main entrance, though. He’s ducked into the alley, where the loading dock is. That’s a strange way to approach one of the hippest downtown spots. Why doesn’t he just go into the front door like anyone else?

  A man comes out of the shadows to hand him something. This guy is blonder than Gunnar, and he’s pinning something to Gunnar’s suit. A name tag, I think. Then he hands him a clipboard, too.

  Now hold on. That blond guy is familiar, too. I remember making a latte for him. I’ve made coffee and pie for half of lower Manhattan at this point. But this latte was just two weeks ago, on the morning Gunnar’s friends fixed my plate glass window. The guy—Duff—was one of the work crew.

  What the hell is happening here?

  Gunnar lifts his head and glances around, and I have to dive behind a kiosk to avoid him seeing me.

  But what the fuck? A favor for a friend, is how Gunnar described his evening plans. But who are these friends? And why is Gunnar dressed in a penguin suit?

  He nods at Duff, checks his big watch one more time, then enters the hotel through the side door.

  Since Duff is still standing there, I can’t follow. So I head in the opposite direction, right through the front door. And as I take in the busy lobby, I spot Gunnar again. He’s waiting for an elevator.

  I hop behind a potted boxwood that’s been clipped into the shape of a lollipop, and I watch Gunnar’s tuxedo pants and his shiny shoes until they disappear into the elevator car.

  After a count of five I scurry over there and watch the numbers light up as the elevator car ascends. I assume he’s headed to the bar on the roof, but the elevator stops on the sixteenth floor. After a lingering pause there, it returns to the lobby. Empty.

  Naturally I hop in and press the button for sixteen. Because that’s what a needy, suspicious, half-insane pie baker does.

  The doors slide closed, and the car begins to travel upward. Gunnar has some explaining to do.

  18

  Gunnar

  It’s quiet on the sixteenth floor, where all the best suites are located. I’m loitering in an alcove near the service elevator, trying to impersonate a bored husband waiting for his wife to emerge for their night out.

  A few yards away, Scout pushes a housekeeping cart toward the largest suite in the hotel. We don’t make eye contact.

  I’m here to guard Scout from two threats: the first is the hotel security staff. Scout is impersonating a housekeeper and breaking into a suite. Hopefully whomever is manning the security cameras right now is too lazy to squint at the video feed and ID her as a stranger.

  The second threat is the ruthless international criminal Xian Smith. Not only do we know he’s involved in a ring of industrial espionage, we also suspect he ordered a hit on a Thai manufacturer of motherboards this past fall. He’s a dangerous man who has killed to get what he wants.

  Tonight, though, Xian Smith is attending the Met Gala. Max watched him get into a limo just before Duff, Scout, and I converged on the hotel.

  “Scout’s in,” Max murmurs into my earpiece. He’s watching Scout’s body cam from a van parked across the street. He can also see the elevators and the hallway, thanks to the stick-on cameras that Scout and I deployed on our way up here.

  There’s nothing to do right now but wait. So I do my best impression of a bored guy. I take out my phone and pretend to flip through my messages.

  Inside the hotel suite, Scout can’t just grab the camera that Max planted there and run. Smith probably has his own spyware set up in that room. So Scout has to spend a moment or two changing the towels and plumping the pillows. When Xian Smith realizes his room has been entered, we want him to think it was a routine evening turndown service.

  “Fuck,” Max breathes into my ear. “What is Posy Paxton doing here?”

  “What?” I whisper into my watch. “Where?”

  “Sixteenth floor. She just emerged from the elevator and turned down the hall. Away from you.”

  “Fuck,” I curse.

  “She followed you here?” Max guesses.

  “No idea.” Why would she, though? “Should I go get her?”

  “Stay put,” Max says. “If she makes it all the way down to you, then you can grab her.”

  That sounds simple enough, but I’m no longer as relaxed as I was a few minutes ago. If Posy makes a scene, and hotel security comes running …

  “Jesus Christ,” Max breathes. “He’s back. Xian Smith is in the elevator. Don’t move.”

  Now I know what it means when people say I went cold inside. Even as I tap a button on my watch that lets Max know I understand, I feel an icy chill slide down my body. Scout, Xian Smith, and Posy are all about to converge on the sixteenth floor?

  Disaster.

  “Fuck!” Max barks. “He made the elevator cam. It’s gone dark. Scout, get out of there.”

  My heart drops. And then it drops again when Max keeps talking.

  “Gunnar, stand by to grab Posy. She’s coming back in your direction. And—mother of God.”

  All my blood stops circulating when I hear Posy’s voice. “Excuse me. Have you seen a guy in a tuxedo pass this way?” />
  “Lo siento. No hablo Inglés,” Scout replies. I don’t speak English.

  I reach out and ring for the service elevator, trying to do the math on how to get both women onto it in the next five seconds.

  But it’s already too late. All my blood stops circulating when I hear Smith say, “Step away from my room. No staff is allowed in there.”

  “Stay put, Gunn,” Max whispers harshly. “Let Scout try to talk her way out of there.”

  “No hablo Inglés,” Scout repeats. “Quieres hablar con el jefe?” Do you want to speak to the manager?

  “Fuck you,” Smith says in an ice-cold voice. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull.” There’s a loud crash, and then Posy screams.

  In a flash I’m in that hallway, my eyes locked on Posy. She’s standing there with her hands over her mouth, in the classic posture of shock. And she is way too close to an angry, violent crime lord.

  Smith has upended Scout’s pilfered laundry cart in a fit of rage. And Scout is backing slowly away, in perfect imitation of a frightened maid.

  “Gunnar!” Posy squeaks, which is really inconvenient, since my manager’s name tag says Fred. “There you are!” Her big eyes look up at me, frightened.

  My impulse is to go to her, shield her with my body, and evacuate her from the premises. And maybe from the entire city. But I can’t. I’ve got to fix this mess. “Just a minute, ma’am,” I bark in her direction. “It’s only been five minutes since you asked me for those towels.” I whirl on Scout. “The towels were for her. This room is not to be entered. No puede entrar!”

  “What did she steal?” Xian Smith says, kicking around the contents of the laundry cart. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

  No kidding. “Sir,” I say in my most obsequious voice. “I’m sure nothing was stolen. It’s a simple misunderstanding. I’ll deal with her.” When I glance up again, Scout has already vanished. She’s probably in the service elevator, or dashing down the back stairs. Which means I’ve only got Posy to worry about now. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again. And let me send someone to clean this up right away.”

  Smith is still digging through the laundry, trying to figure out if this was truly a hotel mix-up or exactly what he suspects it to be—an invasion of his private space for the purpose of espionage.

  “Come with me, please,” I bark at Posy, my tone so cold that the temperature in the hallway declines by ten degrees. We’ve got to get out of here before hotel security arrives and exposes me for the fraud I am.

  And here I thought tonight’s job would be quick and easy.

  Trying to appear purposeful and unhurried, I step away from Smith and beckon to Posy, without looking at her. She’s a smart woman, so she says nothing. The fire stairs are closer than the elevator, so I push open the door and usher her through.

  The last thing I do before leaving is to glance back at Smith. He looks up at me, rage burning in his eyes. I snap the door closed behind me. “Go,” I say. “Quick, now.”

  We dash down the stairs, but there are a lot of them.

  “What just happened?” Posy hisses after a couple of floors.

  “Later,” I grunt. “Come on. Hustle.” I doubt that Smith will try to confront us in the lobby. A smart spy would check all his security feeds first.

  But you never know.

  She falls silent, possibly because it’s hard work running down fifteen flights of stairs. Meanwhile, I tally up tonight’s collateral damage. Smith knows my name now. Or at least part of it. And he’s seen Scout’s face, as well as Posy’s. I feel sick about that. Smith knew better than to come at us on the hotel property. He’s a familiar face at this hotel, and their security is watching.

  But tomorrow is a different story.

  We make it all the way down without incident, catching up to Scout on the final flight. When Scout grabs the maid’s pinafore and throws it down onto the stairs, I hear Posy gasp. And when I turn to look at her, Posy is a picture of pink-cheeked adrenaline and wide-eyed confusion.

  “Come on,” I say gently. “There’s a van outside. Stay right beside me.”

  “I’ve got your six,” Scout says, lining up behind Posy.

  I open the stairwell door a crack. And as I do, a couple in evening wear brushes past us, heading up the stairs. They obviously didn’t want to wait for the elevator, and they don’t spare us a glance.

  Smith is nowhere in my field of vision, so I beckon to the women, straighten my spine, and stride into the lobby like a man who’s not in a rush.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scout touch Posy casually on the elbow. “Have you had the margaritas here? They’re excellent.”

  Posy’s face doesn’t play along. Her expression wonders what planet she’s landed on, and when she can grab the first shuttle off.

  And I don’t blame her one bit.

  19

  Posy

  On an ordinary night, I would never climb into a windowless van with a strange woman who’s just impersonated a hotel maid, and who is now babbling at me about margaritas.

  Then again, this is not an ordinary night. Gunnar's urgency is contagious. He practically frog marches me into the vehicle while my confused little brain tries and fails to keep up with current events.

  That’s how I find myself sliding onto the leather bench seat of the strangest van I’ve ever seen. In the corner—behind the driver—there are two panels of monitors. I recognize the video feed from the hallway where only a few moments ago I felt both terrified and deeply confused.

  There's a chair in front of this setup, bolted to the floor. And as soon as Gunnar climbs onto the seat beside me and slams the door, a dark-haired man swivels around in this strange chair to scowl at us.

  He’s familiar, too. He’s a friend of Gunnar’s, but I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. He used to come into Paxton’s once in a while when Gunnar was working. What was his name? Matt? No, Max.

  Remembering his name gives me a sense of victory, but it’s fleeting. I still don’t understand anything that happened tonight. “Who are you?” I demand as the van shoots forward. The motion makes my body slide against Gunnar’s.

  Nobody answers except for my hormones. Ooh, we like the feel of Gunnar! Especially when we’re scared.

  “What is happening?” I demand.

  Again, I get no answer. Instead, Gunnar grabs a seatbelt and straps me in, the way I used to do for Aaron before he was old enough to do it for himself. Gunnar’s jaw is so tense that I worry that it might crack.

  “Who was that man upstairs?” I try as the van takes a corner and accelerates.

  Gunnar’s arm comes around me to hold me steady as the driver does a few more quick maneuvers.

  “Did you get it?” Max asks the maid who obviously isn’t a maid. His eyes have the intensity of lasers.

  “Of course I got it.” She’s the only one who looks the least bit relaxed. In fact, she reaches for an apple that's braced in the cup holder and takes a bite.

  “Don't tease me.”

  “Fine,” she says, reaching into her bra and pulling out a device, which she hands to him.

  “You are a fucking goddess,” Max says, staring at the object in his hand. “Where's the spent battery?”

  She takes another bite of the apple, then wiggles a hand into the pocket of her skirt. A moment later she’s handing off a gray unit the size of a cell phone, a cord protruding from one end.

  “Good work, as always.” Then he turns to look at Gunnar, and the two men seem to lock attitudes at the same time they lock eyes. “You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do.”

  “Oh, bite me,” Gunnar grumbles. “This mission was fucked from the start. Maybe you’d like to explain why the perp turned up seven minutes after you told us he was gone?”

  “He was gone,” Max thunders. “I watched him get into the car myself.”

  “Not gone enough.”

  Another opinion comes from the driver’s seat. “You both
fucked up. But I can settle this pissing match. Max was outmaneuvered by a paranoid international criminal. Gunnar was tailed by a piemaker.” He swivels around, and I recognize the one called Duff. “No offense, Posy. I’m sure that pie is killer. Not that I’d know, because Gunnar won’t share.”

  And now I’ve had enough of being confused. “What is happening?” I shriek. “Who was that guy? Why were you stalking him? Why impersonate the hotel staff? What is up with this strange van?”

  “Stalking isn’t really a word we use,” Max says, rubbing his chin. “It’s so negative.”

  A high-pitched shriek of frustration erupts from my throat, and the woman holding the apple core glances my way. “Somebody needs a margarita. Max should buy, especially because I can’t safely enter the Soho Luxe for the foreseeable future. My name is Scout, by the way. Nice to meet you, Posy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say through clenched teeth, because my parents were always big on manners, and old habits die hard.

  “Duff, after you’re sure nobody is tailing us, could you drop me at home?” Gunnar asks. “I’ll talk to Posy.”

  “Somebody had better talk to Posy!” I holler. “And it better be good.”

  “Good plan. Be discreet,” Max cautions. “Can I ask, Posy, why you were following Gunnar tonight?”

  “Because nothing makes any sense!” I howl. “The lowball bill for the window. With the key on it. It’s the same key that Gunnar has right here.” I place my hand on my sternum.

  “Oh, dude.” Max scowls at Gunnar. “Reason numero uno for not getting naked on the job.”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea,” Gunnar argues.

  “I spilled raspberry syrup all over him,” I clarify.

  “Hot damn!” Duff says. “Can you spill some on me, too? I mean—I’ve tried chocolate sauce in bed. But variety is awful nice.”

  “But we weren’t …” I realize that my questions still have not been answered, and I try once again to get this conversation back on track. “What is the key?”