"I can't do this!" I declared, reaching for my dress, holding it to my chest. "What was I thinking? I don't do this. I'm a relationship kind of girl," I insisted, backing toward the door. I was going to need to leave the shoes. Given that they were ugly tan kitten heels I didn't like anyway, it was no loss.
"No. Wait. Come back here," he demanded, reaching for me.
"No! No. I can't. I'm so sorry. Really, you're a nice guy. I just can't. I can't."
With that, I flew out the door, knowing he wouldn't follow since he was naked.
I was most of the way there, too, but I luckily hadn't known any shame in my life.
"What? You've never seen tits before?" I snapped at the guy I passed in the hallway, making him jerk his head in the other direction as I rounded the corner, slipped into my dress, then made my way barefooted out of the building.
"Did you get it?" I asked as I walked past the PI.
"Got more than we need."
"Great. Tell the client I will see her in half an hour," I told him, making my way down the street where I'd parked my skoolie—converted school bus house.
A couple hours.
A couple grand.
Fair trade, in my humble opinion.
And, luckily, my living expenses were low. The big money had been the up-front cash to convert the old school bus into a house on wheels. Once that was done, it was really just gas, insurance, phone, and various streaming services to keep me entertained while on boring cases in an areas where I couldn't get out in the fresh air.
I'd painted the offensive yellow and black vehicle a crisp white. Then I'd gutted and rebuilt the whole inside. It was one of my proudest projects to date.
People didn't generally see me as a handyman sort, what with my penchant for ankle-breaking heels and a complete inability to take instructions from anyone.
Luckily, online videos were a perfect resource that didn't talk back or condescend to me.
And so, I rolled up my sleeves. And I built my home. From the rustic farm wood floors, to the white cabinets that lined the left side—along with a farmhouse sink, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge—to the built-in padded booth that took up the left side, that Raven had once used as a bed. I'd been the one to decide to lift the full bed in the far back to make more storage for clothing as well as a water tank to feed into the minuscule shower. I'd done the research on composting toilets. I'd figured out the electrical. Every inch of my home had my blood, sweat, tears, and frustrated rage in it.
I loved it more than was probably appropriate for an inanimate object.
I dropped down in the driver's seat, taking a deep breath, reaching for my phone, shooting a text to Raven.
We'd made a deal.
I texted her before a job, telling her my expected timeframe. And then I texted her afterward. If it went beyond an acceptable margin of error—and having worked alongside me all the years she did, she knew what that would be—she reserved the right to call the local police and report it. Or, in lieu of them helping, call my brothers so they could get someone on it. Being outlaw bikers with a lot of connections in the criminal world, they could have someone on my case in an hour tops, if it ever came to that.
It didn't matter that it had been years. Or that she did, indeed, have a couple little Ravens running around—along with a little Roman—she still insisted on the texts.
And for just a couple moments, I didn't feel quite so alone anymore.
I wasn't someone prone to loneliness.
I liked being alone. I was solitary by nature. I found most people tended to get on my nerves after a while. That said, my alone had always included my brothers when I was young. Then Raven.
This alone? This was a different kind.
I had no one to run to after a hilarious twist to a job, to laugh with, to drink with, to blow paychecks with at local shops.
I didn't like the idea of the job getting old. Or this lifestyle getting old. All I ever wanted to do was travel, to snatch up every memory I could, to see every important sight, to live deeply, yet temporarily in every location I visited.
But it had been over a decade now.
I'd seen every state. Been to every large—and many small—attractions. I'd sampled every regional cuisine from Georgia peaches and Southern barbecue to New York pizza and Jersey bagels, and whatever weird hybrid concoctions they were always coming up with over on the west coast. I'd seen sunrises in California and sunsets in Connecticut. I'd experienced hurricanes and tornadoes and the whole other kind of natural disaster known as the humid summers of Florida.
But, well, I'd seen it all.
I didn't remember the last time I felt excited when I got a job in a different state, rushing to plan a trip to hit places I was stoked to see.
Like everything, even realized dreams can become mundane after a while.
My phone rang in my hand, making me jolt. Seeing Raven's name, I answered.
"What's the matter?" she asked, to the sound of a baby whining in the background. Little Roman was a notoriously fussy newborn, and was proving every bit as demanding a toddler.
He wants to live on my boob, she'd told me one night, sounding half-asleep. Well, he is a boy, I'd quipped, making a laugh move through her.
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head even though she couldn't see me.
"You sent an entire text without eggplant or middle finger emojis. Something is up."
"We can't forget my favorite emoji. I couldn't live without the facepalm. "And nothing is wrong."
"I know you better than that. You sound off. Don't make me Facetime you to confirm my suspicions. I'm a complete wreck. No one wants to see that."
"Your 'wreck' is most people's 'good day.'"
"Wasp..."
"I don't know. I'm bored. And not excited about anything," I admitted, because she was my safe space, because I could trust her with that small bit of vulnerability.
"Come home," she demanded automatically, worry slipping into her voice, knowing I was never someone prone to dark moods.
"I am home," I reminded her.
"You know what I mean. Come to Navesink Bank. I would love to see you. The kids too. And your brothers. Their kids. We all miss you so much. It's been forever."
"It's been two months since my last visit."
"And that is forever."
"I'm okay. Really. I think I just need to get out of California for a while. Everyone is too happy. It's pissing me off."
To that, I got a snorting laugh. "You're ridiculous. Well, point Wanda in this direction. I'm not saying you have to come here, but if you end up here, we'd be happy to have you."
"Wanda and I were thinking of somewhere gloomier. Like that place in that god-awful vampire movie you made me watch."
"Forks?" she asked.
"Yeah. The place where it is so rainy and moody that vampires can walk around without sparkling. Or, you know, bursting into flames like the non-lame Buffy-era vampires did."
"I know that there is no out-stubborning you, but if the mood keeps up, please come home. We can binge-watch old TV shows and reminisce."
"You have three children. Binging is out of the question."
"Not if I pawn them off on friends or family. I can always make time for you. You know that."
She could.
But that didn't mean it was easy for her to do so.
She had her life.
I had mine.
Our paths tended to connect for a couple hours every few months. Or longer over the winter since Wanda didn't like living in cold conditions in the harsher months, not having that great of insulation or the kind of heating system that would work round-the-clock.
"I promise if I am in some downward spiral, I will come home. I'm probably just in need of some fun. I've been on back-to-back jobs for months."
"The infidelity business is always booming."
"Speaking of—"
"Don't worry. Roman is still having nightmares about your Christmas morning threat to string h
im up by his balls if he cheats on me."
"By a string of Christmas lights. Don't forget the best part."
"Yes, of course. A festive threat."
"Gotta keep it fresh." Even if we both knew Roman was not the cheating sort. If you could count on anything in the world, it was that the sun would rise, the tax man would find you, and Roman was one-thousand-percent head-over-heels for his wife.
"Okay. If you promise you're alright, I will leave you alone. I know you need to move Wanda."
"Yeah. We are not very inconspicuous parked a block from the hotel," I agreed. "Kiss the kids for me."
"You suck for teaching them that song, by the way. Now I have to sing it to them every night."
"'Goodnight, Demonslayer' is classic Voltaire. And a very good message for kids, in my humble opinion."
"I love you. Thirty-five Louboutin pumps."
"Love you back two-thousand bags of Fritos."
"Goodnight."
"'Night."
Feeling marginally better after a talk with her, I turned over Wanda, and headed toward the meeting place with the client, collecting my check, going back to the hotel to check out, and then went straight out of town. Out of state.
The sun was rising when I finally pulled over into a camping ground, pulled the curtains on all of the windows, put the massive wooden plank down across the door to prevent any access, climbed into my bed, and passed out.
I woke up startled and groggy, not sure what day it was or what town I was in.
Flopping over in my bed, I fumbled for my phone finding it tucked under the pillows, opening it to see what time it was, and where I was currently parked.
Satisfied with that, I opened up my email, ready to spend a moment or two scrolling through the junk, deleting it so I wouldn't have to pay for yet more storage.
I didn't expect any work emails.
Usually, there were a couple day—or even week—gaps between when I finished one job, and when I had another lined up.
There it was, though, demanding attention.
If nothing else, work provided a distraction from my uncharacteristically sour mood.
Opening it, I found something a little unexpected. Not the desperate preamble full of hurt and anger and bitterness.
But, rather, a name. Followed by instructions to search his online presence.
Curious, I did so before finishing the email, wondering who the hell this Fenway Arlington guy was if this client was talking about him as though he was somebody.
I found a ton of social media accounts full of pretty views, epic parties, beautiful women on yachts and at poolsides.
Rich guy aesthetic, that was how you would describe his social media presence.
Rich of the old money, born-rich sort.
Rich was rich, but rich couldn't afford yachts. They couldn't flex that hard.
Wealthy was a category of its own, one this man belonged squarely in.
There weren't any good, close pictures of the man himself, just a hint of a seemingly handsome profile, the outline of a very nice suit, his legs.
No up-close selfies to see if he had also won the genetic—along with socioeconomic—lottery.
Interested, I clicked back over to the email.
There is a cool hundred-grand in it for you if you can do the impossible.
If you can make Fenway Arlington fall in love with you.
Perhaps I should have been suspicious of that sort of money. But then again, I knew what bitterness did to a woman. It could make them go to any lengths to get payback.
If Fenway Arlington was crazy wealthy, it wasn't a huge leap to imagine some of the shoulders he rubbed against—and the women he bedded and broke the hearts of—were wealthy as well.
You will want to make sure you have your passport, the email added. Fenway is currently getting into trouble in Paris for the third time this year. I will offer five grand up-front as good faith money if you agree to the job.
Five grand was nothing to sneeze at.
And on top of it all, I got to see a brand new sight.
I didn't, as a rule, do international jobs. There was a lot of risk there. Different laws. It was touchy.
That said, there was nothing illegal at all in making a man fall in love with you. Then breaking his heart. Certainly not in France, anyway.
I had a passport.
It only had one stamp in it, from a post-high school trip with Raven down to the Bahamas to let off some steam and drink legally while we were still technically illegal.
It looked like I was about to get another one.
Excitement bubbled in my belly, little champagne fizzles of anticipation, as I typed out a response before climbing out of bed, not even bothering to change, just turning Wanda in the direction of the east coast.
Raven was getting her wish.
I was coming to visit.
But only so that I could park Wanda in her driveway while I took off.
I would just tell her I was taking a vacation. I didn't need her worrying about international jobs. She had enough on her plate.
Besides, this would be cake.
I mean, how hard could it possibly be to make Fenway Arlington fall in love with me?
TWO
Fenway
Paris was getting old.
After about three weeks, I'd been to every party worth going to, visited every old friend I'd ever made, dined several beautiful, but wholly uninteresting women.
It was about time to move on.
To go where, I wasn't sure.
Somewhere hot and sunny.
I hadn't taken my yacht anywhere since dropping Miller off in Greece.
I was sure it missed me.
"You're not paying attention," one of the girls at the table told me, pouting.
She was right. I wasn't. Because I was done here. And once I was done, my mind couldn't seem to focus on anything other than the next natural high to chase. The next city to get lost in. The foods. The parties. The old friends. The new ones I would meet.
Maybe the international incident I might create.
My old friends back over at Quinton Baird & Associates hadn't heard from me in a while. We were overdue for a reunion too.
If I could find a woman to create a scandal with, that is.
The women at my table were all the same. Beautiful, eager, accommodating.
Unchallenging.
People who met me generally thought I liked everything light and fun and easy.
Which was true in many ways.
But not when it came to the kind of women who caught my attention for more than a night.
No.
Those women always had something extra.
Even if that 'extra' was simply that I couldn't have them.
Because they were married to Russian mob bosses.
That was a fun one.
Cost me an almost painful amount to fix that one. But it had been worth it in the end.
Besides, women forced into unhappy marriages with assholes who treated them like dirt deserved a little fun too.
The woman across from me—with the pouting lips, not used to being ignored when she was accustomed to always being the most beautiful woman in the room—wasn't a challenge. If I crooked a finger, she would follow along. Just your average, every day fortune-chaser, one who was willing to secure it on her back or knees.
And while I admired someone who knew what they wanted and pursued it ceaselessly, it was too easy. And easy was boring.
But, I decided as my eyes started to scan the bar, easy might be all I could find my last night in this particular city.
I was about to drop some money on the table, and invite all of them back to my suite for a hot tub party and too much champagne.
Then there she was.
There was something about the air in a room when the kind of woman I was after stepped into it.
It got thicker and slower, buttery smooth and demanding attention.
My gaze followe
d the vibe, finding the source of it.
From the looks of things, I wasn't the only one who noticed the charge in the air. Because every man in the vicinity's eyes were on her.
This ravishing creature in a backless black dress that dipped to the smallest part of her lower back, with her icepick heels, long, wavy blonde hair, perfectly symmetrical, delicate face with her intelligent, cold, blue-green eyes.
She walked through the crowd like a queen making her way to a throne, chin parallel to the floor, shoulders back, gait sure, hips swinging just the right amount.
Fucking perfect.
Perfect.
"Ladies," I said as the woman in question moved to sit at the bar, ordering a drink from the dumbstruck bartender. "Have another couple rounds and a ride home on me," I told them, reaching into my wallet, tossing a wad of cash on the table.
I imagined there was a mix of delight at the amount dropped there to be split, as well as the disappointment at knowing it was all they were going to get from me.
But I couldn't be bothered watching all of that play out.
Not when the woman had her elbow on the bar, her slender arm lifted to hold her face in her hand.
Bored.
Well, I could certainly help her out there, couldn't I?
Moving away from the VIP section, I made my way down the stairs as the first brave man approached. Young and cocky, he moved in aggressively, leaning into her space, getting an ice-cold sideways glance. Even from a distance, I could see her only response to him before turning her attention to the back bar.
"No."
Strike one.
It wasn't long before the next man moved in. Older. Somewhere around middle age, handsome enough even if he was losing a battle with sweets judging by a bit of a hangover waistline. But that suit he had on was designer. The watch on his wrist cost a cool ten grand.
If she was after a rich husband or sugar daddy, this would be her choice.
She didn't bother glancing his way as he started his spiel, just let him finish his preamble before shaking her head at him as well.
Interesting.
A beautiful woman dressed like she was, alone at a bar. They were typically there for a reason. Usually, that reason was a man.
The Client Page 2