by Tia Lewis
On a whim, I decided I would take the picture with me. It was the only keepsake that I would have of the McGreevy’s and knowing Samson he would just toss the picture in the dumpster since he wouldn’t be able to sell it.
I grabbed the framed glass portrait and lifted it up off the wall and heard a rattling noise. My forehead creased as I shook the frame up and down. I turned the portrait over and peeled back the panel. A silver key fell down to the ground along with a small white piece of paper. The key. My heart started pounding at an increasingly rapid pace when I remembered Mrs. McGreevy talking about how Mr. McGreevy had wanted me to have a key. I bent down and leaned the portrait against the wall and picked up the key and the piece of paper. Door key? I thought as I studied it. I then moved my attention to the piece of paper and saw a message written in pen:
“ÇßSH0²¹00¹088 429 Finchley Hampstead Road: If all else fails and the light turns to darkness.”
What the fuck? I found myself pacing back and forth, a bit disoriented, biting my lip as I always did when I was nervous or baffled. I didn’t have time to waste; I couldn’t decode this message so I quickly put the key and the note in the pocket of my leather jacket and ran out Mrs. McGreevy’s apartment to be with Tess.
Chapter Ten
The motel was called the Sleepy Inn, but the two E’s in the middle of sleepy were missing. My kind of place, I thought.
The motel was built with light brown brickwork and had a cigarette machine that stood beside the entrance. The automatic doors were jammed, and a sign had been haphazardly written on a piece of cardboard and hung on a sheet of metal which read: Force door. When I got closer, I saw the pole had been a flagpole. Bits of red, white, and blue fabric stuck to the sharp point.
The swimming pool was brown and objects floated in it: Band-Aids, soggy pieces of paper, a few pens, and a magic 8-ball. Will I make it out of this shit magic 8-ball? Oh, ask again later. Great. There were two levels of rooms, the first hidden in shadow under the extended balcony, and the other on the balcony which stretched around the motel. I saw a young woman in a skimpy hot pink dress which rode up her ass, leading a man in a gray business suit across the balcony.
I forced open the door and entered the main office. The woman who greeted me had dark yellow teeth and bulging eyes. Her skin was full of crevices and acne spread from her chin down her neck. Her nails were fake, long, and painted with chipped purple nail polish.
A gumball machine stood next to the desk, a row of plastic chairs sat against the wall, and a board filled with room keys and room numbers hung on the wall. The room was full of thick, nauseating smoke which seeped down my nose and throat. I was certain it wasn’t just cigarette smoke she was puffing. She sat on what must have been a spinning stool; as she talked, she wiggled from side to side, licking her lips and eyeing me up and down.
“You here for a room or ‘special services’?” she flirted, taking a drag on her cigarette.
“Just a room,” I replied. “One night.”
“Name?”
“Guest.”
She paused, blowing smoke into the air. “You’re kind of cute. Ever thought about modeling?”
“No,” I smirked, raising my right eyebrow.
“I know somebody who could get you some gigs…”
“I’m not interested,” I cut her off. “I’m just here for a room.”
“Fine. Your loss, baby,” she took another drag. “Will that be a single or a double?”
“Single.”
“For one night?”
“I said one night.”
“And a single.”
I tilted my head at her. “Are you fucking with me?”
The woman laid her hand on her chest. “I am offended! Absolutely offended!” Then she broke out in a cackling, sinister laugh. It was so loud and unexpected that I took a step back.
“That’s just a joke we play!” she giggled, wiping tears from her eyes. She apparently had never heard a funnier joke. “It’s just a game!”
“Hilarious,” I said dryly. “One room. One bed. One night. How much?”
“That’s eighty dollars, baby.”
“Money well spent,” I said, handing her a one-hundred-dollar bill.
She nodded seriously, like she heard that sort of thing all the time, and then banged a button on the cash register. It beeped, and the drawer slid out. She placed the money in and handed me a twenty-dollar-bill. She pinched my room key with her thumb and fingernail.
Dropping it into my hand, she said: “You can use the pool from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon, but not at night, because we like to keep an eye on people. You wouldn’t believe what people get up to in there.”
“I think I’ll steer clear of the pool,” I replied and left the counter. I opened the door and looked around.
“Hey! If you ever get a little lonely… I’ll be here, baby,” The receptionist called after me.
Tess sat on a bench across the street. I nodded at her: follow me.
She nodded back and stood up, looked up and down the road, and began to cross the street.
I turned away and made my way from the central office toward the staircase that led to the long balcony. We were living the high life; at least we had a room with a view.
Chapter Eleven
“Are you bloody crazy!” Tess shouted, pacing up and down at the foot of the bed.
I watched her, lying on my back with my arms propped behind my head as I looked around the room. The motel room was small, but somehow she still found room to pace. I saw a faded painting of a valley hanging over the bed. The walls had been green once, but now they had turned a bland pale brown. The bathroom was so close to the bed that I could kick the door open without getting up.
“What a place,” I chuckled to myself as I watched the ceiling fan squeak. It whirred around and around, blowing pathetic puffs of semi-cool air.
“You left me by myself and then you go running back to the very place we had to leave!”
“You smell that? Smells like disinfectant,” I turned up my nose. “At least it’s cleaner than my place, that’s for sure.”
“Liam! Stop ignoring me. I think you’re trying to get us killed,” she said as she went through her suitcase.
“Fuck! I forgot my case.”
“What case?”
“Pistol case.”
“At your apartment?” she interrupted. “You’re not telling me you’re going to go back to that building again, are you?”
“Nah. I have my two pistols. We’ll be fine. My ammo is still in your suitcase right?”
She nodded.
Fuck! What was happening to me? I’m never off my A-game. The woman is clouding my mind, and I’m making amateur mistakes.
She rambled on and on. “Then you pound on the glass at the diner and everyone—everyone—turns around. How subtle was that? And you walk so bloody fast!”
She had taken off the black hoodie and changed into a white summer dress with a pattern of red flowers placed everywhere. I was able to snatch a glance at her sexy pink lace bra and panties before she quickly changed. Her dress showed off her long and smooth legs and displayed a teasing amount of cleavage. Even now, in all this danger, my cock called out for her. I licked my lips, still staring at the ceiling fan. Then there was a pause, and I saw her waving her hand at the bed.
“And what about this?”
“What?”
“It’s a single bed.”
“Problem?”
“How is this going to work? Are you sleeping on the floor?”
I laughed. “You’ve got a pretty goddamned high opinion of yourself if you think I’m sleeping on the floor. It’s not like you’ve never been in my bed,” I reminded Tess.
“Whatever,” she squinted her eyes. “I don’t even want to know what’s going through your head.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” I mischievously smiled.
“All you care about is killing and sex. Aren’t you scared?”
“Nah. I’m just getting myself ready for what happens next.”
She threw her hands on her hips and paced back and forth in the cramped room. A waft of her feminine scent lingered across the room, sweat, rose perfume and soap all mixed together. I felt my cock harden a little more.
“I just don’t understand how you can want… that. Like how can you be horny when all this has happened?”
“Sometimes a man gets horny without seeing it coming. And if I’m asleep next to you, wake up, and I’m rock-hard… I’m gonna fuck you.”
“So romantic,” she glared. “Don’t forget the red roses and the bloody Hallmark card.”
I smirked. “I won’t.”
Did she have any clue how sexy she looked when she scowled like that? Did she have any clue the effect it had on me?
“When are you going to admit that you’re attracted to me?”
She rolled her eyes forcing herself not to smile which made me laugh louder. It amused me greatly to provoke her ire. She was torn between wanting to resist me and wanting to give into me. It was clear with her every movement, the way she leaned into me, the way her hands constantly seemed to want to reach out to me. She was mine, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“What to know something funny? To think my biggest concern two years ago was Oliver Twist…”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t contain myself. Her innocence was such a turn on.
“Stop laughing!” she giggled. “To think that was the only major concern in my life. I used to lie awake at night with anxiety thinking about the essay I had to write—about trying to get my degree. I had to read a book and write an essay about it, and at that time it was the biggest obstacle in my life. I would love to go back and tell that naïve girl: Don’t take this for granted. Don’t squander this. Enjoy every moment. Life will never be so stress-free again because one day you’ll have bloody Russians on your tail and forced into sharing a bed with a deranged hitman in a motel that smells like a chemical war zone!”
“The past is the past, Tess,” I shrugged. “You can’t do anything about it so why talk about it? Just let it be and leave it alone.”
“I guess,” she said. She was quiet for a few minutes, and I saw no reason to break the silence.
I still laid in bed thinking about the key, the message on the piece of paper and what I would do to the Russians who had taken my money. I didn’t have a definite plan yet, but my mind was full of revenge. I would be like a beast that has been caged for too long and is finally set free. I would kill these bastards with any weapon that I could find. Every last one of them.
“Liam…?”
I realized Tess had stopped pacing and now she sat at the end of the bed, near my boots.
“What’s up?”
“You said your brother Kevin was soft. What happened…”
“Don’t you ever bring up my brother!” I quickly sat up.
“Whoa! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you!” She held up her hands in defense. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to him?”
“Drop it,” I demanded, an unwelcome emotion infusing my body. The effect was sudden and jolting. My muscles tensed, my arms enlarged and veins bulged against my skin. Jesus Christ, I’d been a damned fool for ever mentioning Kevin.
“What good would it do?” I asked, my eyes burning fiercely with anger. “I feel guilty enough about what happened to my brother, and I’m not trying to go down that dark road again. We’re here in this cramped motel room with Zharkov and his Russian bastards gunning for us. Boss will learn that I lied sooner or later and then we’ll have the fucking Bianchi crime family after us, too. We’ve got all this shit to deal with, and you want to talk about my dead brother?”
She held my gaze. It was me who looked away. Her expression was too soft, too understanding. It was too much like Kevin’s. There was a risk that I would feel something if I looked at her for too long, and that was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. I’d had to encase my black heart in ice. Otherwise, I might start feeling remorse or shame one of these days, and if a hitman starts feeling those emotions, I’ll be feeling the sting of a bullet not long after.
“Liam…?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,”
I didn’t respond, and she sighed heavily.
“I just have to ask… Why risk it all for me? You didn’t have to save me from those Russians in the alley. You certainly didn’t have to take me into your home. Can you tell me that, at least?”
“Because you got a body worth dying for and you’re mine. That’s why.”
She blushed, and crossed her legs. Her calf muscles pressed together, and I thought about how they would taste; about biting down on them, hard, and listening to her scream of pleasure and pain.
“Is that all? I’m sure you’ve known beautiful women with attractive bodies before.”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked, still holding my gaze.
I found myself tracing cracks up the wall, looking at the rusted base of the sink through the open bathroom door, looking up at the stream of sunlight on the ceiling—anything but her.
“No, I can’t say I’m interested in what you think.”
Of course, she ignored me.
“I believe you had a rough childhood, grew up in a bad neighborhood, around dangerous people, and you learned to be tough. But I don’t think that’s all there is to you. I believe you won’t let me talk about your little brother because you’re upset. And you’re scared to show it. I think there’s more you’re not telling me…”
“What did I tell you earlier? My brother is off limits.”
“Fine,” she murmured.
“Let me remind you, yet again, that you’re mine, okay? I’ve earned and claimed you. Your job is to be used for my pleasure and my pleasure only. Just because we’re on the run from the Russians doesn’t change our initial agreement. Am I understood?”
“What if I want to be more than that? Like your friend.”
“Friend?” I nearly rolled onto the floor laughing.
“Why not? Who wouldn’t want their own personal bodyguard?”
A small smile crept on her face.
“Nah,” I chuckled. “Besides. Men like me don’t have friends.”
She paused. “So, what happens now?”
“We get some food and try to relax.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“For what?”
“Keeping you alive up until this point.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Mysterious Hitman. Even though I’m quite sure, you need to see a psychiatrist… I’m still oh, so grateful for your bloody protection services.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing gratitude, you know that? But don’t worry. Later you’ll show me how thankful you are.”
Tess looked down and bit her lip, miserably failing to hold in her smile.
Chapter Twelve
Sitting at the motel room’s desk, I paused from cleaning my pistol to figure what Tess was rambling about.
“What kind of motel doesn’t have a television or air conditioner?” Tess asked. She was sitting back with her legs tucked underneath her, her butt on her feet, and sorting through her suitcase.
I looked around the room. “Why don’t you work on the painting?”
Tess held it up. “I wonder if I could sew it together?” she said doubtfully. “I’ve never been very good at womanly things like that. My grandmother could knit anything. I used to say she could’ve knit a bridge from the Earth to the moon. She always laughed at that.”
I had nothing to say to this, so I stayed silent. The sun was beginning to set, and the room filled with an orange-red glow as the sunlight shone through the drawn curtains.
“Growing up I was more of a bookish kid,” she continued. “The other girls would be playing with their Barbies, tea sets or their fake babies—how
creepy is that, giving little girls fake babies to take care of? Anyway, they would be playing, but I’d be in my bedroom reading. I could read a novel in three days when I was eleven. My English teacher, Mrs. Hobson, was so proud that she gave me a badge. I looked like a dork, but I was so happy. Pretty soon after that, my mother died.”
She was still preoccupied with her suitcase and didn’t look up. Aware that she was about to share her life story I sighed and plopped myself on the motel bed. I was getting anxious, possibly claustrophobic from being stuck in the motel room. I’m always on the go, prowling the streets, going here, going there and collecting information for jobs. Having to stay in one spot was killing me, even though I was in the company of a beautiful, captivating woman.
“I know you’ve risked quite a lot for me. I’m not sure if I’ve really thanked you for that,” she said. “So, I think it’s only fair that you know a little about me. The problem is, it’s tough to just talk about yourself, isn’t it? I’ve always hated the request, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ What, exactly, are you supposed to say to that? Do you tell them every minute detail? Do I say, for example, that the first movie I ever watched was a slasher film or that I punched a boy in the face when I was eight because he wouldn’t share the tire swing?”
She continued. “Or do I tell you about my dreams, my passions? Do I tell you I wrote half a novel set in a fantasy land where an average farm girl goes on a quest to save her mother from the afterlife before Dmitri, and I came to the States? Horrible, huh? It was bad, just—bad. So I ditched it. Or do I tell you that I would love to write another book one day that is not quite so terrible, one that I’ll maybe be proud of? Do I tell you I sometimes dream about being a librarian, and that psychology isn’t my real passion? Do I tell you that when I was a kid being a librarian seemed like the coolest job in the world?” She seemed lost in her little world, caught up in thoughts of the past.
“Or do I get really scientific and tell you about my eye color, height, weight, and my sleeping pattern? Blue eyes, five-feet-four, and one hundred and twenty-five pounds. I can tell you all about my sleeping pattern. I can tell you when I close my eyes I see Zharkov and Dmitri, and it chases sleep away.