by S. M. West
“Speak.” The acerbic British tone crackles over the phone, a stark contrast to the lazy puffs of smoke I exhale into the inky sky.
With my second drag, I flick the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with my boot. A couple hits are all I need to take the edge off the inevitable downer after a job.
“It’s done.” I proffer a smile to no one, certain my grin beams bright with a false confidence the male on the other end of the line can’t see.
“Any problems?” Slaughter’s words are muffled and edgy.
My smile falters, and the wailing horn of a distant train heightens my unease. In all the years we’ve worked together, he’s never asked that question. Ever.
I don’t cause problems. For eighteen years I fix the shit others create. John Slaughter knows this, so why ask?
I search my memory for answers but come up empty. I’ve never given him any reason to doubt my abilities, which makes his sudden trepidation… vexing.
My mind whirs. He insisted I take this job. Was he expecting problems?
“None.” I curl my gloved fist and end the call.
I unleash my aggravation on the cell, cracking its back and dismantling the pieces for trash.
John Slaughter deals in guns and girls. Once, in the early days, when on a job, screams came from within a shipping container. We found a dead girl among the cargo of skin. It was packed with girls of all ages. That was a shit night.
Human trafficking is a no-go for me. I made sure Slaughter understood that. Even a guy like me has standards.
Slaughter’s a monster, but to most, I’m not much better. After all, I did turn a blind eye to his flesh trade.
In this game, if you want to make money and survive, stick to your own business. And the secret to my success? Don’t ask questions or take sides. So long as I’m paid, the problem goes away.
My gut’s telling me I may have a problem. First the surprise request from Slaughter and the easy money, then Joe’s MIA, and now, that fucking question. I don’t like it.
My guys exit the building, most grinning thanks to thicker wallets with Kit at the tail end. He arches a brow at my scowl.
“We good?” His six-foot-five frame looms larger than usual.
“Let’s get out of here,” I dodge, needing a scotch and a good fuck before mulling over the situation.
“Why you pissed?”
“Slaughter, the bastard.” My jaw hardens.
“What?” He locks the wooden door, and double checks it’s secure.
“Asked if there were problems.” My lips twist at the sour taste in my mouth.
He folds his beefy arms over his chest. “He’s never asked that before.”
“Exactly.” Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair. “Where the fuck is Joe?” I study the night shadows and frown.
“I’ll find him.”
I nod, confident Kit will. On the way to our cars, he breaks our comfortable silence with the question. The one that’s hanging between us like a guillotine for weeks.
“Is this it? You out?”
He’s referring to my retirement from this gig. I’ve had a good run. Hell no, a fucking fantastic run, but it’s time to get out. It’s always been the plan, even though it will mess with Kit’s livelihood.
This life isn’t for the faint of heart, and sooner or later, it’ll get you killed. So, yeah, it’s always been a matter of when, not if, I leave this life. The time is now, especially since tonight’s job has rankled me in a way I can’t explain.
“When?” he asks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. “Not now, Kit.”
“Fine. Wanna grab a beer after I get a handle on Joe?”
“Nah, I’ve got plans. Come after and blow off some steam.”
I’m going for a drink and a fuck. My way of unwinding after a job. The drink, for sure—the fuck, sometimes. Kit won’t come. He wants a sports bar, not paid female company.
High-class escorts are pricey but worth every penny—no hassle or expectations. All business. No risk of falling in love.
Relationships aren’t wise or safe for me, and less safe for the woman. I work with bad people who wouldn’t hesitate to use someone I care about.
“Nope. Besides, we both know they’d never let me through the door.” He gestures to his grungy attire, coated in grease and a thin layer of dirt.
“True.”
“Not all of us are as fancy as you.” Mocking my refined wardrobe is a constant source of delight.
“Hey, man, if you want upscale pussy, you gotta dress the part.” I shove his shoulder before holding my arms out wide with a huge grin—the first true one for the night.
“I’ll pass on the crabs, chlamydia, or whatever else. Some of us actually score without paying for it.”
“Keep telling yourself that. By the way, your left hand doesn’t count as ‘scoring.’”
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, no longer enjoying the banter.
The guy may be the size of a Sasquatch, but he’s a diehard romantic, and this is where we are night and day. For me, sex is purely physical. Love’s got nothing to do with it.
A brisk chill stabs my chest, and it’s time to get the fuck out of here. I grab a new drop phone from my car, and hand one to Kit. We text each other our new numbers, knowing we’ll be doing this again in a few days.
“Update on Joe within the hour.”
“Got it.”
Now relaxed after my indulgence, shut-eye is the only thing on my mind when Kit texts with news on Joe.
Kit: