by Callie Hart
I’m just about to get the fuck out of here, when a tall, crane-like woman appears through a door behind the reception, polishing the lenses of a pair of glasses on the bottom of her sweater. She stops moving when she sees me, mouth open, glasses half raised to her face. “Oh no. No, you can’t be here,” she says. Her accent is English. Not a BBC accent. Not from London, like Charlie was. She’s from the north, I think. I don’t have a fucking clue where, though.
“I have a reservation,” I say bluntly.
“Not here, you don’t. You’re meant to be staying on the other side of town.”
“You haven’t even taken my name yet.”
She smiles primly as she slides her glasses onto the end of her nose. Her blonde hair is pulled back so tightly into a bun, it looks like it has to be giving her a headache. “You are Mr. Mayfair, and you’re meant to be staying at The Waldorf tonight. Mr. Barbieri organized the penthouse suite for you some hours ago. He did it himself.” She stresses her last statement, presumably to convey how abnormal this is.
I blink at her, taking this in. Barbieri booked me into a fancy hotel in Manhattan? He arranged it himself? And more importantly, he knew I was coming? None of this is good news.
“I won’t be staying at The Waldorf. I’m staying here, in the room I booked, with my own money.” If Roberto’s been paying attention, he already knows I don’t give a shit about high-end living. If I did, I’d have accepted his job offer and I’d be running Seattle in his stead for him right now. Instead, I spend ninety percent of my free time in a dimly lit, sweaty boxing gym, teaching kids how to fight.
“Mr. Barbieri won’t be happy with me if I don’t send you over to your other rooms, Mr. Mayfair. He won’t be happy with me at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I lean across the reception desk, trying not to seem threatening. Threatening is my resting state, though. It’s impossible to switch it off. No matter how hard I try, I always end up saying things like, “Now please give me my motherfucking room key, before I lose my temper.” Which is, of course, exactly what I say.
The woman doesn’t exactly pale. She tilts her chin up, looking down the length of her very straight, narrow nose at me. She isn’t impressed in the slightest, but I don’t give a fuck. “You’re an impolite man, Mr. Mayfair. I thought you’d be a little more respectful.”
“And why on earth would you have come to that conclusion?”
She lifts one angular shoulder in half a shrug. “The story of Zeth protecting his beloved Sloane is quite famous these days, even in New York. I suppose I considered a man willing to sacrifice everything for the woman he loves to be a feminist. Or at least a romantic. I get the feeling you’re neither.”
Feminist? Romantic? Someone’s been reading too many books. “I just want my room key, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Can you make that happen, or do I need to come back there and find one for myself.”
The woman regards me coolly. “I don’t think I like you,” she says. Her tone is frosty, her gaze steady and even, filled with ice. She pivots and opens a drawer below the computer monitor she’s now standing in front of and withdraws an envelope. “Here. Mr. Barbieri said you might be difficult. The key to your room is inside. Along with your room key for your rooms at The Waldorf. If I were you, I’d take him up on his generous offer and move to the other hotel. A lot of our current guests are familiar with you. Let’s just say most of them haven’t been all happy to hear your name spoken recently. Mr. Barbieri’s just trying to keep the peace.”
I laugh. It’s almost too hilarious to bear. “Mr. Barbieri wouldn’t know peace if it leapt up and bit him on the ass.” I take the envelope and I head for the elevator. God knows what’s waiting for me in this room. Barbieri’s had time and opportunity to tamper with everything, and I’m betting he has. There are probably trip wires and incendiary devices in the walls. There are probably thugs hiding in the closets, brandishing knives and guns, ready to fill me with lead.
How fucking cliché. Maybe he expects me to leave, now that I know he’s wise to my arrival. I’m not going to bend to his will, though. He can go fuck himself.
I hit the call button on the elevator, stab the button for floor number seven once I’m inside, then I wait for the doors to roll closed, sending the shittiest look possible to the receptionist.
“It’s your funeral, Mr. Mayfair,” she calls after me. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
******
If the suite is rigged with explosives, I can’t find them. There are no weapon-toting heavies in any of the closets either, or lurking behind the doors. The bathroom doesn’t even have a curtain for anyone to hide behind, and the bed is one of those ridiculous Japanese creations that’s only an inch off the ground, so no way there’s anyone secreted away underneath that.
There’s a mint on the pillow, just as there would be if this were a proper hotel, and tiny bottles of shampoo and shower gel sit on a marble dish next to the sink. On the antique wooden desk next to the window sits a bottle of something else entirely: Johnny Walker Blue, worth about five hundred bucks, if I’m not mistaken. It rests on top of a neatly folded slip of paper. I slide the note out from underneath the bottle, scanning the strangely neat, feminine handwriting that loops all over the paper.
Mr. Mayfair. Thank you for finally answering my summons. We’re honored that you’ve have chosen to grace us with your presence. I’m sorry it took such drastic measures to get you here, however I am not a man who likes to be ignored. You will learn this about me in time. Since I see you have obviously declined to accept my generous offer of rooms elsewhere, please make yourself comfortable here until I send for you. I hope you find everything to your liking.
R. Barbieri.
Please make yourself comfortable until I send for you? Bitch fucking please. Does he think I’ve come here to fall at his feet and beg for his stupid job? Does he think I’ve come out to the east coast with my tail tucked between my legs? Does he not realize I’ve come out here to fucking kill him?
I screw up the note and toss it in the trash, then I set my duffel bag on the end of the bed and I unzip it. I could up-end the bag and dump its contents out onto the comforter in less than a second, but I’m fuming right now. Instead, I remove the items from inside slowly, carefully, setting them out one by one in front of me, allowing myself the pleasure of imagining how I might use each one to end Roberto Barbieri’s life. It’s very fucking satisfying. Very satisfying indeed.
I take apart the Desert Eagle and I clean it meticulously until it’s gleaming. I load it, slide it into my waistband at the small of my back and head for the door.
Roberto Barbieri’s gonna wish he’d never been fucking born. I yank the door open, and there’s a woman standing directly in front of me with her hand raised, knuckles about to rap on my door. She jumps, leaping back.
“Shit! You scared me.”
“I’m good at that,” I growl. She’s young. Pretty. Her dark hair is curling around her face, and her makeup looks like it’s been professionally applied. She’s wearing a light, knee-length jacket, synched tight at the waist, and a pair of knee high black suede boots with ridiculously high heels.
She’s afraid. She’s also a hooker. I can tell just by looking at her. “I think you have the wrong room,” I say slowly.
She swallows, the muscles in her throat working overtime as she looks over my shoulder at the door. “No. This is the only suite on this floor. I was sent here specifically.”
“Well you can leave now. I didn’t order room service.”
The girl’s cheeks flush. She’s offended. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not the kind of dish you can send back to the kitchen.”
I lean forward, running my tongue over my teeth, studying her face. She bears a passing resemblance to Sloane. I’m not stupid enough to think that’s a coincidence. These guys are fucking high if they think I’m this easily distracted. Or tempted, for that matter.
“Turn around. W
alk back down the hallway. Get back on the elevator. Do not come up here again. Do you understand?”
The girl—she can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two—stares back at me defiantly. “You haven’t even seen what’s on the menu yet. Why don’t you take a look before you act so rashly?” She quickly unfastens her coat, allowing it to part, revealing a black lace bra and panties, both see-thru, both barely covering her tanned, toned body. She’s wearing a black lace choker around her neck—one with a shining steel loop attached to it. She’s prepped and ready to be abused, that much is clear.
A couple of years ago, before I met Sloane in that dark hotel room for the first time, my dick would have already been growing hard in my pants. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I would have taken hold of her, my fingers biting into her flesh. I would have picked her up and carried her back into the room behind me, thrown her down onto the bed and I would have held onto her tight while I slid my cock into that pouty little mouth of hers.
A lot has changed since then, though. My dick doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even twitch. The only animalistic part of me that responds to this blatant sexual display is my temper.
I place my hand on her shoulder and I push the girl away from me, snarling. “I don’t care if your pussy is fucking gold plated, bitch. Get the fuck off my floor before I toss you back in the elevator myself. I’m not known for being gentle.”
She adopts a sulky, prettily frustrated expression. “But Daddy, what if I want you to be rough?”
Daddy? Did she just call me Daddy? I tip my head back and I laugh. I’m six months away from earning that title. It’s a sacred, precious title to me now, and the fact that this half naked prostitute it trying to use it to turn me on is both fucking hysterical and infuriating at the same time. I allow my laughter to die on my lips. Taking a step forward, I pull the door closed behind me, clear my throat, and then I reach up and grab hold of the girl. I take a handful of her hair in my hand and I grip onto it tight, pulling.
“Ow! Ow, stop, you’re hurting me!”
I set off walking down the hallway, pulling her along behind me.
“Fuck, asshole! I said stop!” she cries.
“And I said fuck off. Twice. You don’t appear to be listening, though.”
I stride down the hall, my footfall muffled by the thick, high-pile carpet beneath my feet. The girl stumbles, struggling to keep up as I pull her along behind me. “Slow down. Jesus, you bastard. Let me go!”
I release her just as we arrive in front of the elevator. She staggers away from me, holding a hand to the side of her head, wincing. “There was no need for that,” she hisses.
“Wasn’t there?” The elevator doors roll open. I gesture inside, giving the girl a meaningful look—get your ass in there right now, or I will put you in there. She scowls, cursing me out non-too subtly under her breath.
“You know I won’t get paid now, right?”
“It’s six-thirty. I’m sure you’ll be ridden hard and put up wet by someone else within the hour. Now disappear.”
I reach inside the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. The girl flips me off as the doors close and she vanishes. I wait for the car to descend. I’d rather stand here and waste five minutes than ride down to the ground floor with a hooker.
I look out of the window to my right, out into the darkness, and a bright dot of light catches my attention. Red. Small, yet noticeable. I make my way over to the window, and I see him: a dark figure standing on the roof of La Cucina Del Diavolo. He pulls on his cigarette one more time, standing there, staring back at me, then he tosses his smoke over the edge of the roof, turns and melts into the shadows.
SIX
MASON
I’m out of vodka. I’m out of whiskey. I’m out of tequila. There are a couple of beers left in the fridge, but beer isn’t going to cut it right now. I need something strong. Strong enough to take the edge off for a start. And once the edge is nicely dulled, it’d be great to throw back some more liquor until I can’t remember my own name. That’s the real end goal here. I don’t want to know myself. I want to become strangers with my pain again. I want to be distanced from it, and not ‘other side of the country’ distant, either. I want to be ‘other side of the galaxy’ distant.
I want to forget.
The apartment’s cold. I haven’t paid the gas bill, so the heating stopped working at some point, I’m not sure when. The thing about being drunk most of the time is that you don’t always feel the cold, so I could have been sitting in uncomfortably chilly conditions for days now, weeks even, and I simply haven’t noticed. I can hear the gentle, persistent hum of the fridge, so the electricity hasn’t been shut off. Yet.
There are empty pizza boxes and cartons of rotting Chinese food perched on every available counter. The sink is full of dirty dishes, and the trashcan is overflowing and starting to stink. I don’t give a shit about any of that stuff, though. I sit in the old, tatty armchair I used to read to Millie in every night, her tiny body braced against mine as I told her to turn the pages of whatever book we were reading for the fifteenth time. I sit there and I stare at the stack of boxes piled up in the corner of the room. There are only four of them. Four small boxes, taped closed and gathering dust.
All of her things are inside those boxes. All of her clothes. All of her books. All of her toys. All of her drawings and her pre-school reports and her medical records. I threw every scrap of paper and cloth related to my sister into those cardboard boxes and I taped them closed, placed them one on top of the other behind the door, and I’ve sat here and stared at them every day since.
I’m supposed to start work at the gym tomorrow. I’m supposed to show up there at eight in the morning and open the place for Zeth, but I can’t see it happening. Honestly, I already know what I’m going to do tonight; the likelihood of me seeing any of the AM hours is slim to none. I sit and I stare at the boxes for another fifteen minutes, then I get up out of the armchair, grab my coat, and leave the apartment.
There’s a liquor store five blocks away. Should still be open. I pull up the hood on my jacket and stuff my hands deep into my pockets as I start walking. It’s the end of autumn, almost spring, but Seattle is still cold, still cloudy, still buffeted by wind most days. I barely even notice the outside elements, though. I’m wet, soaked to the skin by a fine rain, by the time I cross the final street, rounding the corner to Abe’s Fine Wine and Liquor Store. The place is lit up, yellow light pouring out onto the dark street, and there are people inside, talking at the cash register.
Thank the lord the place is still open. I would have had to go to a bar to drink otherwise, and I’m not in the mood to get shit faced in public. I push the door open, and the place is instantly too bright, too loud, too hot, too overwhelming.
“Hey!”
I head toward the back of the store, to where the bottles of whiskey are kept in a locked glass cabinet.
“Hey! Asshole!”
I turn around, and the overweight guy behind the counter is staring right at me. He shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “No hoods, man. You come in, you gotta take down your hood.”
“Sorry.” I push back my hood and I grin, baring my teeth at him. He doesn’t seem very impressed by my obviously hostile action. He’s probably reaching for the baseball bat he undoubtedly keeps stashed behind the register there with him at all times, preparing himself because I ‘look like trouble.’ I do look like trouble. I am trouble. If anyone looks sideways at me right now, I’m liable to start swinging before they can even open their mouths.
I pick out which bottle of whiskey I want, and I wave the clerk over. He simply grunts when I point out what I want to buy, and opens up the thick sliding glass door on the cabinet only enough to remove the bottle from the shelf before he’s quickly locking the cabinet back up again. He doesn’t hand over the bottle to me; he clutches it tightly to his chest.
“Be up on the counter for you when you’re ready to pay,” he says curtly. Fucking
cunt. As if I’m going to steal a bottle of whiskey. I’m a violent, volatile human being right now, but I’m hardly at the point when I’m stooping to steal right from under his nose.
I’m disheveled and bleary-eyed, though. I have dark bruises on my face. I obviously haven’t been taking very good care of myself, so I can see why he might be suspicious of me. I don’t bother buying ice. Ice will only water down the alcohol. I settle up with the clerk, then I carry the bottle outside and I consider opening up the brown paper bag immediately so I can take a few healthy gulps before I head back in the direction of home, but I manage to stop myself. I manage to keep myself in che—”
“Mason?”
My heart stutters to a full stop. Looking up, I see the woman standing only a few feet away from me and I nearly throw up on the spot.
Kaya Rayne.
She’s wearing that Parka of hers, the fur all tufty and wet from the rain, her cropped, short blonde hair curling a little, damp-looking and all over the place. She’s standing next to some douche bag wearing a varsity letterman jacket of all things, his arm slung around her shoulders. He’s covered in tattoos, his bottom lip pierced along with his eyebrow, and the very first thing I do, the very first, is I imagine fish-hooking the motherfucker and tearing the metal straight out of his face.
“Mason. Jesus,” Kaya whispers. “What the hell?” She looks stunned. I mean, I don’t really blame her. I look like dog shit. I haven’t shaved in well over two weeks. I’ve gone beyond the fashionable stubble phase and moved directly into the unkempt vagrant phase. With my split lip and the fading black eye I’m currently sporting, I can picture how fucked up I look. I see it the pity in Kaya’s eyes and I want to curl up and fucking die. I can’t do that, though. I’ve been trying to do that for the past month and it doesn’t work. So instead I flash Kaya and her letterman date my most winning smile, bowing deeply to them both.