“That’s above my pay grade.”
We finish our drinks in silence, then I excuse myself to take a piss.
I head upstairs. In one room, a group is singing happy birthday. I hit the parlour across the hall first. It’s empty. Takes me ten seconds to set up the first bug, then I stride across the room to do another. Two per room is my goal. Might only get one in the room with the birthday party, we’ll see.
I work methodically, moving room to room. I don’t skip the bathroom, either. Good conversations had there.
Finally I circle back to the birthday group. A waiter approaches with a stack of plates, and I hold the door open for her.
“Thank you,” she says gratefully.
No, thank you, I think to myself as I follow her in. The first bug goes on the door, facing the room. Then I do a quick scan. I don’t know anyone in here. This can go two ways—either everyone will assume I’m with someone else, or they’ll all know I’m an outsider who doesn’t belong.
I can roll with either of those scenarios, but it’s better if I can anticipate which I’ll encounter. Do they look like they’re all intimate friends? Or are some separated by more than one degree? Small, clustered conversations. The guest of honor is bobbing her head back and forth between two zones, trying to stay in two conversations at the same time.
They don’t all know each other. I’m sure of it.
I move past the waiter, acting like I belong. Maybe I’m a manager or a date of a guest. In my head I’m working up a cover story as I do a quick visual check of the far wall. There’s a thermostat. Perfect. I stride to it confidently, notch the heat down a few degrees, leave a bug, and flash a smile at the guests nearest as I do so. “Getting hot in here.”
They laugh and say it sure is.
And I’m done.
I rejoin Deacon at the bar.
“Long line for the bathroom?” he asks, swirling a new drink around in his glass.
“Had to go upstairs.”
“This place is crazy some nights.”
Some more than others. I still need to get into the guest rooms, but I’ll do that tomorrow morning when the maids are cleaning. “Good place to see and be seen, though.”
He snorts. “Then why are we here?”
It was a good question. Why was he here?
This is thing about friendship when you’re in my line of business. You can’t truly trust anyone. Everyone is hiding something. Everyone has an agenda. Two. More. Agendas inside ideologies studded with debts and expectations and tied up with so many strings…
Washington. Fucking cesspool. And to think that when I moved here, I thought it was magical.
—four—
Tabitha
San Francisco
He calls a little after midnight, Pacific time. Three in the morning for him. One ring, then he hangs up. A signal for me to call back once I’m alone.
I shoo everyone out of my suite, telling them I need to get some sleep.
Instead, I pick up the bottle of tequila I’ve been drinking from and head into my room, heart pounding.
He answers on the first ring, his voice chill and laid-back as always. “Have a good show?”
I hate small talk. “It was fine.”
He doesn’t reply right away. I don’t want to talk about the tour, or performing. Also off-limits are discussions about my manager, my label, and why I’ve refused to see Wilson for almost four months.
We have this. That has to be enough for now.
I take a deep breath. “What did you do tonight?”
He laughs. “Knocked the shit out of assholes for money.”
“That’s healthy.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he drops his voice. Less chill, more intense. “I want you to come watch me fight some time.”
“I’ve been to fights in Vegas. I hate them.”
“What I do isn’t like anything you’d see in Vegas, secret girl.”
Oh, it’s going to be that kind of night. Someone’s horny, and he knows the pet name gets me going despite myself. I roll onto my side. “I’d go and watch.” This is our shared, impossible fantasy. It makes my chest ache. “Tell me about it.”
I picture him prowling into a dark industrial park. Hoodie up, slim sweatpants. He’d look like a teenage punk. I asked him once how old he is. He doesn’t look like he’s in his mid-thirties, but he swears his baby face is more of a curse than a blessing.
He obviously hasn’t spent enough time in Hollywood.
“So there’s some waiting around, watching the other fights,” he says, still setting the scene for me.
“Is it dangerous?”
“Do you want it to be?”
I press my thighs together. “I want you to stand between me and danger.”
“I do.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath because we’ve drifted out of the fantasy and into reality. I hate reality. “How many people?”
“A hundred, maybe. Tonight there weren’t that many. Only a handful of dates, no big rollers in person.”
“In person? Where else…is this filmed?” My heart starts to pound.
“Live steamed to interested parties that pay top dollar for access.”
“You aren’t worried about that?”
“I don’t worry about anything.”
I know that. I still don’t believe it, but I understand he does. “I worry.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
His voice wraps around me, pressing into my skin. The words prick into me like thorns—and I like the sharp pierce a little too much. I need to get this back on track. “What would I wear to this fight of yours?”
“Whatever you want.”
“But if you could dress me?”
He grunts, a rough, guttural noise that makes me squirm. “Jean skirt. Short. Black tank top.”
What I’m wearing.
“And a leather jacket to keep you warm. No bra.”
“Panties?”
“A thong. Easy to pull aside.”
“And would you?”
Another noise, this one more helpless and in the back of his throat. This is what he called me for. My brazen, no-limits phone sex. My total and utter depravity.
“Would you finger me while I watch two men pummel each other? Would you go into your own fight with my come on your fingers, leaving me shaking and helpless at the sidelines?”
“I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“Who would hold me? Who would you trust?”
“I don’t trust anyone.” And that’s the thing, isn’t it…we’re alone in this together. Us against the world, trusting no-one. “I’d bring a guard.”
“Would he touch me?”
“Never.”
“Even if I wanted him to?” This is cruel of me. I know he’s possessive. I know he hates that I’m off-limits, claimed by another. But he knows that I’m all his in the only way that matters.
“You don’t.” His voice shifts. Heavier, more demanding. “You don’t want anyone else’s fingers on your clit. Inside you. That’s my responsibility. My pleasure.”
“Yes,” I breathe, sliding my hand down my body. I’m wearing a jean skirt now. Short. I flick my gaze to the corner of the room where my traveling wardrobe is set up. Where at least one of Wilson’s cameras is carefully hidden. “Are you watching?”
“Always.”
“Where are you?” It’s not fair that he can see me and I can’t see him.
“At home. Spread your legs.”
“I’m not wearing a thong,” I tease. I’m not wearing anything, and I know he can see that when I slide my legs apart.
“Dirty girl.”
“Always.”
“Don’t steal my lines. What were you doing before you called?”
Eight months ago, I’d have been having sex with half of my crew. Tonight, and every night since Wilson claimed me, I just watched the usual debauchery that spilled out after a show. “There was the usual
thing. I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“I was busy.”
It’s nearly three in the morning on the east coast. “Fights went late?”
“I had a thing after that. Touch yourself. I want to see your fingers slide inside.”
I stroke myself, the outer lips first, then where I’m wet already. I lift my hips and give in to the memory of his fingers spearing into me. Roughly, before I’m ready, because I goaded him into it.
“Slow down,” he says in my ear, and I make a face that makes him laugh. “Put me on speaker so you can use both hands.”
“I like having your voice right in my ear.” To prove my point, I show him I only need one hand. I’m a masturbating ninja.
“Keep saying nice things to me and I’m going to think you want another visit.”
“Want and can handle are two different things.” I pull my hand from between my legs and give him my middle finger. “Your voice makes me wet, nothing else. I like it for depraved reasons.”
“You want a bedtime story?”
I lick my finger and drag it back down my body, tugging at my tank top as I go. “Please.”
“Once upon a time, there was a man who flew to a city of angels in search of answers.”
Oh, that’s a dirty trick, going with this story. My throat tightens even as the rest of my body goes soft and pliant for him.
Wilson holds the pause just long enough to make me ache. “He found a dark, dirty siren instead. She tempted him, and he fell hopelessly in lust with her.”
The feeling had been completely mutual, the bastard. He’d twisted me inside out with a single look.
“But she lived in a tall tower, guarded by an ugly troll, and there was no way for him to get up, nor her to get down. So he found a way to send her messages instead. Dirty stories of all the filthy things he wanted to do to her. To her mouth. Her pussy. Her ass.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Are you jerking yourself off?”
“Hush. Listen to your story. So one night, he found a way to talk to her. To tell her how much he wanted to taste her. To bury his face between her legs and lick her until she squirmed. And as he talked to her, she touched herself. She told him how soft and wet and perfect she was for him, and only him.”
“I am. And only for you,” I whisper. He really has made me a romantic in my own way.
I’m totally going to break his heart. The tightness in my throat moves into my chest. Whatever. My heart is already broken.
“Lemme hear you come,” he says, his voice fading into a groan. I picture him squeezing his cock, tugging faster around the head, then backing off again. Edging himself because torture is all we’ve got.
Fuck. My entire torso’s consumed with that heat now, the uncomfortable claiming, and I writhe, against it and toward it. My head thrashes away from the phone, and his voice is distant for a second, but then I twist back.
“Fill yourself up. Fuck yourself and imagine it’s me.” Rough, harsh commands. I close my eyes and my lips part. I can feel his fingers inside me, then wet against my thighs. My belly. His hand on my neck, a squeeze to make me gasp. Then he’d thrust his cock into me and I’d cry out. He’d silence me with his fingers, slick with the taste of me, and I’d suck on him because I’m a dirty fallen angel.
All for him, now.
How my life has changed.
—five—
Wilson
Dawn crawls though the bare, bulletproof windows of my loft, waking me up. In my dreams, I could smell Tabitha on my fingers, taste her on my tongue.
Now I lie in bed, angry and frustrated and impatient. This bullshit has gone on long enough. Fuck. Until I met her last summer, I didn’t do emotional reactions—ever. And now I’m a caged tiger half the time, prowling because my mate’s on the other side of the country and out of reach.
I’m protecting her, though. On her terms.
And I get it. She has a lot of people that depend on the life she leads. The business empire beneath her.
Being mine would threaten all of that.
I force myself out of bed. No more thinking about that. The wheels are in motion. I need to be patient.
I work out first. I’m sore from the fights last night, and it feels good to get blood flowing through my muscles again. Punching bag, pushups, situps. Repeat over and over again until I hear my programmed coffee maker hiss to life.
Shower.
Protein drink.
Coffee.
The office is empty when I arrive. We used to have a receptionist, but she up and quit unexpectedly, and we’ve never hired another one. That was Jason’s call, and I don’t care. I don’t have clients that come to see me.
I’m the eyes and ears of The Horus Group. I watch our clients, their enemies, possible sources, and anyone else who crosses our path. I dig deep into backgrounds and identities, looking for patterns and disruptions.
Sometimes I’m a hacker, following the digital trail of criminals and politicians and businesses.
People hate politicians, and with good reason. Power is corrupting.
But big business is where the truly scary stuff is happening, because nobody’s really watching. Sure, there are federal watch dogs, but the reality is, they’re underfunded and staffed by people who think in terms of black and white. Right and wrong.
That’s not how the business world works.
That’s not how the richest of the rich think—at all. They genuinely think the rules are different for them, that they can operate with impunity and outside the law, because history has given them that ego.
Even the people who are made examples of are relatively “poor” compared to the chess masters. The puppeteers.
PRISM, for example. A shadowy extra governmental organization with unlimited funds and shadowy purpose.
We used to work for them.
Now…well, that’s a bit in flux. Part of that is because of Cole’s experience with his wife. He met Hailey when we were hired to get her father out of trouble—felony-level trouble.
Since he’s a billionaire and we’re good at our jobs, we did it handily. No more dead hooker. No problem.
I’m not so depraved that I didn’t feel a little sick as we disposed of the body. But we had our orders—from PRISM.
We didn’t find out that Hailey’s mother is a PRISM stakeholder until much later.
Too late.
But we’re going to make it right. Tonight is the first foray we’re making into actively investigating them, and I’m stoked about it. Of course I am, I’m an adrenaline junkie.
It doesn’t matter what the risk is, either. Physical harm, good. But hacking gives me the same kind of rush.
I log in to my systems. I’ve got a few different ones set up, all on different networks, routed through cloaking software. This morning I’m doing a couple of things. Running background on Victor Best is on the to-do list. We’ve got a dossier on everyone, including him, but I want to make sure it’s complete. He’d slipped off my radar when he went political, because fringe candidates are usually whackos more intent on hearing their own voices than actually manipulating the process to get real results.
But if he’s going to have Secret Service protection, he’s got real credibility.
Something tells me this is bad fucking news.
I’m also running some bots in chat rooms. One of them is pretending to be a shy teenage girl. Another, a young man, early twenties, but willing to play younger than that for the right price. The artificial intelligence technology is changing daily, and I’m really pleased with how these bots are producing results. Some of the potential pedophiles catch on that something’s not quite right, but that data is useful, too. I can train the AI bot to not use that kind of response again, whatever triggered the end of the conversation.
“Morning.”
I glance sideways and nod at Cole. He’s in a suit today. “Morning. Heading out?”
“Got a whistleblower client meeting with some agents at the DOJ in a fe
w hours. What are you working on?”
I wave at the screen where the girl bot is playing it coy enough to make the idiot talking to her say something stupid. “The usual.”
“Who is he?” Cole leans in and looks at the scrolling data. This is best and worst part of my job. While the bots are engaging, I’m tracing as much as I can from the digital footprint of the asshole on the other end. In this case, it’s a firefighter in Florida who doesn’t even know how to use a proxy server.
“A father of teenage boys. Twice divorced. Owns his house, but he’s got some debt. Has bounced through a couple of fire departments. At the rate he moves through jobs, he might not be fun to work with. Anger issues, maybe. He’s being aggressive with the bot. Pushing her.”
Cole clenches his fist until his knuckles turn white. “Fucking endless.”
“Yep. Get out of my office unless you want to see some shit you’ll never un-see.”
He steps back, but he doesn’t leave. “Why did you meet with Deacon Webb?”
“Last night?”
“How many times have you met with him?”
I type a command into the dialog box on my screen and a new search script begins, looking for irregular cash withdrawals. Has he hired any hookers in real life? “I see Webb from time to time when I’m in L.A. Why?”
“You haven’t mentioned that.”
“I didn’t realize I need to. How did you know we ran into each other last night?”
Cole doesn’t say anything. The night’s activities flash through my mind like a slideshow. I hadn’t seen him. I frown and spin around in my chair.
He’s rubbing his jaw, but he’s not avoiding my gaze. So it wasn’t him, and it wasn’t Tag, either. For one thing, Tag would have just come over. Stealth isn’t his style. And for another, he doesn’t always assume the worst of me. “Jason?”
Cole shrugs.
Sometimes we’re fucking assholes to each other. I give him a hard look. “I went to drop the first round of wires. Jason knew that, there’s no secret. I saw Webb at the bar, and stopped to have a drink with him. We talked about his work, mostly. Key question really is, why was Jason there—if he didn’t come over and talk to me—and why isn’t he having this conversation with me now?”
Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3) Page 2