Undressed To The Nines: A Thriller Novel (Drew Stirling Book 1)

by Jayden Hunter

  “I want to feel you,” she said in a pleading voice.

  She was getting lightheaded as the whiskey had throughly circulated through her bloodstream. She didn’t think she could handle any more adrenaline, but she didn’t want to stop. Lance came to her, and she struggled with the tie, but it held securely.

  Lance reached down and removed the pillowcase from her eyes. “I’m spent,” he said. “Do you need some water?”

  “God, please,” she said. “Can you get this off me?”

  He untied her and kissed the top of her head. There were clothes and pillows and shoes and socks scattered all over the floor. Lance grabbed water bottles out of the room’s minibar, and he sat next to her on the bed. They drank in silence.

  Lance put his head on a pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I’d like you to stay the night,” he said. “I need to leave by seven, but the room has a late check-out. You can stay until one if you’d like.”

  Drew moved next to him and put her head on his chest. “I’d like that,” she said. They both fell asleep.

  When the house phone in the room rang at three in the morning, they were both startled out of a deep and satisfying post-coitus sleep. Congressman Boyd answered the phone in a fully alert and businesslike voice.

  “Yes?”

  He listened. Drew was only half awake, but she could tell whoever called had important and troubling information. Maybe every phone call a politician receives is important she thought. Certainly a call at three in the morning had to be.

  “Fuck. Fucking shit, why’d you think he came out late on a Saturday?” Boyd said into the phone.

  Congressman Boyd hung up and looked at Drew. “Could you make a pot of coffee, love? I have to go.”

  “Sure. Let me use the girl’s room first,” she said. Drew moved like she was coming out of a coma. She rubbed her temples and headed towards the bathroom. “It looks like a hurricane came through here.”

  When she came back into the room, he was ironing his shirt. She took over and said, “Grab a shower.” He handed her the iron and started picking up the rest of the clothes. He threw his stretched out tie into the trash and then picked up her clothes and piled them neatly on the edge of the bed.

  Drew had put on one of the hotel’s white bathrobes.

  “You’re sexy as hell,” he said.

  “Thanks, but it’s too fucking early. No talking.”

  She went to the minibar and started making a pot of coffee. She felt him watching her.

  He walked into the bathroom. “I’d better jump in the shower. Sorry about this. I need to catch a plane. Office emergency. Stay and sleep in. Order room service for breakfast. Like I said, you have the room up until one this afternoon if you want.”

  She searched for a coffee mug and found one that had “Stolen from the Blackstone” embossed in black lettering. She set the mug on the counter and wondered how he took his coffee. Probably black. She walked back to the bed and curled up into the covers like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

  She was half asleep when she felt his lips kiss her forehead.

  “Let’s do this again?” he asked her in a quiet voice.

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The average person misplaces up to nine items a day...

  ~ Sumathi Reddy

  The first time you kill another human, it’s a shock. I had nightmares. But by the tenth time, it’s just a job.

  ~ Brandon Hull

  Brandon Hull took a separate car to the airport. He tried to maintain some distance between himself and the Congressman in public. He was always careful but not overly paranoid. He went to the charter counter and filled out forms, paid the deposit, and checked the time. It had been forty minutes since he’d called Boyd. He expected him any minute.

  “You ex-military?” the young man behind the counter asked.

  “Marine.”

  “Nice. You serve anywhere dangerous or anything?”

  “Sure, ‘Nam, Afghanistan, other places.”

  The young man was polite, but curious. He asked Hull what kind of work he did now, impressed that he’d just chartered a jet at the last minute in the middle of the night. Hull just answered him with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Security. Investigation.

  “I’m still protecting America, even though I’m private sector these days.” This was what got Hull out of bed in the morning. Protecting America. Against all enemies. Foreign and domestic.

  Hull looked up when he heard voices and saw the Congressman walking in with the pilot. They were talking and laughing. Apparently, they’d flown together before.

  Boyd introduced him to the pilot. They exchanged pleasantries and headed to the plane.

  By the time they were in the air, it was past four in the morning. Hull watched the Congressman sleep. He found it hard to sleep while on a plane, especially when he had emergencies to handle.

  He wanted to brief the Congressman, make a plan, and discuss the information on the thumb drive. They needed to decide the next course of action. He was wise enough to understand the law of diminishing returns. When someone was overly tired they didn’t think straight. This often led to bad decisions. It was better to let Boyd get a few hours of sleep, and then start figuring out damage control.

  One of the important parts of Hull’s job, and a major reason Boyd happily kept him on a retainer, was his ability to correctly assess threats and potential problems. This was a highly refined skill that not everyone understood. Most people reacted to the wrong threats and dangers. An incoming letter to a congressman that spoke of killing his wife and children or firebombing his church, while troubling, was not a real threat. Those kinds of threats came from frustrated people blowing off steam.

  Hull had once advised Boyd to have the Secret Service check out a donor and supporter who had used Bible quotes and references to God’s will in his correspondence. It turned out the man was a schizophrenic with an unusually large cache of weapons. On paper, he seemed like just another overly zealous religious fan of Boyd’s politics, but between the lines of his writing, Hull had picked up something wrong. Whether this catch saved lives or not, nobody would ever know, but Boyd recognized that not catching these anomalies was risky.

  Hull eventually relaxed his mind. He meditated and rested. Keeping himself alert, yet allowing his body to rest, was a survival skill that had meant the difference between life and death a few times over his career. Nobody was trying to kill him now, at least not physically, but there were forces that could destroy his life just the same. He never regretted the things he had to do, but he knew he’d done things that couldn’t be forgiven.

  He noticed Boyd stir. The pilot announced that they’d start their descent in about fifteen minutes, and the co-pilot walked out of the cockpit. He asked if they’d like him to brew coffee.

  “Yes, please. Thank you,” Hull said.

  “Coffee, please,” said a half-awake voice.

  “You’re awake? We should talk.”

  “Let me use the head and get a cup of coffee.”

  The Congressman told Hull that they’d go over the files on the thumb drive once he was up to speed on the story that had been posted last night in the blogosphere, the reason for Hull’s earlier phone call.

  Hull watched as the Congressman started patting his coat, then his shirt pockets. He stood up and touched each pocket on his slacks. He repeated the procedure. He looked like a seven year old searching for a missing favorite toy. Congressman Boyd rarely lost his cool in front of Hull.

  Hull knew something was seriously wrong as he watched Boyd systematically check every pocket again. He watched him dump out the contents of his carrying case and double check every pocket in the bag.

  “Jesus-Fucking-H-Christ. Fuck. The thumb drive. It’s missing.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.


  ~ Hebrews 13:4 KJV

  I really have no concern about what other adults do in privacy. Honestly, what kind of control freak and asshole do you have to be to care about the sex lives of other people? Now, that said, a pissed off wife? I get that.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  Drew Stirling woke up to her cell phone buzzing. She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on the screen to see who woke her up so early. She realized it was already seven thirty, not so early when she had an eight o’clock meeting on location, and Marc was picking her up to carpool. It wasn’t often they’d shoot on a Sunday, but they’d acquired permission to use a historical building only available today. They were meeting a few other models and photographers, all friends of theirs. Being a few minutes late wouldn’t cause a problem, but Drew hated not being on time for anything.

  “I’m sorry, Marc,” she said answering her cell. “I really overslept.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m out front whenever you’re ready to go.”

  Drew told him that she’d be home in a few minutes. She apologized several times. Marc told her it was okay, but she sensed he felt awkward too because she’d just told him yesterday she had other plans for Saturday night when he’d asked her out to dinner. She was going to have to show up in a short dress and heels looking like she’d slept in her clothes, which she did notice were piled neatly at the end of the bed. She smiled.

  Not wanting to put on the same clothes after showering, Drew decided to get dressed quickly and run home. She’d explain to Marc later and apologize again. She sent a text to her roommate and asked her if she was up, to let Marc in, and to see if he wanted a coffee.

  Drew got dressed but could only find one of her shoes. She looked around the room and couldn’t find it. She crawled on her hands and knees, lifted up the comforter, and peered under the bed. Sure enough, there it was. As she reached under the bed to grab the shoe, her hand hit a small device. She pulled it out and looked at it. She thought she recognized it. It was common enough. She put the drive in her purse and left.

  The sun was out so Drew put down the top of her convertible and turned up the radio. She sang during the whole drive home. She didn’t care if she looked crazy. She felt high, the result of infatuation and great sex.

  When Drew pulled into her apartment complex, she spotted Marc in the visitor parking spot and waved to him. “I take it Julie isn’t up?”

  “No. Or at least I haven’t seen her. She wouldn’t have known I was here. I didn’t knock seeing as your car was gone.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry again.” She blushed and realized her hair was a giant mess, her makeup was smeared, and she smelled of stale sweat. She felt that she’d been caught in a lie. From his perspective, she realized, she hadn’t lied. She’d told him she had plans last night and it appeared to him that she’d gone out. Just like she’d told him. But she felt guilty now because she hadn’t had plans when she’d told him she did, only afterwards.

  “I did text her to let you in, but I guess she’s still asleep.”

  “People do that on Sundays. It’s no problem. Go, get ready. Don’t worry about me.”

  Drew invited him in, made some coffee, and grabbed a quick shower.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Julie was up drinking coffee with Marc.

  “So, tell me, how was that experience?” she was asking him.

  “Amazing, I’d love to go back to Maui,” he said. “I have some really awesome pictures from my trip, mostly just-for-fun stuff, but I’d like to go back and do more professional work.” They were still chatting when Drew had gathered up her supplies for the day’s sets, changed purses, and put some extra outfits into her work bag. They were going to do a variety of different set-ups today, and she needed to have her own clothes and makeup. She finally sat down after she’d gathered all her things and placed them by the door.

  “We are going to be late,” she said as she poured herself the last cup of coffee.

  “No problem,” Marc said. “I texted Kim and told her what to set up. It’s no problem, really. Relax and enjoy your coffee.”

  “He’s so sweet,” Julie said to Drew.

  “True,” Drew said, “Look, Marc, I’m sorry about last night. It’s complicated. I —”

  “Don’t need to explain.”

  “Wait,” Julie said. “I assumed you two —”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  Julie laughed. She said she was sorry to bring it up, it was none of her business, and she didn’t mean to make assumptions. She changed the subject.

  Drew felt guilty, but they were all grown-ups, and she didn’t owe anything to Marc. She promised herself she’d explain later and apologize again. She made a point to tell herself that in the future she should be more forthright with men that were also friends.

  “Let’s go,” Drew said. “I’m driving if you don’t have too much equipment?”

  “No. Just a small bag. Most of the stuff is with Kim. She’s setting up now.” They headed outside and got into Drew’s car.

  “Music?”

  “Sure, anything.” He looked at her. “You look nice, even when you aren’t trying.”

  “Thank you.” Drew patted his leg above the knee.

  Drew started singing with the radio and Marc followed suit. They were both singing along to the B-52’s “Rock Lobster” when they pulled up to the set location. Drew left the radio blaring, and they ended up gathering a crowd before the song ended.

  This is how rumors get started.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Deeply regret, deeply regret, regret, regret, regrettable, regrettable thing, Weiner chanted.

  ~ Jack Shafer

  I’ve stayed single for a very simple reason: no one to apologize to. Never do I have to say “that was regrettable” to anything other than a mirror.

  ~ Brandon Hull

  Brandon Hull stayed on the chartered plane and flew back to Bristol from D.C. He and the Congressman had decided it would be best for him to try and find the thumb drive. It had to be in the room. Boyd would go to his office and get up to speed on whatever stories were online.

  Hull decided he’d better get some sleep if he could, so he took off his shoes, closed his eyes, and half-slept until the plane touched down in Bristol a couple of hours later.

  Politicians, I swear, if I had a dollar for every time one of them made a mess thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

  Hull rented a car and drove to the Blackstone. He went to the front desk and told the receptionist that he’d lost his passkey. After he showed his driver’s license and credit card, he smiled at her when she asked, “One of those nights?”

  He went to the elevator and rode it to the top floor. He paused for a second and decided to knock. There was no reason to scare the shit out of the young woman who could still be in there asleep. He and Boyd had decided not to call her. They surmised if she had found the thumb drive, she’d have texted him. If not, better for everyone.

  No answer. He knocked again louder then opened the door.

  “Room service,” he shouted. “Anyone inside?” Still no answer. He walked in and shut the door. The room hadn’t been cleaned yet by hotel staff, but it seemed reasonably straightened up. The bed appeared half made-up and in the bathroom the dirty towels were piled neatly in one spot. A few partially used toiletries remained on the counter. Nothing personal seemed left behind. He started a methodical search.

  The Congressman had put the thumb drive in his pocket the night before and had come straight to the room from the bar. Hull would go there next, but it was reasonable to assume that with all the undressing and drunken sex, the thumb drive had just fallen out of his pocket. Hull started by looking in the obvious places: under the bed, the desk, the sofa. He tore off the sofa cushions and searched each crack and crevice. He tore down the bed, the comforter, the sheets, the pillows. He double-checked everything.

  It wasn’t there.

  He we
nt through the room a third time before he was certain it was not in the suite. It might have slipped out at the bar, but the logical assumption was that the girl picked it up. She seemed to have cleaned up a bit before she’d left, prim and proper upbringing and all. God forbid the housekeepers see the bed all messy. They might assume a couple had sex.

  So the question was why hadn’t she called or at least sent a text to Boyd? He still had the same burner phone. There were no messages. No texts. No voicemails. No missed calls.

  Why hadn’t she let Boyd know she’d picked up a thumb drive that was obviously his?

  Hull went down to the bar and talked to the staff on the off chance someone had found a thumb drive there the night before. They sent him to the front desk to ask about lost and found items. No sign of a missing thumb drive. The young woman behind the counter said, “We’ll call if it shows up. Please fill out this form.” Hull filled out the form.

  Hull called Boyd. “It’s not here,” he said.

  “Fucking goddamn it. Piss. Fuck. Damn. Motherfucker. Shit.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When you're acting, you're a person. When you're modeling, you're a hanger.

  ~ Analeigh Tipto

  I’ve been asked to audition for a few things other than a modeling reality show and a few commercials. I’ve avoided the idea. Not because I was afraid of failure. I knew success would mean never pursuing my real dreams.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  Marc Chase said hello to the other models, and they discussed the plans for the day’s session. Marc had been able to secure the site by calling in a few favors, and he wanted to get in as much shooting as he could. The Witherspoon Library building had a long history in Bristol, and its beautiful architecture was often used in promotional material for the Commerce Department and other city functions. Marc’s plan was a bit more spicy.