by R. R. Banks
“That was incredible,” she says.
I nod distractedly as I zip up my pants and buckle my belt. “Yeah, that was fun.”
Sarah traces her fingertip down my chest. “We should do that again sometime,” she says. “Soon.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “That'd be great. Listen I gotta run. Duty calls and all.”
I walk around and get in behind the wheel of my car. Sarah leans in through the open window and hands me a piece of paper. I look at it questioningly.
“It's my number,” she says. “Call me.”
I give her my best thousand-watt smile. “Yeah, absolutely,” I say. “I had fun tonight. Thanks, Sarah.”
Her smile fades immediately, and an annoyed look crosses her face. “It's Sabrina.”
“Right, Sabrina,” I reply. “Sorry. I'm terrible with names.”
I start the car up and back out of my space, giving her a wave as I accelerate out of the parking lot. Even as I turn out onto the street, I imagine that I can still see the look of anger and disapproval on her face. Sabrina. Not Sarah.
Oh well, it wasn't like I was going to see her again.
“Yeah, that could've gone smoother,” I say to myself.
Stopped at a red light, I lean down and grab my laptop, setting it on the seat next to me and open it up. The tracking program is already up and running and I can see the little red dot that marks my target's car. It's stopped a little way up the road from where I am.
I breathe a little sigh of relief that he hadn't gotten out of the transmitter's range. I'd be there in a few minutes, get what I need to wrap this job up, and move on to something else. Hopefully, something a little more interesting.
Chapter Two
I pull to a stop at the far end of the parking lot, kill the lights, and shut off the engine. I look at the flashing neon sign that proudly proclaims this fine establishment to be The Starlight Motel. It looks like the type of joint that rents out rooms by the hour.
“Classy as hell, man,” I say.
My target, one Richard Barrett, has apparently been having an affair for the last few months. And his wife, Margaret Barrett – my client – is apparently none too pleased by it. Which is why she hired me to get some incriminating photos of Mr. Barrett in the act with his mistress – who, after a little light digging, I found to be one of the clerks at the local grocery store.
At least, he isn't banging his secretary and becoming that tired, old cliché.
I grab my bag of equipment and get out of the car and walk across the parking lot. I stop by his car and take a look around before removing the tracking device I'd planted on it. Those things aren't cheap and I'm not made of money, after all. As a freelancer, I'm responsible for all my own gear. If I lose or break something, it comes out of my pocket. So yeah, I'm careful with my shit.
Tucking the tracker back in my bag, I look at the motel. All the doors face the parking lot with large windows beside each one. I scratch at the stubble on my chin and try to figure out how I'm going to figure out which room he's in. I can see a dozen rooms with the lights on behind drawn curtains, which tells me that he's probably in one of those. Which doesn't do a whole lot to narrow down the possibilities for me.
I can smash his car window and set of his alarm. But if I do that, he could be pissed enough that it ruins his evening with the clerk. Which means that I don't get the photos I need to close this case and move on to something else. And seriously, the last thing I want to do is spend another night tailing this guy around town.
I take a look at the motel office and decide to see if I can get the intel I need from the clerk. I slip my hands into my coat pockets and walk across the parking lot. There is an electronic chime as I step through the door. Closing it behind me, I step to the counter and wait.
A couple of minutes pass by and still nobody comes to the counter. I'm getting irritated and impatient, and bang on the bell sitting on the desk a couple of times.
“Hello?” I call.
A door behind the counter opens up and a man stumbles out. He's slovenly and completely disheveled. He can't be that much older than I am, has got a large beer gut, brown hair that's already thinning, and skin that looks pale and greasy. A thin film of sweat makes his face glisten and I can hear the distinct sounds of porn coming from the back room.
As if noticing the sound of moaning and groaning filling the small lobby suddenly, the man quickly closes the door and clears his throat. He's not looking me directly in the eye when he finally looks up and his face is turning a shade of red not found in nature.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, a forced chipperness in his voice.
He holds out his hand and I look at it. Knowing what I know – namely, what he was doing in that back room – there is no way in hell I'm going to touch that man's hand. He looks at me, clears his throat and blushes again. He finally lowers his hand, as if he knows what's going through my mind.
“Need some information,” I reply.
The man cocks his head at me as he uses a handkerchief to dab at the sweat on his face. “Information?”
I nod and flash him my credentials. To the unobservant – which, this man clearly is – it might appear to be a police badge and ID. What it was though, was my PI creds and a badge I'd bought on Amazon to use in situations like this. I never claim to be a cop – because that would be a crime. I just flash them and let them make their own assumptions.
And when I was dealing with morons – as this guy clearly is – flashing them usually has the desired effect. His eyes widen slightly and his mouth falls open.
“W – what kind of information are you looking for?” he asks. “Is something going on here I need to be worried about?”
“No, nothing to be worried about,” I say. “I'm just looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
“I need to know who's checked in over the last few hours,” I say. “Do you have a register I can look at?”
The man nods and slides a book over to me. Taking a look at the names listed, I find the one I'm looking for. I tap on the name.
“Darla Whitlock,” I say. “What room is she in?”
“That nice lady? What could she –”
“Room number,” I say gruffly.
“Uhhh – room 231,” he replies.
“Thank you,” I say. “Now, feel free to go back to your porn.”
The man's face turns red again and he looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die. I chuckle as I turn and walk out of his office, letting the door close behind me. I find my way to the stairs that lead up to the second floor. Room 231 is down on the end of the building and as quietly as I can manage, I make my way to it.
I stand beside the window and start taking some of the equipment out of my bag. Through the window, I can hear the sound of a woman giggling, some moaning and groaning, as well as the familiar slap of flesh against flesh. Yeah, there's no question about what's going on in there.
I duck down a bit and move to the door. I probably didn't need to be so cautious – the couple inside was obviously distracted and not likely paying attention to the door and window. They probably should have though. Or at least, they should have been a little bit smarter about having their little affair. Hooking up with somebody from the store you and your wife regularly shopped, in a motel halfway between your office and your house – not very smart. I would have expected more from ol' Richard Barrett, attorney at law.
But Richard Barrett, attorney at law, is obviously more interested in nailing a girl half his age than he is in being smart about it. His problem, not mine. I'm there doing the job I'm being paid to do. What comes after that is all on him.
Kneeling down in front of the door, I take the small camera unit with the fiber optic lens out of my bag. I slide the long, tubular lens under the door and move it around until I have it in position. Once I have a clear view of them on screen, I start to record.
Barrett is a middle-aged man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper col
ored hair. He has a little bit of a paunch, but he looks like a man who tries to take care of himself and stay in shape. He's a man whose been married for twenty-five years and is going through a mid-life crisis, obviously. A mid-life crisis minus the sports car – Mrs. Barrett told me she'd already nixed that idea.
The woman he's with has bleach blonde hair and from the looks of things, is far too thin for my liking. She's almost skeletal. But, to somebody like Barrett, the fact that she's young – looks to be just out of high school, honestly – is reasonably attractive, and willing to bang him anywhere at anytime, is all he needs.
I have no doubt he told her he is going to leave his wife for her, that they're going to have a long, happy life together when all she is to him is a piece of ass. He just seems to be the kind of guy who'd do something like that – promise his side piece that she means the world to him and they're going to live happily ever after. He may not be a cliché entirely, but he's a sleaze.
I hope Mrs. Barrett takes his ass to the cleaners in the divorce.
I continue watching the screen, admiring the effort the girl is putting into things. She's really going to town on Barrett and the look on his face says he's in total bliss. His wife isn't a bad looking woman at all and honestly, I'm not sure what this girl he's currently fucking has on her.
Maybe it's because she's new, different, and exciting. Maybe after twenty-five years with one woman, things got a little – stale. I don't know and honestly, have no desire to find out. I'm not exactly a one-woman kind of guy. After all, variety is the spice of life, as they say. And I want to taste everything on the buffet of life – tasty little morsels like Sabrina earlier.
Yeah, it figures that I'd remember her name now, well after the fact.
Now that I'm out of the service, I'm just kind of enjoying my life as it is. Yeah, maybe my job isn't the most glamorous thing in the world. I know that some people view my line of work with disdain. PI's get a bad reputation for being bottom feeders – for being the kind of scum who exploit failing marriages for a paycheck. I do more than just catch philanderers in the act – but to be fair, that is the bulk of my work.
But hey, my attitude is that if you're not doing something wrong to begin with, I'm never going to know who you are, let alone be sitting outside your hotel room videotaping you banging some piece of ass. That shit is on you, not me.
I like doing what I do mainly because it's a bit loose and relaxed. And after twelve years in the Marines – ten of those in Force Recon – I feel entitled to a little time to do something loose and relaxed. Something not so rigidly structured. And even though there was an element of danger now and then, it wasn't like my time in the Corps.
And after going through hell for a dozen years in some of the shittiest places on the planet, I feel entitled to do a job where my life isn't on the line every single minute of every single day. No, it's not glamorous, but it pays the bills and I get to enjoy my life and a lack of responsibility a little bit.
Barrett and his girlfriend finished up with a screaming, groaning finale – and if he couldn't tell she was faking, he was an even bigger moron than I thought. But given that they were done, I removed the camera tube, rolled it back in and tucked everything away. I'd take some stills from the video for the file and turn those and the video all over to Mrs. Barrett to use in her impending divorce proceedings. I only wish I could see his face when she drops the file on him – he was obviously oblivious to the fact that I'd been tailing him for two weeks.
But, my part in this play is over and my job is done. Time to move on to the next.
Chapter Three
Abby
“So then, Mrs. Morris forgets that her glasses are on top of her head and nearly panics...”
I nod and laugh at his story – as I always do. But the truth of the matter is that I'm bored out of my skull. James and I have been dating for about eight months and it's pretty safe to say that he's more into this relationship than I am. He's a nice enough guy, but he's just so – predictable. So regimented. Everything is on a schedule and by the numbers.
And while I'm certainly not a hair-on-fire wild woman, I do like a certain amount of spontaneity in my partner. I like to be surprised sometimes. And James, although he's sweet, doesn't surprise me. Ever. With anything.
Truth be told, I should have ended our relationship months ago. But, I didn't want to hurt him. And honestly, it was nice to have companionship – even if it was often boring. I'd moved back to Sheridan Falls – my hometown – after I'd grown tired of living in New York City. Not to mention a failed marriage – one I never should have gotten myself into to begin with.
But honestly, it was the constant hustle and bustle, everybody in a hurry and rushing about. It was fun and exciting for a while. But it can be exhausting. Everybody told me that I was going to hate New York. That I wasn't cut out for big city life. But after four years at Columbia, getting my degree in Psychology, I laughed at them. I was proving them wrong.
I had a moderately successful marriage counseling practice, was living the big city life, had a good man for a husband, and for a while, I thought I was happy. But when I found out that my husband wasn't the good man I'd thought he was and that he was cheating on me with my best friend, things started to go south very quickly.
Shortly after I'd moved out and filed for divorce, the city life began to wear on me. Things that I'd found charming before suddenly became annoying. I was constantly on edge. Irritated. And worst of all, I was lonely.
It was then that I decided it was time to come home. The pace of life in Sheridan Falls was slower. Easier to manage. It wasn't so compacted and congested. It wasn't so busy and frantic. I felt like I could actually breathe.
It was a nice change of pace.
Still, I felt like I had to slink back into town with my tail between my legs, ashamed that I'd been proven wrong. It's not like anybody was actually judging me – other than me, anyway. On some level, I feel like I'd failed. That I wasn't able to hack it in the big, bad city.
Honestly though, I had to admit that what they'd said before I left was true. I'm not a girl who's cut out for big city life. It was a fun experience for the most part and I'm glad I tried it, but the only thing it did was make me appreciate Sheridan Falls that much more.
Sheridan Falls isn't a big city, by any stretch of the imagination. But it's not a small podunk middle-of-nowhere town either. We have a population that's a little over two hundred thousand now, and it's growing. It's an idyllic little place in the northwest corner of Washington that a lot of folks have figured out is a nice place to raise a family.
“Abby?”
James' voice cut through my thoughts and pulls me back to the present. I look at him and realize I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I shake my head and give him a sheepish grin.
“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute,” I say. “Long day. What were you saying?”
He looks a little annoyed, but reins it in quickly. “I was just asking you how your meal was?”
It is fine. It's always fine. We are sitting in Davina's Cucina, James' favorite Italian restaurant – just like we do every Friday night. Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of Italian food, but I deal with it for him. Over the months, I found a couple of things I liked, so I usually ordered them.
James though, he orders the same thing every single Friday night. He's been doing it so long; the waitress knows what he wants before we ever sat down. The only reason why they still even bother with menus is because I sometimes change things up and order something different – something that seems to irk James a little bit every time.
Like I said, he's a man of routine. A never, ever, ever, varying routine.
“It's delicious,” I reply.
He nods. “Oh, it's just that you're kind of picking at it,” he says. “Usually, if you order the eggplant parmesan, you don't pick at it so much. So, I was just thinking maybe you didn't like the lasagna or something.”
“Oh no, I like
it just fine,” I say. “I guess I'm just a little tired and out of it or something today. Not all that hungry after all.”
He looks at me for a moment and then nods, as if he somehow needs to process my answer before accepting it. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I usually enjoy James' company – he actually is a good conversationalist, a smart man, and we have some terrific talks about any number of things. But for whatever reason, tonight isn't one of those nights.
Tonight, I just want to go home, put on some pajamas, curl up on the couch with a tub of ice cream, and binge on Netflix all night.
But, it's Friday night. Date night. And if I decide to alter our routine, it's going to throw James into a tailspin – something I had a little firsthand experience with. James doesn't like surprises or changes to his routine we didn't talk about first – to give him a little time to prepare – and so, I always do my best to avoid springing anything on him out of the blue.
“You sure?” he asks, looking at me curiously. “Everything okay?”
I reach across the table and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Everything's fine,” I say. “Promise.”
He nods and goes back to eating, apparently satisfied with my answer. Truth is though, I'm not fine. I just feel – off. A little unsettled, perhaps. Why I'm feeling this way, I haven't the first clue. It's just something that's becoming more and more persistent in my mind and in my heart.
But it's nothing I can point to or identify. And until I can figure out what's bothering me, there's obviously nothing I can do about it.
The waitress comes by and clears off our plates a little while later. She gives James a smile, knowing the routine very well.
“Tiramisu coming right up,” she says and James beams back at her.
I groan inwardly. I hate tiramisu.