Secret Worlds (75 page)

Then she takes my tongue with her teeth. Her arms twist free. Her hands go to my shirt, and I scramble out of it while she undoes my pants. In the next instance, we're naked on the floor. She's on top. She shoves down harder onto me, warming me inside and out. 

I grapple at the fact she reversed roles so quickly. She rides hard, pressing a palm into each of my shoulders. Yeah, like that would keep me from flipping her to her back. The display of dominance is oddly arousing, so I don't interfere.

She tucks her head next to mine, our faces brushing together as she bears down harder and faster. My heart thuds, my body straining not to break her rhythm. Her breathing turns to soft gasps in my ear. Her hands press heavier.

I grab her hips and grind her against me. In seconds, shudders roll through her and her hands slip off my shoulders, her body resigning onto mine. I wrap my arms around her and slowly slide in and out as she makes small noises against my chest.

I give her a minute, growing harder every time she trembles. Just before I flip positions, she pushes back up and rocks her pelvis. Slow. Agonizingly slow. My hands go to her hips again, but she braces herself—and smiles. Mischievously.

When I let my hands slide down her thighs, she relaxes and resumes the teasing, exaggerated undulations until I'm a twitch away. Then she stops. Again.

I grit my teeth. My fingers press into her thighs. I want so badly to make her finish me, but she's enjoying this way too much. And so am I.

She smiles, and all demure is gone. “Your house, huh?”

“Syd,” I say with clenched jaw, and no other words find their way out.

She jerks her hips. I'm blinded for a moment. I grab her waist so she has to keep going until I can see again. My eyes are heavy, and so is the rest of my body. 

She lies down on me, her head under my chin. One of my hands rests on the small of her back and the other on her ass.

After my breathing steadies, I say, “So, that's what happens when I tick you off.”

“Very funny.”

“Hmm,” I say, “I'll have to keep this in mind.”

She turns her head into my chest, muffling her voice. “I would still smash your windows and slit your tires.”

“But I get this?” I laugh. “Small price to pay.”

We lie together on the living room floor, bodies warm and tight against each other. 

At length, she lifts her head and looks at me. “Does this mean I get to come back?”

I study her face. She has such amazing features: dark eyes set against pale skin and hair, straight nose, and a soft, rounded jaw. I like it. And she's fun. And she knows a thing or two about scromping.

But maybe greater than all of that is the fact she wants to see me again. She likes being here, and I like having her here. 

“Hmm,” I say. “I can probably allow that.”

***

I sit with a start. I'd fallen asleep naked on the living room floor. Fantastic. I scramble for my clothes and phone. The phone clock reads 2 A.M. The hum in my brain says I need to get rolling.

I pull on my boxers and stumble toward the hallway. “Syd?”

She enters the living room from the kitchen, wearing a camouflage t-shirt hanging halfway to her knees. My camouflage t-shirt.

I point at her. “Take that off.”

Admittedly, she looks good in it, but this can't happen. None of this wearing my clothes shit. One night stands shouldn't wear my clothes, not even on the second night.

The fact the one-nighter is on round
deux
might indicate I have a problem. I don't have time to deal with it right now. Phil needs to die.

She frowns and looks down at herself. “I thought we could squeeze in one—”

“No. No time for anything else.”

She glances at me. “Want me to take you to the airport?”

“No, thank you,” I say, sharper than I intended, but I know what's coming. Of course, Syd doesn't, and I'm just being a jerk and insensitive to her feelings or whatever. She isn't supposed to have feelings, though. Not about me. Not about this. “Get out.”

She quirks her lips, and then stalks into the living room and changes. She seems to have to bend over a lot for someone replacing a single item of clothing with another.

Tease.

She catches me staring as she straightens her dress and gives a taunting smile. I force a scowl, turning for the hallway. No time for her nonsense. Even if I wanted—which I do.

She comes up and slides her arm over my shoulder.

I start to protest, but she steps around to my front and presses her lips against mine. Her hand goes to the back of my head, and her tongue slips into my mouth. I deepen the kiss. My hand slides under her dress.

The hum kicks up. A reminder.

I pull away and nod toward the front door. She rolls her eyes, pushing past me. My gaze follows her as she crosses the living room and plucks up her purse. 

“Stop calling me, Syd.”

With a sly glance over her shoulder, she says, “Let me know when you get back.”

She blows me a kiss and leaves.

I consider going after her. Maybe I could drag one more hour out of my brain. 

Thirty minutes?

I shake my head. Time to focus.

Time to kill.

***

I sit on my couch, still just in my boxers, and read through Phil's file again. The guy has written three non-fiction books and a list of magazine articles so long I crumple the bibliography print out and toss them aside. Couldn't care less about his writings. 

I do, however, care that he's a speaker. Finding out he's away on business after I've already sneaked into his house can make for a bad night.

I peruse the list of conferences he has attended, prepared to do a little research on the Holy Internet to see if he's a guest anywhere in the near future. At the bottom of the page in my hand, a list of his upcoming destinations.

My intel are bad ass.

His profile goes on to show he's married with one child, a son. Six years ago, the police had come to his house for a domestic violence dispute which was later thrown out. Of course it was; he's rich. The guy is a dirt bag. I can tell just by glancing at his photo.

Wife beater, I decide.

Besides using his wife as a heavy bag, Phil also likes to play golf. Everyone in Scottsdale plays golf. Waste of ink.

I put his picture on top of the stack of papers again and stare at it. He is bald with big ears. Bet he got picked on a lot about his ears growing up, and now he takes it out on his family. Buddy needs some therapy.

Or a bullet between the eyes. That's faster and cheaper, anyway.

Since I have no feasible in with this guy, I settle on tracking him at a conference. He will be speaking in New Orleans in three days. I search online for maps and information to print out, and call Karl to finalize the arrangements.

***

Ralf Foster's plane is ready to board. I make my way across the terminal toward the loading bridge, bag slung over my shoulder. The attendant scans my ticket and wishes me a good flight. I push a smile and head up the tunnel into the plane. 

Some of my IDs show my real picture, and others do not. When flying, it's a good idea to match. It's also a good idea to act friendly. Airport security might get up close and intimate otherwise.

I glance at the seat number on my ticket and sigh. It's always a crap shoot if I get to fly first class or not. Today, it's coach.

After one particularly harrowing flight—stuck between a man who had never been introduced to a toothbrush and kept laughing his rancid breath over me, and a woman who invaded personal space so thoroughly I'm pretty sure a prostate exam was involved—I stormed into the accountant's office to demand he always approve first class. 

Unfortunately, the accountant could not help me. As it turned out, this jackassery with the ticket classes has nothing to do with making a pretty budget report for the boss. Karl himself was handling my arrangements. All of them.

I'm not sure why that surprised me. I guess, for a moment, I had thought of myself as a real person.

I can only conclude Karl likes to pull the choke collar every now and then. 

The aisle seat is already occupied by a middle-age woman with a pleasant vibe. She's flipping through a magazine. She glances up at me, startled, and then stares. 

Sometimes I wonder if people can tell that I'm not like them. Chances are they are just unnerved by the black duster jacket and the fact I look like I've been awake for over twenty-four hours. Probably because I have been.

Kills always make me a little nervous.

“You can take the window, if you like,” I say in my best church-going personality. 

Her shoulders relax. “I would be fine with that.” 

She scoots over. I stuff my bag into the overhead and drop into the aisle seat.

“Going to Houston?” She's staring at me again. 

“No, just a layover to New Orleans.” I lean forward, grab the Sky Mall magazine, and page through it. “Does anyone buy this crap?”

She chuckles, holding up her magazine. Also a copy of Sky Mall. “After a few hours of staring at it, some of it will look pretty useful.” She turns the magazine around so the pages face me and points to an item. “Like this. An alarm clock that flings a little propeller across the room so you have to get it to turn the alarm off.”

“I think I'd just bash the thing until it stops making noise,” I say.

“No kidding.” She smiles and goes back to reading.

Ralf is good with people. I'm not sure if Dimitri is, though

Then again, I'm not even sure who Dimitri is.

***

The trip from Phoenix to Houston is uneventful. On the Houston to New Orleans flight, I sit next to a guy who has in a pair of earbuds and doesn't deem me worthy of striking up a conversation. My favorite sort of travel companion.

After we are in the air, I escape to an empty back row and stretch out to sleep. A few hours later, the flight attendant wakes me to tell me to buckle for landing. I rub my face as I sit and then fasten in. Once unboarded and in the terminal, I bee-line for the car rental. I have no luggage to claim, and I've already reserved a vehicle.

Ralf signs in, and the clerk hands me the keys. I've never been to New Orleans before. I dig the drawl some of the people have. It's like in the movies. And this one guy I game with online, but he's kind of a dick.

That's gamer code for someone who is better.

I step out into the lot, bag over my shoulder, and stare straight up. Gray sky with darker gray clouds. I can't decide if it feels moody or quaint. I decide on the latter and follow the clerk to my car.

It's a Yaris.

My hand had twitched over the red Lincoln MKZ on the online reservation form. Not exactly a Pagani, but I wouldn't mind road testing it for a few days. Despite the temptation, I inevitably clicked on the Yaris hatchback. Low key.

I sign off on the scratch and dent form, throw my bag into the back of the Yaris, and settle into my new ride. Thank Jeebus there's a GPS.

If I were smart, I would go scout out the conference area, but I just want to get to my hotel. I finagle with the GPS for a few minutes until I manage to map what appears to be the right address Karl had sent me, then pull out onto the road.

New Orleans feels small compared to Phoenix, though it's still a decent sized city. The hotel isn't far, and before long, Ralf has checked in.

I flip on the light in the room. Apparently, Karl thinks I'm ungrateful or something, because a cell in Alcatraz would be more interesting—and inviting—than this room. He should just let me book my own flight and stay. I think the only reason I get to choose the car is because he has no idea what I actually do on my assignments. He would likely approve renting a tank if I sent him the bill for one.

Maybe I should try.

I shut the door behind me and cross to one of the two beds to drop my bag. With a sigh, I flop onto the other bed and stare at the ceiling. 

Sleep. I need sleep. 

In a few hours, I'll be gunning down a man who probably doesn't want to die just yet. They never do. 

I kick off my shoes, remove the jacket and shirt and pants, and crawl under the covers. I should have showered first, but now I'm too comfortable to move.

My eyes close, my brain drifting toward unconsciousness, the undeniable hum in the background.

***

I try to open my eyes, but the overhead light catches me in the face. Blinking, I struggle to clear my brain. Something woke me.

My phone. I un-bury myself from under the covers, feeling like the bastard child of the Tin Man and Scarecrow, and lean over the foot of the bed. My phone is still in the pocket of my pants lying on the floor. I fish it out and, with a grunt, fall back into the pillows. I squint as the screen lights up.

A text message.

I grin and tap the icon.

It's a picture: a boob shot from Syd. Underneath it says,
You back?

I reply,
Not yet.

My eyes start to close when another text message comes in. 

I miss you.

I'm not sure what to reply, so I lay the phone on the mattress next to me and try to go back to sleep. Still, I can't help but smile.

***

I wake in the late morning to a thrumming in my head. That's the hum. It's gaining. I sit on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor, and rub my eyes with my palms. The hum is like a hangover, a caffeine headache, and what I imagine that noise people claim to hear in Taos, New Mexico sounds like—all rolled into a big wad of misery and crammed into my skull.

Mostly, though, I hate what it will become. Hate it enough that my thoughts go right to Phil's imminent death. His speech is this evening. I have a plan. 

Not a very good one. But a plan.

I trudge to the bathroom, smacking my palm to my head and muttering, “Quiet, already. I'm working on it.”

Since I packed next to nothing, I grab the little courtesy bottles from the vanity and leave my phone in their place. Traveling light makes the situation feel like it will be over faster. Plus, less potential of leaving clues behind.

I flip on the shower and hop in. I could piss better water pressure.