By the time we’d worked ourselves into talking about fantasies, I was really glad that Cam was going to handle this one. He had a penchant for the messy, and Konrad the douchebag Deutscher deserved it based on self-image alone.
“I find traveling is a great opportunity to explore one’s boundaries,” he told me right after we broke the ice on fantasies.
“I’ve found it is the very best opportunity,” I added.
“And what boundaries do you wish to explore, mein Bella?”
“Why? Are you looking to be my Marco Polo?”
“I am.”
I glanced around surreptitiously. “And are you willing to do whatever I say?”
“Oh, almost certainly.”
“Because I don’t figure you European guys are as hung up on some things as most Americans. You can probably do what I want you to do without feeling like it’s weird.”
He smiled perhaps his first genuine smile of the night. “I believe I am able to guarantee that.”
I gave him a look that was meant to be half seductive, half conspiratorial. Then I reached for my purse, popped it open and showed him the lace edge of a pair of black panties. “I want you to put these on and meet me in my room,” I whispered, staring directly into his eyes. “Will you do that for me, Konrad?”
He didn’t answer, but the lust brewing in his bright blue windows to the soul told me I’d hit it out of the park. He’d climb a razor blade pole to get to me now.
I balled the panties up into my palm, then pressed them against his stomach. For all his outward appearances of calm but lustful, touching him told me a different story. Heat radiated off of his body, and I could feel his heartbeat tripping along.
He covered my hand with his own, then took the panties and placed them in his jacket pocket. His eyes never left mine. I gave him my best intense “fuck me” look, striving for an Oscar. Meanwhile, my stomach turned at what he must be thinking.
“Allow me to finish my drink?” he said softly.
I shook my head. “We’ll order room service.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Very well.” He removed his billfold and laid a fifty dollar bill on the bar. “Will you wait here?”
“No. I’ll be in my room. Waiting.”
“Which room?”
“Nine Oh Four. Knock just once.”
He nodded, all business now that he’d landed me. He left his chair and strode confidently away without a backwards glance.
I caught Cam’s eye from across the room and nodded after Konrad, who was all but goose-stepping his way to the men’s room. The panty routine was more than just to get him hot and bothered, it was to keep him in that bathroom stall for a while and make Cam’s job easier.
Me, I stood up and walked out of that bar as Konrad hit the bathroom door.
Needless to say, I wasn’t staying at the hotel. I picked the room number because it was Mike Richter’s career save percentage. I wasn’t huge into hockey but my pops was still around in ’94 when the Rangers won the Cup, and he’d been pretty excited. He told me that everyone said it was Messier, the team captain, who was the reason for the win, but Pops always said it was the goalie the whole way. He never quit on a play, Pops said. Plus he was an American-born player in a league full of Canadians, so he had that going for him, too.
I breezed through the lobby of the hotel, and out the front door. There weren’t any cabs lined up outside, but I saw one half a block over and hailed it with a hearty whistle. And maybe I stuck my leg out, too. Just a little.
The cabbie pulled up to a stop. I got in back, but left the door open. “Start the meter, but I’m waiting for someone.”
“Sure thing, doll.” He smiled at me in the rearview mirror, his coffee-stained teeth looking yellow in the reflection of the streetlights.
Doll?
Normally, that would piss me off, but tonight was different. It was a strange night, and I was feeling it. Playing the sex kitten was actually a little bit… fun. And I might not be any threat to the legacy of Angelina Jolie, but I was a woman. And every woman can be sexy, right?
You’re fucking right.
3
CAMERON
As soon as I saw him slide off the bar stool, I jumped up to beat him to the men’s room. I banged the table with my knee, knocked over my brand new beer. A trio of co-workers at the table next to me stopped their conversation and gave me annoyed over-the-shoulder stares, but I didn’t have time to apologize. I had a man to kill.
I must have looked like I had the runs while I hot-footed it to the bathroom. I got there only a few steps ahead of Mr. Swiss, but he got held up in the short hallway outside the john by a pair of backslapping ex-frat types. It gave me just enough cushion.
In the bathroom were two stalls, two urinals and two sinks. No people. So far, so good.
I knew he had to go into a stall to change into the underpants, all part of the plan. So I ducked into the first stall and shut the door. In my jacket pocket was the wire. A palm-sized wooden handle on each end, piano wire stretched between. I always wondered what note that string played, but I’d never found out.
I unspooled the garrote and gripped it in both hands. A public place like this was fraught with way too many dangers. Trying to get away after gunshots was simply not on the list of smart options. So a silent kill was necessary. I wondered if we weren’t so hard up for cash if I’d take the same risks this job proposed.
Soon after I had the weapon in both hands I heard the door open, the music getting momentarily louder and then being muffled again. The band playing over the speakers was Boston. Being played in the city of Boston. Weird. The last song this guy would ever hear.
I followed the sound of his footsteps on the tile as he passed by my stall and entered the open one next to me. I heard his belt unbuckle, pants drop. All normal bathroom sounds.
I gave him a second more, then put a foot up on the toilet, no lid, only a U-shaped seat. Kicking in the door to his stall was an approach I’d considered, but it was loud, would make the space cramped, and then left the kill on view for the next visitor when the job was done. To get to him while the door was still locked meant he wouldn’t be found until the cleaning crew after last call.
I raised up slowly and peeked over the top, my feet balancing on the plastic toilet seat. From what I knew about this guy, he’d probably like being spied on while he dressed in women’s panties. If there was a glory hole between these two stalls, I bet I could get him to blow me.
I saw the top of his head and a pronounced bald spot. There was a ring of sweat stain on the back collar of his white shirt. His head was down as he pulled on the lace number Bricks had given him. I reached over with the loop of wire and aimed it at his neck.
As the thin piano string passed in front of his eyes his head jerked up and I yanked. Before he could turn his head up and see me, I had him in a noose of metal. I pulled hard, getting my elbows up to the top of the wall between stalls. He was thrashing now, his legs kicking in stunted half-kicks since the panties were around his ankles.
His fingers dug at his neck, searching for the wire and an inch of space he could wedge himself into to ease the pressure, but there was none to be found. The wire dug deep in the folds of his neck, swallowed by flesh and starting to cut. I gave an upward jerk, sweat forming on my face as I grimaced with the effort. I realized I had been holding my breath and I let out a loud exhale. Only after I did it did I realize what a mocking gesture it was—loudly showing off all the air I could get in and out of my lungs.