Bad Boy Next Door (A Romantic Suspense)
by Abigail Graham
Quentin
I’ve been sitting in the hotel bar for two hours, drumming my fingers on a cocktail napkin and drinking an endless succession of ginger ales to make it look like I’m drinking booze. Gotta keep my head. This could get bad in a hurry.
Nervous shivers shoot down my arms and legs and my head is on a swivel. Clandestine meetings between luminaries of the criminal underbelly of society aren’t supposed to happen at the Sheraton, but, as the man said, well, there you are.
By my watch it’s 9:36 in the morning, and my contact is over an hour late. Mornings make me edgy. I don’t know the contact’s face either. That makes me nervous. I’ve been edgy ever since I called in and confirmed completion on this one. I did everything I could. Now we wait.
Everything in the room sets me off. I’ve checked the windows and exits fifty times already, studied every patron in the bar until they stare back and I force myself to look away. I’m supposed to be low key here, keeping a low profile. Fat guy at the bar is on his third Mai Tai and he’s got a gun; most people wouldn’t notice. He’s a big guy with a little piece in a shoulder holster and he’s left handed, so it’s under his right armpit where most people don’t look.
He’s probably not here to kill me but I have to be ready to drop him anyway.
I jump when my phone rings and bring it to my ear before I remember to check the number. Goddamn it, I’m jumpy as hell. This is going to be bad.
“Hello?” the other party says, before I can.
Interesting. Female; her voice is silky, seductive, and totally unfamiliar.
“Hello.”
“Now that we have that out of the way,” she purrs, “your employers are about to send the agreed-upon payment and a bonus.”
I flinch. Bonus. That has me nervous. I never negotiated any bonus, and I’ve never gotten one in all the years I’ve been doing this. When you charge as much as I do, you don’t get bonuses, and don’t seek them.
Something is definitely off.
“Good. I’m in the bar as agreed.”
“I’m waiting for you outside room 426. That’s yours, is it not?”
I lick my lips. That’s not cool, lady.
“Yeah. I’ll be up. Give me a minute.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I tuck the phone back in my pocket and head for the stairs. Elevators are too enclosed, no easy way out once you’re inside one. Makes a poor opening move to ride one up. It’s only four floors, and I take the stairs two at a time.
I want to get my payment and get gone. I’ve been on edge ever since I took this contract and with the payment promised I’ll be set for a long time. Almost enough to quit.
Thinking about this one makes my hands shake.
You’re losing it, Quent.
When I push open the stairwell door, my jaw drops.
It takes a certain type of girl to make business casual look good, and this is a certain type of girl. Tall even without the perilous spiked heels that mold her long legs and tight ass into perfect form, she wears a beige sweater like a pinup girl.
Horn-rimmed glasses and a loose updo of ash-blonde hair complete the look. When she sees me she purses her ruby-red lips and turns to face me, holding an attaché with both hands on the handle, which has the lovely effect of pressing her breasts together in a delicious display.
Stop thinking with your dick, Quent. It’s a distraction.
Right.
I walk up to her slowly, checking my corners while checking her curves. I find the corners empty and the curves enticing.
I’d say I’d kill a man to get my hands on that ass but I usually charge more for an assassination. I’d do all kinds of things to her pro bono.
Doesn’t stop me from taking a long, hard look. I’m sure it’s expected or they wouldn’t have sent her.
“Mr. Mulqueen,” she purrs.
“Who’s asking?”
“You know who I am.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”
“Why don’t we step inside and conclude our transaction,” she says, a sudden primness in her now-cool voice, though she does something with her eyebrow and a tilt of her head that sends blood flowing away from my brain.
“Sounds good. What would you like for breakfast?”
She laughs, softly. A good deep, throaty laugh.
Goddamn it, Quent. Focus!
“Does that line ever work?”
“Sure, it’s working on you right now.”
“Maybe,” she says.
I open the door and gesture for her to enter, not least so she can’t shoot me in the back as I walk in. I like the view, too. I’m studying the delicious sweeping curves of her narrow back and dancer’s legs to check for the telltale bulge of a concealed weapon.
Honest.
Hang back, Quent. Watch.
She carries the attaché to the bed and opens it. Yes, it’s terribly cliché, but it’s not actually full of money. I’m not being paid enough for this to actually fill up a briefcase. She opens it and withdraws a computer, and I stand behind her and watch with one eye on the computer and one eye on her. She’s watching me in the reflection on the laptop’s screen. Clever.
There’s something else in the briefcase.