I’d never traveled business class before and this was a revelation. I felt like Eddy Murphy in that old Saturday Night Live sketch White Like Me, when undercover as a white man on a bus with only Caucasian passengers, the driver puts on “Life is a Cabaret,” and a party breaks out complete with cocktails. This was even better because all races and religions were embraced. Cough up the dough, and you too would be welcomed into the promised land.
“Promised land, huh?” A jocular businessman smiled at me.
Too much Irish Cream. “Damn straight, the promised land.” I held up my glass in cheers. “L’chaim.”
The fun didn’t stop there. When we boarded, there was no walk through the fancy part of the plane, eyes downcast, shuffling toward an economy seat that barely fit a child. I had my own roomy, lay-flat seat by the window and it wasn’t even next to anyone. I didn’t have to make eye contact with a stranger or worse, speak to them about my bladder and bowel needs.
I spent a good twenty minutes figuring out all the buttons on my console, testing everything from seat position to my media center with its plethora of movie choices. Getting the tray out took another five minutes, after which I tore in to my fleece blanket, pillow, and fuzzy slippers–which I put on before we’d even taxied. Items in the complimentary toiletries bag were sorted by fragrance and usefulness. By the time the chef–yes, chef–came around to introduce herself and give me a small printed menu, I’d spread out to the point of looking like I’d lived in my seat for about three years.
My lovely flight attendant Steve didn’t judge. Nope. He took my meal order with a smile, enjoying my enthusiastic oohs and aahs when he delivered my appetizer selection via a small cart. I got to pick three different types, plated personally for me onto white china with real utensils.
Movies, food, body lotion, I glutted myself. Forget ridding the world of evil, noble causes, and destiny, I was determined to ace this assignment, if only for more overseas gigs. Despite my desire to catch up on as many Oscar contenders as possible, I fell asleep at some point, until I was gently shaken awake by Steve, asking if I was ready for breakfast. Uh, hells yeah!
But all good things must come to an end, and all too soon, we landed in Heathrow for our transfer flight to Prague. There was no time to sample the delights of the British lounge. I raced after Drio, hauling ass to make our connection.
Much to our mutual dismay, we were seated next to each other for this flight. Drio sprawled out and immediately fell asleep, leaving me to eat all his snacks and the profiterole that came with his meal. At least he smelled nice, kind of woodsy. The final perk of the voyage was our luggage being unloaded first off the carousel at the Prague airport.
Other than the briefest glance to see if I was following him, Drio didn’t bother with personal contact.
The wind hit me in the chest the second we stepped outside. I hunched deeper into my coat, sitting on my large, silver, hard-sided suitcase and shivering, while Drio hailed a taxi and gave the driver the name of our hotel.
“Ah. In New Town,” the cabbie informed us.
This was my first time in Prague and in the maybe half hour it took to drive into the city, it vaulted to the top of my favorite places list. Prague reminded me of a smaller, more vibrant Paris. It shared the old, fabulous architecture, except while Paris buildings tended to a monotonous cream-gray stone–one of the first things I’d noticed when my family had visited several years back–many of the ones in Prague were colored in soft butterscotch, blues, and pinks. A formidable black gothic castle loomed over the town, while bridges and spires dotted the cityscape.
I had my face pressed to the window for the entire ride.
Our chatty taxi driver was more than happy to point out various neighborhoods and landmarks, like the enormous red metronome on the hill with its swinging arm that was over seventy-five feet long and a reminder of the legacy left by Stalin and communism in the city. He noted the famous pedestrian-only Charles Bridge in the distance as we crossed the Vltava river that snaked through the city.
Finally, the driver turned down alongside a long, skinny square with an imposing statue of a guy on a horse. The plaza gently sloped down, flanked on both sides by more incredible buildings with stores at ground level. “Wenceslas Square,” the cabbie said.
“You mean the guy they sing Christmas carols about?” I asked.
“Just so.” He stopped at the bottom. Brand name shops lined the bisecting street in either direction, while a pedestrian-only square stood beyond that. The driver pointed along the pedestrian area to the right. “Faster if you walk. About 300 meters.”
I took in the architecture that looked pretty much like the rest of the architecture in the city. “Isn’t the hotel in the New Town?” Where were the glass and steel skyscrapers?
The driver laughed. “Old Town dates back to 1100 AD. New Town 1300s.”
“Upstart neighborhood.”
Drio rolled his eyes at me, but to his credit, he gave the driver a healthy tip. We lugged our suitcases over the checkered pavement toward the hotel. I noted a lot of great stores that I’d be hitting up once our mission was completed.
Even my suitcase wheels spun with a cheerful clattering sound.
Drio turned off the pedestrian area and there it was, Praha WS Hotel. A five-story boutique hotel painted vibrant yellow with arched windows, it featured intricate plaster details, and black and cream trim.
“Is Samson staying here?” I asked Drio.
Since it was work related, he didn’t grumble at the question. “No. He’s at the Four Seasons. Rohan wanted to stay someplace away from our target.”
We swerved to avoid a family of weary-looking tourists with broad Aussie accents, bogged down with shopping bags. “Where’s King’s posse staying?”
“The Four Seasons. As am I. I want to be able to party with the boys. ”
“Why are you here then?”
He gave me a tight smile. “I’m delivering Rohan’s property.”
I looked in confusion at his suitcase until the penny dropped. “Thanks, but I’m good. You can go.”
“You have the credit card the reservation was booked under?”
I held out my hand for it. Drio kept walking, pulling the silver handle of the hotel’s glass front door open and heading inside.
Since Rohan wasn’t due to be here with Samson for a while, I’d been allowed to travel in normal person clothes instead of the easy access zipper-fest the guys were expecting. I kept my coat on and my head down for most of the check-in though, letting Drio handle it.
As baroque as the outside was, the inside was contemporary clean-lines. The black floors gleamed with a high-sheen polish, and the reception desk was a floating slab of the same black. Two long panels backlit in a burnt gold took up most of the wall behind the desk. An elevator bank was situated on the left, while a couple of steps at the back led to white linen tables in a small restaurant.
Drio handed me the keycard along with my room number. “2PM,” he reminded me. He checked his phone. “That gives you a couple of hours to eat, unpack, and get ready. Ro is with Samson and his crew right now at the Four Seasons but he’s bringing King over here under pretext of giving him some sample tracks for the song.”
“He’s inviting Samson to sing on it?”
Drio nodded. “Since wherever Samson goes, his two closest buddies follow, I’ll hook up with them and make sure I’m here for the meet. In case you need me.”
That surprised me and I guess it must have shown because he gave me a crooked grin, only somewhat less psychotic than the one directed at demons. “They take you out, I don’t get the pleasure when the Brotherhood gives the order.”
It was as good a reassurance as I could have expected from him. “Later, gator,” I said, and went to put on my war paint.
My third-floor room wasn’t bad. A bit small but bright. The walls, furniture, and linens on the queen bed were gleaming white. Red accents in the curtains and top blanket punched some color int
o the place. No sexy shower or anything and not much of a view from my room either. I’d been warned that I’d be checked into a basic. Since I was here as Rohan’s groupie, common sense dictated I’d be pleasuring the master in his own opulent suite. My place would be more of a dumping ground for my stuff since big time rock stars needed their space. If Samson managed to breach the doorway and visit me, the room wouldn’t seem out of place.
I flipped my suitcase open, pulling out the clothing I’d packed on top as my first attack gear. Samson liked the blatant. Red, black, short, tight. I went for white. Pure as the driven snow, me.
I wriggled the black-and-white houndstooth mini skirt that hit mid-thigh up over my white lace bikini briefs. Even if no one else ever saw them, the lingerie was part of my method acting, my from-the-skin-out character build. I’d paired the briefs with a white lace demi bra that pushed my C cups up into lush globes. That bra was a total score. Getting that much support without any metal underwire was a feat but I’d found it. I’d learned the hard way that metal against my body when my electric powers were triggered led to burning and pain. I’d even stopped wearing jewelry other than my Rasha ring, which didn’t cause me any problems.
According to Ari, Rasha magic stemmed from personality dysfunction, like how Kane with his poison power was a literal manifestation of him being toxic in relationships. As far as I was concerned, my magic was simply electric awesomeness and not, as Ari had said my “desire to shock others and keep them at bay made tangible.”
Next on was a tailored white men’s dress shirt, worn with one more button open than polite society would deem decent. The fall of the neckline allowed for a tantalizing glimpse of my rack.
Pointing my toes, I rolled the first of my white thigh-high stockings up, adjusting the elastic top so that about an inch of skin showed between their top and the skirt’s hem. Stocking number two went on the same way.
Back to the suitcase I went for my hair and make-up bags, then I ported everything into the bathroom. Using a shit-ton of mousse, I finger-styled my curls into a tousled, sexy mane. The kind of hair that guys ached to sink their hands into. I’d used such a style to excellent effect on many an occasion. Lips to match the hair via a scarlet lipstick with plumping properties to get that slightly swollen look. My eyes and cheeks I kept fairly understated, lightly blending concealer and brushing on foundation to brighten my post-travel complexion and adding the smallest pop of eyeliner and pale brown shadow to make my eyes look striking without stealing the show. The effort required to look “natural” was ridiculous.
I slid my feet into Mary Jane stilettos that completed my sexed-up schoolgirl look, then reviewed my reflection, pleased with the results. I checked the clock. I was due to meet Rohan and Samson in five minutes. I slid my keycard into my bra, my hands shaking with the fine edge of jet lag and adrenaline, then headed out.
Rohan was going to freak when he saw me. A silver lining to this suck-ass role after all.
Chapter 5
I used my time in the empty elevator to close my eyes and center myself. This was no different than any other performance I’d given. When the doors dinged open, I was ready, sashaying into the lobby, my features arranged in an expression of boredom.
Rohan and Samson stood out like two entrenched pillars of testosterone in a sea of frothy high-gleam. Their commanding presence demanded a more majestic surrounding, almost overwhelming the sleek, low lines of the modern furnishings. Rohan had his back to me, all leather jacket and spiked-up hair, the light glinting off his multiple silver rings as he chatted with Samson. I stepped back around the corner, peering out. From this angle, I could see them but they couldn’t see me.
Samson, live and in the flesh, was shorter than I expected. Rohan was about six-foot-two and he had a good three inches on Samson. In my stilettos, I’d be eye-level with the actor, which suited me fine.
He sported jeans, a beat-up brown leather jacket, and a T-shirt, all too calculatingly casual to be cheap. I bet myself a hundred bucks he’d smell of that perfect unisex blend of light citrus designed to tease the senses, versus Rohan’s more primitive musk and iron scent. I’d have to keep up the mantra of “potential demon” because looking between him and Rohan, Samson wasn’t the one registering as the greater threat.
I spotted Drio as promised, hanging with Samson’s inner circle. There was actually a largish group with him here in Prague, but Drio had targeted two specific dudes as being the closest to King. Hangers-on, not fellow actors. Too bad. The skinny jittery one in the baggy jeans could have found steady work as a toady hustler in Hard Knock Strife. I wondered if he was coked up. His buddy, busy texting, was a straight-up hearts and skulls wearing douchebag with his head buzzed in wavy lines. Sexual predator as higher aspiration.
Drio’s eyes widened a fraction but he didn’t glare at my deviation from the plan. Instead he looked at Rohan and Samson, his expression thoughtful.
I clicked across the floor, rating a disapproving frown from the buttoned-up desk clerk before he smoothed it into a bland courteous smile as I placed a hand on Rohan’s shoulder to let him know I’d arrived.
“Samson,” Rohan said, “this is–” He turned toward me for the first time, and I fought hard to keep my bored look in the face of his stunned expression.
“Lolita,” I supplied. My voice matched my vibe. Sulky and unimpressed.
Samson scanned my body like a barcode. “Samson King.” His attitude was all, “yeah, it’s me, be thrilled.” Seems I didn’t merit the famous charm. Yet.
Sorry to disappoint, asshole. I flicked my gaze away, checking out the lobby as if looking for someone more interesting.
Samson’s eyes narrowed.
Rohan’s hand curled around my hip. “Lolita,” he admonished. It may have come off as him getting me to be polite in the face of this amazing superstar but the growled warning had nothing to do with etiquette.
With a huff, I propped my chin on Rohan’s shoulder, half-twisted toward him, but meeting Samson’s eyes. Then I raised an eyebrow as if waiting for the star to impress me.
Samson tilted his head and smiled. The look that had landed him People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” cover. Ugh.
Moving away from Rohan, I raked a hand through my curls, the motion causing my shirt to fall open that much more. Samson obligingly looked.
I trailed my fingers down Rohan’s arm. Ignoring Samson. “You done?”
“Text me later,” Rohan told Samson. “We’ll figure out a set visit.”
“For sure.” Samson jerked his chin at me. “Bring her.”
I squeezed Rohan’s wrist, willing him to pick up on that cue and go into caveman mode.
“She’s busy.” He placed his hand on the small of my back, escorting me off.
Samson stepped sideways, blocking us. Speaking directly to me. “Want to come?”
I shrugged. “Been there. Done that.” He could infer the type of set–blockbuster, porn.
“Not like this. Come watch the big chase sequence.”
“Stand around and watch your stunt guys?”
Samson puffed up. “I do my own stunts.” Said with a touch of annoyance since this was well-documented fact.
I let a flicker of interest leach into my gaze, my turn now to run a slow total perusal of him, while I pursed my lips, like I was considering his offer. “That could be fun.” I stepped away from Rohan as I spoke.
Rohan tugged me back into place beside him, his hand hot on my arm. “We’ll see.”
“You do that,” Samson said, not breaking eye contact with Rohan.
Sweet. The challenge was on.
One of Samson’s friends called over to him and the pissing contest was broken. “Namaste, bitches.” A cheeky grin and one more appraising look for me, then he swaggered off.
“Demonstrating a stellar mastery of Eastern teachings, that one,” I said.
Rohan planted himself in front of me. “You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”
&nbs
p; “Yup.”
“If you can’t follow directions, then you’re on the next flight home.”
I curled my fingers into his belt loops, so no one could tell how deep my nails gouged my palms. “Samson’s watching us,” I murmured, pouting. “Also, your directions sucked balls. Samson wasn’t going to give a shit about a pale imitation nobody of every chick he’d ever bagged.”
Rohan nuzzled my ear, his nip hard enough to make me wince. “You should have run it past me.”
I leaned in, my hands between our chests, calling my magic up enough so he could feel it thrumming through his shirt, though it wasn’t visible to anyone else. “You and Drio wouldn’t have listened. You were too busy casting a Whitesnake video.”
“Push me one more time.” Rohan ran a finger over my lips.
“You wouldn’t.”
He raised an eyebrow, leaning in until his mouth almost brushed mine.
I stuttered out a breath, stunned into a shocked freeze at his dirty tactics.
“Get a room,” Drio called out. I almost did a double take at his perfect American accent. He sounded like any generic TV or film actor. His group burst into raucous laughter, then Samson snapped his fingers, pointing off toward the lounge on the far side of the lobby. They all obediently trotted after him.
Keeping my relief under wraps, I switched off my power and stepped back. “My tactic worked. I was right.”
“You were lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck. I deconstructed that asswipe.” I rubbed a hand over my neck. “Trust has to go two ways here, Snowflake. I’m trying to work smart, not hard.”
Rohan jabbed a finger at me. “No more going off script. That’s a direct order. I won’t have you wreck everything Drio and I have done to date.”
“Minion. Got it.” I patted his cheek. “But do remember that I snagged his interest and keep up the pretense of me belonging to you. He wants what he can’t have.”
“The chase is half the attraction,” he replied.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 33
