by Whitney G.
He falls to the ground amidst the intensity, and I wait until I can see wisps of smoke rising from his pathetic body.
I know he’s dead—that he was technically done the moment I hit the switch, but I wait a few seconds before flipping the switch upward.
“It was three hundred,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Five times a week, the first week of every month, for five fucking years…”
I leave the bathroom and feel a hint of something in my chest that I haven’t felt since I was a child.
Peace.
The moment I get out of his office and make it to the parking lot, I pull out my phone and send the email I’ve been longing to send since me and Trevor made this deal.
Subject: All or nothing.
The list is complete.
--Michael
Michael
Now
Subject: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
Is there any reason why, hours after you finish what we’ve been working toward for years, that you’re currently standing me up on the celebratory dinner? (We have a lot to discuss about what we need to do next…)
Also, I’ve slept better over the past few days than I ever have in my entire life: 10 hours. What about you?
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
A certain flight is getting in an hour earlier than expected, so I’m on my way to the private airport…I’ll need a raincheck. (I personally think we should both step back from the game for a little while, live a little)
Yes, I have. 8 hours.
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
What fucking flight, Michael? There’s no target or research on the books right now. (That’s not what you were saying three and half weeks ago…Were you lying to me?)
Stop taking twenty minutes at a time to email me.
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
It’s a flight for my wife. By the way, she says hello. (No, I’m just thinking that we may be able to go in a different direction. I’ll have it planned out once I help Meredith handle her father and her aunt…Did I tell you about that ?)
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
You know what? I take back everything I said before. I think you may have actually found someone who’s just as batshit crazy as you are. (No, you didn’t tell me that you unknowingly married a goddamn vigilante…)
Let me know when I’ll get to meet her…
--Trevor
Meredith
Now
A week later
Michael is standing outside his car—armed with a bouquet of black roses, the moment I land in New York City. Per his instructions, I’m wearing oversized shades and a medical mask, concealing who I am just in case someone on the ground staff may recognize me.
Once I make my way down the steps, he walks over to me and pulls down the mask, kissing me like his life depends on it. His hands grip my waist as he kisses me deeper, and I feel his cock hardening against my exposed thigh.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I whisper that I missed him. That even though it’s only been a week since we’ve seen each other, I never want to spend that much time apart again.
He looks at me with his eyebrow raised, his lips still touching mine. “Is this the part where you expect me to say some romantic shit to you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” he says, slowly pulling away from my mouth. “You won’t be apart from me that long ever again. I miss you, too—I especially miss the fucking. Better?”
“Good enough.”
“Have you thought about whether you want to return to being Meredith Thatchwood yet?” he asks.
“I want to be Meredith Anderson,” I correct him. “But I don’t think it’ll take eleven weeks. I’ve been thinking about ways to cut down that time.”
“Oh?” His lips curve into a smile and he looks like he’s struggling to hold back a laugh. “It’s something better than what I suggested on the phone last night?”
“I made a few adjustments, added a few more things that’ll really hurt their reputations.”
He stares at me for several seconds, and then he smiles. He presses his hand against the small of my back and helps me into the front seat.
Clasping my hand over the gearshift, he heads back to where our relationship started: Manhattan. Fahrenheit 900.
The more he drives, the more I realize how happy I am to be back in this city, but there’s an uneasy feeling in my chest when he turns down Fifth Avenue. When I catch sight of my father’s newest row of leasable condos. Hurt, I look away and try to focus on something else.
What I see next is even worse.
It’s a digital billboard in Times Square that features my father’s face and a scrolling quote in bright red.
“Leonardo Thatchwood thanks you for your vote!
Thank you to all the wonderful people of New York for the support!
Reserve your “Victory Party” tickets at thatchwoodtakesnyc.com”
Before I can turn my head away in disgust, a different ad appears on the big screen—a bright and pretty one for Gillian’s upcoming book.
Or, so I think.
The words “Release the damn book! Sincerely, Your Goddamn Fans” scrolls right under her face, seconds before the words, “Author Missing in Action” are stamped onto her forehead.
Laughing, I look over at Michael. “When will it be possible for me to see Gillian again?”
“Whenever we finish the job.” He slows the car, steering it into the alley next to Fahrenheit 900. “Put this on,” he says, handing me a sweatshirt. He waits until its over my head, and then he gently pulls the drawstring to cover my face even more.
He holds me against his side as we slip inside the building and board the elevator. He keeps his eyes on mine as we ride to his office, and then he motions for me to take a seat in the chair that faces the dancefloor.
Below, at least a thousand people are dancing under the flashing lights. The DJ is jumping up and down onstage as the music shakes the walls, and just like it was on the first night that I came here, there are two exotic dancers twirling on the poles in sync.
“Welcome back to Fahrenheit 900, Mr. Anderson,” His assistant steps into the room. “I’m so sorry that the police were never able to find her…” Her voice trails off. “I’m also sorry that I wasn’t ready for your return tonight. I wasn’t expecting you to come back here for a while longer.”
“Noted.” He ignores all of her comments. “Get one of the bouncers in here for me, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She rushes away out of the office.
Seconds later, the guy who damn near put me out of this club months ago appears in the doorway.
“Yes, Boss?” he asks.
“Tell everyone out there that they need to get the hell out of my club. Staff included. Now.”
“Sir, we just started this party less than an hour ago.” He sounds like a whining teenager. “Besides, the cover charge for tonight is three hundred dollars, and we’re already at capacity.”
“Ramon, you know that I’m not a fan of repeating myself.”
Ramon nods and steps back, leaving the room.
Within seconds, the flashing lights stop, and the red and orange flames that lap the dance floor fade into a soft white. The partiers slowly make their way off the floor and head for the exit.
The club is cleared within fifteen minutes, and Ramon returns to place a phone in a drawer.
He briefly makes eye contact with me and tilts his head to the side. Then he gasps, blinking several times.
“Maybe we do need to go home tonight. I’m starting to see shit…” He mutters, stealing one last, confused glance of me before leaving the office.
Michael waits until he knows the club is empty before grabbing my hand and leading me down to the dancefloor. Pulling a small remote from his pocket,
he taps a few buttons. and a massive screen drops down from the ceiling.
It comes on seconds later, revealing a bright blue map and a long and extensive list of times and places.
6:45 town car pickup…7:05 call to advisors once driver picks up coffee…7:30 media conference call.
“What is all this?” I ask.
“Your father and your aunt’s schedules for the next month and a half,” he says.
“Can’t I just get that from their secretaries?”
“No. If you want to do this job right, you’ll need to trail them and learn their habits—to become an expert in all the small things that they do when no one’s watching.” He pauses, running his fingers through my hair. “You’ll also need to trail a few of their friends, while they’re busy in their meetings to find out who they listen to, who they pretend to listen to, and who they actually respect. If you’re going to win at this game, you have to make sure you know all the ways that your opponent can lose.”
I look up at the screen again, as their birth certificates and public real estate records appear.
“I know that they’re your family members,” he says, “but you’ll also have to do some intense research on their business and their personal histories. You need to know everything from who they pissed off in high school, how their morning routine starts, to how many business deals they’ve landed and turned away. Everything. The research never lies.”
I swallow, noticing that the screen is now displaying their traffic court histories. “Is this the type of research that you did on me?”
He smiles, but he doesn’t answer the question.
“You know what?” I cross my arms. “Since we’re on this topic—”
“We’re not on this topic.” He cuts me off, smirking. “We’re talking about the very intense and time-consuming job that you’re about to do.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you have any regrets about anything you did when I was your target?”
“Only one.”
“What is it?”
“That I never got to see you perform at Club Swan,” he says. “I truly regret that.”
“Out of all the things…That’s the regret?”
“It’s a very big one.” He smiles. “I heard you were quite the draw when you worked there.”
“Did you stalk some of the clients and ask about me?”
“I didn’t have to.” He shakes his head. “I called the club owner and asked when it was best to pay a visit. He said whenever the ‘black swan’ was performing, and he also said that those were the nights when he charged double the price.”
I raise my eyebrow, realizing that the manager never told me that. “I can make it up to you tonight if you like.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” he says, enunciating every syllable of my last name as he pulls me close. “Your days of dancing in front of strangers are long over. You’re never stepping foot in Club Swan again.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” I look over at the abandoned poles. “If you get a chair, I can give you my first and only private show. I might even let you be the first man to touch me during a performance...”
Smirking, he slowly lets me go. “Say less.”
He moves past me and opens a panel under the stage. Within seconds, a row of red leather seats slowly emerges onto the floor and music begins to play.
“Is this loud enough for you?” he asks.
“It could be a little louder,” I admit. “The song could be a little slower, too.”
He taps a few buttons on the remote, keeping his eyes on mine as he shuffles through the club’s playlist, waiting for me to approve a song.
“Stop.” I nod when one of my favorite sensual songs begins to play.
As he takes a seat, I toss my hoodie to the floor, and move to the pole that’s directly in front of him.
I continue to undress, taking off everything except my panties and my bra.
Michael leans back in his chair and lights a cigar, just like he did in all my fantasies. Back when I wished that he really was in the front row at Club Swan.
Hooking my left leg around the cold metal, I keep my eyes on him as I hoist myself up, going as high as I can go. When the first line of the song’s chorus plays, I lean backward—letting my hair fall free as I twirl around a few times. I use all of my arm strength to pull myself up, and then I hold a split in mid-air.
Michael’s gaze starts becoming more heated and primal as the song continues, and I can tell that he’s mentally fucking me with every move I make. That he’s trying hard to keep his composure as I spin my way back down.
When I make it to the edge of the stage and spread my legs for the floor part of my routine, he gets up from his chair and walks toward me. He slips his hands under my thighs and pulls me to the edge.
“My dance isn’t over yet,” I say. “I’ve got four more minutes.”
“I’m too aroused for you to finish,” he says. “I need to fuck you right now. Lean back.”
I oblige, and the second my back hits the cold floor, he places my legs over his shoulders.
He unzips his pants in one smooth motion, pulling out his cock, and he slides every inch of it into me at once—relentlessly fucking me to an orgasm. Just when I think he’s done—that he wants to catch his breath, he pulls me up by my hair and looks deep into my eyes.
“Get on your knees,” he says, briefly cupping my face in his hands, before using my hoodie to wipe off his cock.
Obliging, I move onto the floor.
He runs his fingers through my hair a few times, watching me rub his cock between my hands.
I take him deep into my mouth—down my throat, again and again, swallowing every inch of him. The way he looks at me as I pleasure him makes me use my free hand to rub my clit.
“Fuck…” His legs stiffen, and he whispers that he’s about to come, but I don’t move. I wait for it and swallow every last drop.
Grabbing my hands, he pulls me up and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry that I ever left you for more than five fucking seconds.”
“I’m sorry for not following your directions while I was there.”
“Don’t be.” He shakes his head. “As long as you follow them while we’re working on your dad and your aunt, you’ll be fine.”
“Do you honestly think I’ll be capable of doing it alone, after only a few weeks of training?”
“Yes,” he says. “But you won’t be alone at all. I’ll be there with you every second of the way.”
Meredith
Now
A couple of weeks later
“Just like that…” Michael stands behind me, his hands gripping my waist. “Curl your finger around the trigger and make sure your grip is right.”
I oblige and stare ahead at my ‘target’, a potato sack that sitting several feet away. I take my time positioning the gun, and as usual, it takes me double the time that it should.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten a small taste of the gritty ecosystem of New York under Michael’s guidance, and I feel as I’m drowning in a world I never noticed before.
The Paper Café, where I used to get my morning coffee, is a large-scale money laundering business, owned by the mafia. Two of the men who often waved at me during my emotional runs through Central Park are two of the biggest drug dealers in the city. And every miscellaneous fee that I’ve ever paid to my bank has gone directly to the shared account of the “A brothers.”
“Now, aim and shoot it like I’ve taught you.” Michael’s deep voice makes me focus again.
I move the gun a few inches to the left, making sure my eyes are in line with the sack. Then I fire seven shots, hitting the sack right on all its red marks.
“Good job.” He kisses the back of my neck. “Reload and do it again.”
I look up at him. “I don’t want to kill anyone, Michael. Ever.”
“I know,” he says. “I would never let you.”
“Then why are you making me learn this?”
“So, that if you’re ever alone, I won’t have to worry,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “You also look sexy as fuck doing it, so reload the clip. Now.”
Blushing, I open the chamber and insert the ammo. As I’m preparing to fire again, the doors on the far side of the room open, and Trevor steps inside.
He walks toward us, a cigar between his fingers, a smirk on his lips. This is the first time I’m seeing him in person, and the more I look at him, the more I can’t help but think about the pictures I once found in Michaels’ bedroom. They’re definitely identical under this set of lighting, but their demeanor and the way they walk easily give away their differences.
“Well, hello there, Mrs. Anderson.” He smiles and extends his hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”
“Nice to meet you too, Trevor.”
“I went to your memorial a while back,” he says, letting go of my hand. “It was a very lovely affair, but I must say, you look a lot sexier up close and in person. I can now see exactly why my brother—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “Are you finished with the phone taps and video patches we need?”
“Of course,” he says, pulling a manila folder from his coat. “This is all you need for the end, Mr. & Mrs. Batshit Crazy. It’s been a pleasure, and I can’t wait to see how this ends.”
“You already know how it’s going to end if I’m involved. It’ll be perfect.”
“Maybe.” He smiles, looking over at me. “If it was just you, I would. I’ve never seen your wife’s work before, though, and I don’t think she has any idea how much research truly goes into this. But hey, she knows how to shoot a gun she’ll never use and she’s intrigued by crime, right? I’m sure that’s all she needs…”
