by Song, Myra
“I won’t.”
This time I look pointedly around her place, making sure my gaze lingers on the leaking sink, the cracks in the plaster where the foundation is going, the dusty windowpanes-- all of it. I take my time. “Sure, you won’t” I sneer before waltzing out.
It was a dick move. But goddamn her-- I’m not used to being turned away or turned down and I don’t like how it feels.
My driver is waiting for me. Now I’ll wait for Elise’s call. In the meantime, I have preparations to make.
The event, after all, has to be as flawless as the gems that will be sold.
Elise
My skin is crawling and my mind is reeling as Locke leaves.
He’s unbelievable. What an asshole!
A tear comes to my eye and I dash it away quickly. Who the hell was he to make me feel like shit about my place? I paid my bills. I basically own my own company-- Martin Investigations -- and I’m damned good at what I do, too.
Too good, really, which was part of why I left the force. My mind starts to wander to thoughts of home before, to my parents and brother.
Shaking my head, I head for the shower. To clean him and the memories from the past off. Both were gone and over now.
The water is slow to heat, the building’s water heater ancient and crap. When it finally does and I push for shower, it spurts out and-- is that brown? Oh, gross. Definitely brown. The smell of sewage wafts in and thank God I hadn’t stepped in before.
So no showering and a call to maintenance.
Awesome.
Throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, I go to put my desk back together. It had been super hot when Locke had brushed all my things to the ground. Just like in the movies. Now it was an inconvenience.
Just like him.
As I place things back on the top, I pick up a picture and glance at it.
My debutante ball.
Ugh, I know, right? Sixteen year old me is standing at the bottom of the stairs of some ridiculous old plantation-style home in North Carolina. Fluffy white dress, perfect hair, and the subtle, snarky smile that only a teenager can perfect.
That had been a different time.
Maybe that’s why Locke’s observations of my current living situation stung so much. Because I had come from much, much better.
My dad had own a successful art gallery in Raleigh. My mother was an artist, a local and international favorite. Some of her contemporary pieces were installed in the NC Museum of Art. I preferred visiting those to remember her by instead of her gravestone.
I’d grown up wealthy. Not billionaire wealthy, like Mr. Jameson Locke, but I knew a little about comfort.
Then my dad got locked up in the Federal prison, my brother disappeared, my mother died, and the money disappeared.
And I became a police officer-turned-detective.
Turned Private Investigator.
Which meant, at the moment, broke.
The job I’d been on when my esteemed former colleagues picked me up was my least favorite P.I. job: Cheating Spouse.
Only, unfortunately my employer decided she had enough proof without the evidence she’d sent me to collect. I’d been minding my own business, or at least, I’d been minding her spouse’s business with my camera at the ready when she’d come in and fired off some words at him.
Then she’d fired her gun, too.
By the time I’d figured out what was happening, it was too late for me to stop her. When I’d hit the front door, trying to reach her, it was too late to stop her from turning the gun on herself.
I’d hung around, prepared to offer my statement as a witness, when my friends from the precinct decided to slap me in cuffs instead. Because obviously I had something to do with a murder-suicide.
They didn’t really think I did it, they were just pissed at the whole event. I get that, I do. Murder-suicides are a lot of paperwork and not a lot of good press.
I’m just pissed because dead people don’t pay invoices, and I was counting on that money for my rent.
Sighing, I leaned back in my chair. My ass still stung from Locke’s invasion, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The sting and the sex, that is. My nose wrinkled when I thought of him.
He was everything I hated. Arrogant, smarmy, with enough money that he’d only get a slap on the wrist no matter what he did.
He was also sexy as hell and the best sex of my life. I shifted in my chair and caught a lingering whiff of his sandalwood cologne, now dusting my hair and skin, and immediately I felt a low throb in my pussy.
Damn it. Grabbing his card, I stared hard at the expensive embossed paper and highly professional header.
Jameson Locke, CEO
Locked Securities
His phone number beckoned.
One call. One job. Enough money to keep me afloat until another job came in. Enough money for milk and fresh fruit to pad my ramen diet.
Jesus, I hate this. This last case, though, was supposed to be a big one. Something to have under my belt to help reassure people looking to hire me. I’m pretty sure that explaining that my last client is dead isn’t going to win me a lot of work.
Someone like Jameson Locke would, though. The money and the name. He was playing with me, and with the force. I might not work for the RPD anymore, and I said nasty things about them. But I had been one of them. It was allowed. This pompous asshole wasn’t.
I could let him hire me, but no one said I had to play by all of his rules. Maybe while I was there I could scope the scenes for real potential clients. North Carolina’s elite (and more!) would be at this event most likely. They tended to be paranoid assholes with deep pockets.
Basically my ideal clients.
Okay. My mind's made up. I stop fingering the card and pick up the phone to call.
If you do this, you can’t sleep with him again. Absolutely, one hundred percent off-limits!
Everyone knows business and pleasure don’t mix. Especially for a Private Investigator.
I wasn’t worried. Locke had been a fucking fantastic lay. My ass still ached, a tender reminder of how he’d taken me to new and dark places. But that personality?
Please. I could stay away from him, easy. Take his money and go. Like I said-- not worried.
My fingers dial before I can talk myself out of it. The phone barely rings before someone picks up.
“So you are interested in the job.” His low, husky voice pours into my ear and my thighs clamp together. Uh-oh.”
“I’m interested in the real job. The one you’re not talking about.”
He chuckles and a shiver runs down my spine. “It’s just basic security.”
“So you keep saying. But if that were the truth, you’d have no business hiring me. I’m an investigator, not muscle. You’re playing a game. I’m just throwing in my chips, Locke. Let’s play. But you’ll need to pay me up front.” My heart is skipping now, the adrenaline flooding my system.
Here’s the thing about men like Locke. They know the effect they have on people. On women. He knows he turns me on. I know he does, though I’m a bit concerned at how little it takes now. He likes power, too. The worst thing I can do is submit. Show him my belly like a dog.
So I snark back. I’m picking a fight with a guy bigger than me. He’s got the looks, he’s got the resources, and he’s got enough money to cover his ass if the first two things don’t get him what he wants.
I’ve got sarcasm, an eye for details, and the sheer, stubborn willpower to push his buttons in return. He’ll want to play, sure, but he’ll get bored. He’ll stop wanting to play, and I’ll be sitting pretty with a padded bank account.
There’s a long pause on the other end. Too long. My palms start sweating and I’m worrying that I’ve read him wrong, come on too strong, and I’m about to lose the chance at twenty grand because of my big mouth--
“You’re on. But I play for high stakes, Elise. You should be careful.”
A thrill courses through me. He’s admitted it; something
bigger is going on. It’s probably harmless, but still… Jameson Locke just threatened me.
The rush of pushing him and succeeding is heady. Which means I ignore all good sense and say, “No offense, Locke, but you’ve got a lot more to lose than me. I’m damned good at my job. You’re the one who needs to be careful.”
He laughs again, this time casually. If I’ve fazed him at all, the moment is gone. He’s back to being a royal dick again. “The auction is tomorrow night. I’ll need you at my home by noon.”
I fumbled for a pen and a scrap piece of paper. “Fine. What’s your address?”
He lets out a cartoonish sigh. “You’re a P.I. And, to quote you, ‘damned good’ at your job. Figure it out.”
There’s a dial tone in my ear before I can fire a reply.
Oh, I’m steaming. It’s juvenile, is what it is.
Twenty thousand dollars, Elise.
Right.
My laptop is still in my bedroom. Strolling from my office into it, I plop on my twin bed and crack open my laptop. It’s the most expensive thing I own, second to my camera.
There’s a lot of things you can skimp on in my line of work. Dress clothes? Who needs them. Fancy phones? Eh. Although I’ll admit my smart phone has been coming in handy, so this may change. But a computer and camera? Those are your foundations. Splurge on them. Take care of them. Because they are your bread and butter.
Most of my work is done on the internet now. Social media, emails-- this is where the gold is. Where people have been. Who they’re with. All right there on the screen. Anyone can find it, but I don’t mind that people want to pay me for something extra.
Extra is photographs. Hard evidence you can hold in your hand, even if more often than not it’s the shit you never wanted to believe is true. But I go to great lengths to get those photos, which means high-tech lenses and film.
It’ll be worth it after this job. I’ll sneak my card to some folks and soon I’ll be rolling in gigs.
A simple search brings up Jameson’s picture. Ugh. He’s got an image search worse than a celebrity’s. In each picture he’s ridiculously handsome. His jaw was made for the camera lense, seeming to jut at just the right angle.
There are many photos of him at event much like the one he’s hosting. All over the world, the wealthy and the royal partying and spending exorbitant amounts of money for trinkets and art that I didn’t understand. Several photos didn’t show him alone-- he had a different girl on his arm in many.
I clicked the image search shut. It wasn’t that I was jealous over seeing him with other women. Tall, thin, model-like women. They could have him. That was why.
A little more digging pulled up his company and its subsidiaries. She found addresses in North Carolina, New York, Hong Kong, Berlin… but these were factories and research facilities. Training grounds for his employees.
The last one made her frown. His security details were top of the line. Many of them ex-military, they were renowned for their top-of-the-line skills in protection.
Something the RPD is not.
It was a good police force. But it was just that-- a public force, stretched thin, with too little resources and a variety of tasks on their plates. Robberies, fraud, and freaking jaywalking to murders and drug running.
What did Locke want them for, really?
None of the addresses I find are residential. His auction event would definitely be at his home. Next I search for property he owns, his banks, and any real estate interest related to his name. This is a little more fruitful.
There are several within an hour of where I live. I can only assume he lives close enough to Raleigh to make the Police Force here his best option for whatever it is Locke has up his sleeve.
The search engine has this nifty satellite imaging. I pinpoint the addresses on a map and zoom, zoom… zoom.
Huh.
The three locations I have are, well, not what I would expect a man like Locke to own. One is a small utilities building next to a large power line strand. Another is a trailer in a county not known for being where the rich tend to dally. The final image shows nothing. Just land, but no buildings in sight.
Huh.
I get a legal pad out and write the three addresses down, anyway. Might as well start a file on Jameson Locke. He might be my employer, but he was also my case; he’d said so himself. I jot down the headquarters of his business. Turns out he owns an entire block of buildings in the always-changing downtown area. His business is situated off Fayetteville Street Mall. Fancy.
My fingers fly over my keyboard as I try shifting the parameters of my search. Over and over I find more information on his business. Speculation on his personal life (playboy, go figure). Everything but his home address and--
Oh, what have we here?
His family. Everyone has family somewhere on the internet. Unless you’re in the witness protection program, there’s a high school record or a parking ticket or, in this case, an obituary that links you.
I’m now reading the obituary for James Locke, Senior. Moved here from England with his wife and son, he was a master locksmith. It makes me wonder if he changed his last name when he came Stateside. Though, if he did, choosing Locke for a locksmith wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
I scribble more notes.
“Survived by his son, Jameson Locke, currently finishing up at boarding school--”
That’s something I can investigate later. My brother went to boarding school, too. There were plenty of them, but not so many that I can’t find an old student. But I don’t have time for that now. It’s almost night, and I’m supposed to be at his place the next day. Because it’s me, I’d like to get there earlier than he requested so I can scout some things out.
Finally, I give up. I could find it with more time. But the afternoon’s rousing adventures have left me tired and this weird mix of sated and aroused. The last part kills me. I’m going to need to work in some more social time, because my pussy has been wakened from a slumber.
It isn’t fair that when you finally scratch an itch, all it really does is make you aware that it’s been there all along.
I pick up my phone and hit the only speed-dial I have.
“Dalton here.” Lloyd’s voice sounds tired. I feel guilty; he’s off work by now, maybe eating with Gina. The job never really leaves you, doesn’t give you time off. I know. It’s why I still keep my phone charged at all times, even if no one’s calling.
“Hey, it’s Martin.”
This brightens his tone considerably. “Elise, I hear from you two times in one day? Lucky day.”
I smile. “I’m only calling because I have a favor.”
A pause, but only for a second. “What do you need?”
“An address. Jameson Locke.”
I hear him cough on the other end, with a little wheeze at the end that concerns me. “Are you crazy? I thought you didn’t like the guy.”
“Yeah, I don’t. But he’s going to pay me, so--”
“Wait, did he hire you for his thing?”
“Yep. You?”
“Chief’s signed us all up for overtime. Apparently he’s going to make it ‘worth our while,’ but I’ve heard that before.”
“Yeah, I’d ask how much of a bonus you’re getting up front.”
“That’s why the Chief never warmed to you, Martin. And I don’t know if I can just hand over an--” It was one of many reasons, but if an employee can’t call out her boss on some shit, well, that’s not a great working environment anyway.
“Address? If you’re worried, just know that he pried mine from the Chief, so this is just a little pay-backsy. And if you’re working it, it isn’t like it’s a state secret.”
I can hear him give up on the other end. Dalton never could stand if I put even the least amount of pressure on him.
He rattles off the address and I thank him profusely before hanging up.
It’s not an area I know well. Closer to RTP, just on the outskirts of Cary. I do
know the zip code means money, which isn’t surprising, but makes me feel better about the address. Most likely we won’t all show up at a shack in the middle of nowhere for whatever kind of laugh Locke’s trying to get it in.
Feeling pretty good about the promise of a padded bank account, I realize I’m going to need to find a shower before I show up for a ritzy auction.
Frowning, I gather some stuff to head over to the local YMCA. I don’t have a membership there, but when I was still a detective I managed to catch an employee skimming the books. Apparently that employee didn’t get the “C” part of the job. Ever since then, they’d let me work out from time to time on a pay-as-I-could basis.
