The Deal

by Holly Hart

  He’s in my sights, tearing off his balaclava, and he’s one of ours. I hesitate. Surely....

  My radio crackles.

  “Sir?”

  What? That’s not....

  I blink, confused.

  “Sir, we’re at the door. Advise?”

  Starkey. Of course. Starkey. I let out a long breath. I’m clammy under my shirt. In need of another shower. I hit the intercom.

  “Go ahead, Starkey.” Not a hint of a quaver. Good. I focus on the monitors, watching them move from screen to screen. Stella’s dragging a wheelie suitcase. Starkey’s got a duffel over his shoulder, and a cage in his arms. Birds. Since when does she have birds?

  She doesn’t. Starkey went through her place twice. Accounted for everything in it. These are spite birds. Living things she’s brought into my home, expressly to annoy me. Bitch.

  My cock twitches in my pants. Fucking traitor. He’s why I didn’t put her in her place when I had the chance. He’s why those birds are here now.

  At least she looks nervous. She’s rubbernecking like crazy. Trying to figure out what kind of person I am by my decor. I smirk. Hope she’s getting a nice, accurate read on Katrina.

  She says something to Starkey. I turn on the sound.

  “—right back.”

  Starkey nods. “Let me get these guys situated.” He stands on a chair to hook the cage to the ceiling. It sways lightly. The birds twitter and squawk. “All right. I’ll take you down.”

  “I’ll go myself.” Stella starts for the door.

  “Sorry. Can’t allow that.”

  She stops in her tracks. “You what?”

  “The regulations are clear.”

  “I’m going to the 7-11. Not visiting the mole people under Grand Central.”

  “Even so.” He holds up her jacket. She waves it off.

  “All right, Jeeves. Salty snacks or sugary treats?”

  Jeeves. I swallow a snort. He’s got to be hating that.

  I follow them from monitor to monitor till they hit the lobby. Zero nine fifteen. Perfect.

  15

  Stella

  There’s not going to be any safe haven. Nowhere to collect my thoughts, plan my attack. I’m practically a prisoner. I can feel Starkey out there, guarding the door. Wonder what he did with the super-sized sour Skittles I forced on him? Can’t picture him eating those, somehow.

  For a prison, this place isn’t bad. I’ve got my own suite: bedroom, living room, kitchenette, bathroom. Even an airy solarium, stretching along the north and east walls. I can’t see any cameras...but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I glance at my shiny new iPhone. There are apps for that, for sniffing out hidden bugs. But they’d know right away if I got one. They’d especially know if I did anything about it.

  There’s always the bathroom. No one’s going to stick a camera in a bathroom. Well, no one sane, anyway.

  I start to unpack. There’s not much to put away: most of my clothes don’t fit the dress code, and I’ve never been much of a junk collector. I stash my nightie under my pillow, and a bag of birdseed in the freezer, where it won’t attract moths. Already, my new friends are tweeting up a storm. Hope Jack can hear them loud and clear.

  Shoes go in the closet; books on the nightstand. I separate one out for “bathroom reading”: a copy of Leopardi’s Canti. I’ll jot down my observations—on Jack, on the whole experience—in the margins. Plenty of blank space in a poetry book—and this one has the advantage of being in a language neither Jack nor Starkey understands. Hopefully, they won’t feel the urge to flip through.

  After a moment’s thought, I grab another couple of books for camouflage, and pile them on the towel basket by the sink. I’ll wait for the first inspection, make sure they’re not disturbed. Then I can start my mission in earnest.

  In the meantime, I’ve got the place more or less to myself. Might as well check out the rest of it.

  “Headed somewhere?” Starkey’s right where I thought he’d be, standing at parade rest. His lips are kind of orange. Guess he did try the Skittles.

  “Just exploring.”

  He nods. “Front door pings me on opening. Don’t get any ideas.”

  Sounds about right. “Got it.”

  It’s a nice place. Tasteful, if a bit impersonal. Doesn’t quite fit its owner. Like he flopped open Architectural Digest to a random page, and went with that. I’d expected something post-war, brutal, all hard lines and points, but this is...bland. High-end office décor.

  I take in a set of floating shelves, filled with books in varying shades of beige and tan, spines never cracked. A fireplace, free of ash. A violin in a glass case.

  He doesn’t live here. Not in this room, and not in the next one. I drift down a wide hall lined with orchids on glass swings and taut-seated wicker chairs, unbowed by any ass. The first door opens on an empty study. The second’s some kind of observatory. There’s a huge telescope, an array of star charts—antique and modern—and a reclining chair positioned under an enormous skylight. So he likes stargazing. Or somebody did. One of the exes, maybe.

  The last door’s closed. There’s a painting to one side, the only one in the penthouse. It’s ugly, crude, some moldy old ruin with....

  My gaze lights on the placard underneath. Château de Tiffauges.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Bluebeard’s castle? So what’s this—the Room of Blood?

  I reach for the door handle. It twists in my grasp, and for the second time I’m staggered by Jack’s sheer size. He’s looming over me like an ogre. Or...Bluebeard, I guess.

  “These are my quarters.”

  Of course they are. “Didn’t think you were home.”

  “So you were going to snoop.”

  “You’re going to. Don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t you?” He closes in on me, lips tight. Not a hint of a smile. I can’t give ground now...though engaging him in a staring contest seems childish. Not to mention futile. Already, I’m lost in those smoldering eyes. I fish for something to say.

  “What are their names?” He beats me to the punch.

  “Wha—whose?”

  “The birds you brought into my home.”

  Shit. Hadn’t thought of that. “Oh. Them. Uh, Bella and...Padulo.”

  He gives me a long look. “You should get them a bigger cage. It’s cruel, if they can’t fly.”

  I look away, embarrassed. He has a point. And now I’m truly off-balance.

  “I’m going to lunch. Want to come?”

  “Uh...sure?” I haven’t eaten since six, and it’s creeping up on midday. I don’t even think to ask where we’re going.

  16

  Jack

  Ha. Found a weak spot. Trigger her guilt, and she turns to putty. That could prove useful.

  “Hope you like Indian.” I know she does. I’ve seen her Instagram.

  She nods, glancing over her shoulder as Starkey falls in behind us. “Anything but IHOP.”

  “What’s wrong with IHOP?”

  “Doesn’t it make you sick?” She grimaces. “It’s like, I don’t know...swallowing pure suet.”

  Well, cross that off my list of places to try.

  We wind up at my favorite table, out on the patio, in the shade of a planetree. I lean back in my chair, enjoying the breeze. Stella reaches for a menu. I intercept her hand, skimming my thumb over her knuckles. “Let me guess: veggie pakoras, raita, and... How hungry are you?”

  She scowls. “Starving.”

  “And an aloo paratha.”

  “Enjoying my Instagram, are you?”

  She’ll have to try harder if she wants to embarrass me. “I like the jewelry posts better. Everyone does food.” I tap her foot under the table. “What do you do, go to Cartier, try things on, and blog ‘em like they’re yours?”

  “Pawn shops, actually. I go for antiques. So Countess BeeBee doesn’t have the same shit everyone has.”

  Not bad. But she’s getting too comfortable. “
What’s she like in bed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Countess. What’s she into?”

  Stella runs her finger around the edge of her water glass. Stalling.

  “You know you’ve thought about it.”

  “Maybe....”

  I stare at her till she meets my eye. Her cheeks turn pink.

  “Hungry. Uninhibited. Devour you and come back for seconds.” She picks up her glass and sloshes the water around. “She’s...there’s not much she wouldn’t do. Doesn’t bother her what people think. Strap-ons, swinging, exhibitionism...she’s done it all. She’s waiting for....”

  I lean forward. Fuck. I’m way too interested in where this is going.

  “...for someone to show her something she hasn’t seen. Hasn’t even thought of.”

  “Such as?”

  She shrugs. “Fuck if I know.” Her foot taps mine this time. “It’d have to be kinky. Scandalous. But not just shocking for the sake of it. She’d need orgasms—lots of them. Spectacular ones. Wring her dry.”

  “Well, naturally.” I sip my own water. Getting warm out here.

  The waiter sidles up. I order for us both. Cheesy, but I do know what she wants.

  “And a mango lassi,” she adds.

  “One for me, too.” This is going better than I thought. She’s relaxing. Having fun, I think. Maybe that hard edge isn’t all there is.

  “So, what’s with Tiffauges Castle, on your wall? You got a collection of your exes’ fingerbones back there? Maybe strung onto a necklace?”

  Or maybe it is. I kick her a little harder. “Yeah. And a rack, and a Catherine wheel, and an iron maiden. And the biggest box of pears of anguish this side of de Sade’s pit of tears.”

  That gets me my first real laugh. It’s a nice one. She throws her head back, gives herself over to it.

  “Really, it’s just a picture.” I wink. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  Stella turns a little pinker—not from embarrassment. Her pupils are blown wide, lips slightly parted. She wants me. She’s rolling her eyes, trying not to let on, but I can practically smell it on her. I finish my water, and decide to make her work for it. I want her panting for me by the time I take her. Wet and begging.

  Besides, I might need a couple of days to dream up something...scandalous enough.

  The waiter sets down our drinks. Stella starts a little, like she’d forgotten where she was. She clears her throat. Eyes up my tattoo. “Dog person?”

  I raise my brows and leave an uncomfortable silence before answering, letting her know I’m on to her. She can change the subject, but she can’t hide her thirst. “Used to be. But—” –They die too soon. “But I don’t have a yard. Or time to walk one.”

  She nods. “That’s why I have birds.”

  Oh, liar! She’s good at it, too. I stare her down, wondering how much I really know about her, and how much is smoke and mirrors. Her background check coughed up the basics, but she barely has an online presence under her real name. She might have a few things in common with the Countess, but that’s not the whole story either.

  She smiles at me, toying with her ringlets. I smile back reflexively. She didn’t wear her hair like that before. It was down around her shoulders at her interview. In a loose braid on her Facebook profile. The way she does her makeup is new, too: brighter, less conservative. This face is just for me.

  I want the real one.

  I have a year. That mask’s coming off, along with everything else.

  17

  Stella

  Starkey takes a bite of his sandwich. He’s looking kind of glazed. I’ve been dragging him from shop to shop all morning, loading him down with books and wines and fancy soaps—bag after bag of the heaviest shit I could find, and all to get him to this point.

  “How are your feet?”

  He just looks at me. Wounded. Hateful.

  “Aw. Sorry. Here: try my chicken.” I push my plate his way, expecting him to wave it off, but he grabs a drumstick. This guy doesn’t say no to food.

  “Not bad,” he says. “What’s that spice?”

  “Thyme. And a little lemon juice.”

  “Mm.” He chews thoughtfully. “I like that. It’s tangy.”

  “Tangy, yeah....” I watch him smother a yawn behind his hand. This is my moment. “So you’ve known him a while, yeah? Jack, I mean?”

  He nods around a mouthful of chicken.

  “From Blakemoor, right?”

  “Blakemoor, mm.” He snakes another drumstick, like my one-time offer was an open invitation.

  “How’d you end up working there?” That’s not what I want to know, but I’ll get there. Let him get comfortable....

  “They were recruiting veterans, oh...sixteen, seventeen years ago.” He sips his Coke. “Just come off a twenty-year stretch in the army; not a lot else going on. It was that or my dad’s auto shop.”

  “Not a huge fan of exhaust fumes and axle grease?”

  From the face he pulls, I’d guess not.

  I push my greens around my plate, trying to look nonchalant. “So the big takeover—how’d that happen?” I spear a chunk of cucumber. “I mean, three grunts ousting the CEO: who does that?”

  Starkey stirs his drink with his straw. It’s an oddly delicate gesture, and weird on him—like Clint Eastwood eating a candy cigarette. “It wasn’t like that. Nagler was getting older, and they had the tactical experience, the background....” He frowns. “And they didn’t oust him. He moved into international recruitment.”

  “International recruitment....” Nope. Still doesn’t make sense. This is the fault line under the empire: this is how I’ll pierce my contract. Something hinky happened here, and this guy knows what it was. “Come on. They had something on him, didn’t they?”

  Starkey sits up straighter, suddenly on full alert. “Don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

  “Relax. I’m kidding.”

  “I’m not.” Lunch is apparently over. He grabs a napkin and wipes the chicken grease off his fingers. “Listen: shop all you want. Go to some parties. Enjoy the lifestyle.” He wads up his napkin and tosses it in the trash. “But don’t get too curious. Mr. Brightman’s a private guy.”

  Yeah. Most criminals are. “Sorry. It’s just incredible, someone so young pulling off that kind of—well, not coup, right? Promotion, then?”

  Starkey shifts in his seat. Sucks his teeth. He looks stressed. Like he’s already said too much.

  “All right, all right—new subject.” I have nothing to say to this guy. “Ah...how about those Knicks?”

  He snorts. “Right.” His phone beeps, and he makes a show of checking his messages. “I’m to take you to the salon, to prepare for a night out.”

  “Where—?”

  “Oh. And don’t think I haven’t realized this was all a ploy to grill me.” He gestures at the table, the food, the bags stowed behind his chair. “You even need any of this stuff? I knew something was up: you haven’t called me Jeeves all day.”

  “You hate that a lot, don’t you?”

  Starkey rounds up the last of the bags. “Suppose it could be worse. I mean, you got your Lurch, your Igor...Jeeves is at least competent.”

  I could torment Starkey a little less. He’s just an old soldier, riding out the back nine. He didn’t sign up for this crap.

  18

  Jack

  Twenty-one hundred hours. Stella’s resisting my efforts to delay her on the red carpet, get her to pose for a photo or two. She’s locked onto some guy in a tacky green tux, someone she’s blogged about before. Probably hoping for a scoop.

  Fuck that. I nudge her. “Wait.”

  She half-turns my way, still scoping out His Nibs. “Hm? What for?”

  “The Times wants a picture. Don’t you want to make the society page?”

  Apparently, she doesn’t. “I...my mom’s out of town. I wanted to talk to her before—”

  Too late. The camera flashes, once, twice, three times.
/>
  “One more time—very nice! And from the side?”

  If looks could kill....

  “And...smile?”

  She bares her teeth.

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I pull her close: “Play nice.” Her elbow digs into my side. I squeeze her good and tight.

  The guy holds out his recorder. “Didn’t quite catch that?”

  She leans in. “I said Stella Rossi.”

  “Well, you’re a beautiful couple! Just gorgeous. Thanks a lot: these are great.”

  “Any time.” I offer her my arm, and we pass below the arch. “Sorry about that.”

  She’s still not looking at me. Casting about for that guy.

  “Listen, I can make a call. Keep your picture out of the paper.”

  Stella turns my way for the first time since we got here. “You’d do that? I mean, thanks. Not to be a jerk, or anything: just, my mother doesn’t know, and she’s kind of buried, right now....” Her shoulders sag. “This isn’t the time.”

  I get that. “No problem. But you have to play along with these guys, up to a point. Smile and wave. Let their editor be the bad guy.” There’s a loose bead on her sleeve. I pluck it off. “That’s how you keep them from going after the limo crotch shots, you know?”

  “Limo crotch shots, right.” She’s distracted again. “Listen, I’m running out of material, and I’m sure you’ve got to make the rounds. Meet by the bar in an hour?”

  Works for me. I do need to press some flesh, and it’ll be easier if I don’t have to introduce my new squeeze a dozen times. I lean in and kiss her forehead. “Go on, then. Have fun. I’ll order you a...?”

  “An old-fashioned. Thanks.” And she’s off. I don’t even rate a kiss back. Oh, well. The night is young. I’ll get a lot more than that by last call.

  Magnus sidles up from nowhere. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Huh?” I look after Stella. She’s embracing Green Tux Guy. Touching his arm. Laughing. “Oh. No. She, uh...knows people here.” Green Tux Guy grabs some ZZ Top reject by the hand, pulling him into the huddle. I turn back to Magnus. “Didn’t know you were coming.”