by Lyn Forester
Interesting. “Tone it back. We’re here on business.”
He blinks, a languid flutter of the eyelids, as his gaze shifts to me. The steel color of his eyes looks liquid blue with heat. With a sigh, he scrubs a hand across his jaw and back over his hair. A look of chagrin crosses his face as he sends the woman an apologetic smile.
The small crowd disperses, the woman last to leave. She casts frequent, hopeful glances back as Drake settles into professional mode.
I tap my leg in consideration. “This happens a lot.”
“This is the first time you’ve seen me dance.”
“Not that.” I wave a hand at the departing woman’s back. “That.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.” He shifts on his feet, looks around without focusing. “I’m kinda horny. It’s been a while.”
“How long?” I glance at the entrance to the Pink Skirt Motel.
“Days, Reagen.” Confused, I turn to face Drake again. His wide eyes look a little desperate. “Daaaays.” He draws the word out like it means an eternity. And with the pheromones he’s been throwing out, it could be.
“Huh.” I shift the strap on my shoulder so the satchel rests in a more secure place at my hip.
“No sympathy for me?”
“Nope.”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
“None of your business.”
“Can you even remember?”
I can’t and ignore the question.
“Wait. Are you a virgin?” I scowl at his horrified expression as he mouths the last word again. ”Virgin.”
“I’m twenty-five, asshole. Of course I’m not.” I move toward the motel’s entrance. As Drake follows, still staring, a poor pedestrian has to scurry out of his way before Drake tramples him.
He lowers his voice, leaning close to whisper, “Born-again virgin.”
“That’s not a thing. Now shut up.”
“This needs to be fixed,” Drake insists, uncaring of his surroundings. “We’re going to a club. Tonight.”
“Not everyone is as sex crazed as you,” I hiss at him.
“Everyone’s sex crazed. Right, dude?” Drake directs the question at a random man on the street, who pauses with consideration, gaze traveling over my partner’s body.
Drake perks up with a smile, and I elbow him in the gut. “Let’s go.”
ROCKABYE DRAKE
DRAKE
“It would be faster to go inside and retrieve the cameras.” Drake’s gaze moves past the attractive man to stare across the street at Tony’s Delicatessen. The extravagantly priced, exclusive dessert shop acts as a front for a Black Corporation-sanctioned whorehouse. Reagen ran a blackout case for Investigators, Inc. to discover if a future council member cheated on his rich wife.
Mr. Black, the leader of Roen’s legalized mob, had purchased the evidence off her before she could turn it over to Mrs. Laundreman. Her mercenary attitude had given Drake a bad first impression, but their partnership over the last few days had changed his mind. She fought when and how she could.
Reagen pauses long enough to glance at the dark lights and bars across the door that announce the shop across the street is closed for the day. “I don’t want them to know they’re under surveillance.”
She turns and heads toward the motel on their left. Tall, maybe twenty stories, with balconies that jut from the front of the building, evenly spaced all the way to the roof. A large neon sign protrudes over the sidewalk, a pink outline of a woman, mobile hips swinging left, right, left. A vacancy sign glows between the figure’s feet.
“I’m not sure our relationship’s ready for a love hotel.”
“I bought you breakfast. What more do you want?” The hotel’s doors slide open as she steps on the sensor pad, and short strands of inky black hair flutter around her face.
“I bought my own breakfast.” A warm burst of air hits the top of his head as he trails her into the lobby.
A few steps inside, he breaks out in a sweat, the air stuffy and too hot. He feels a sudden need to take off his jacket, loosen the shirt from his belt. Tricky motel wants its guests thinking about getting naked as soon as they enter.
The concrete floor, dull and unpolished, shows cracks where dirt has crawled in to stay. A tiny area rug makes a haphazard attempt to disguise the disrepair. The small lobby lacks seating or anything to encourage customers to linger in the open space. A clear indicator the regular clientele go straight for the rooms upstairs.
They cross the short distance to a check-in desk, where a man sits with sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned to display sweat-beaded chest hair. He doesn’t glance up when they stop before him. Instead, a lazy hand swipes at a desk-port while bored, bloodshot eyes blink at the screen.
Drake taps on the thick plas-glass barrier that separates the man from the rest of the lobby. The attendant sigh is heavy with the inconvenience of work.
“Welcome to the Pink Skirt Motel. How may we be of service?” The attendant’s monotone voice comes through muffled.
“We’d like a room,” Reagen says.
“Pay is by the hour. Total is taken when the room key is returned to the front desk.” The man doesn’t glance up as he pushes a payment scanner through an opening in the plas-glass.
Reagen turns to stare at Drake, expectant.
“What? I thought this was your treat.” He steps forward, swiping his datband across the reader. He glances down at Reagen. “You’re not romantic at all.”
“I brought you to a nice place like this, didn’t I?”
The payment scanner disappears back behind the barrier, and a keycard slides out. Drake snatches it out from under her fingers. With lifted brows, she turns to a hallway on the right with a glowing elevator sign.
“I don’t feel special at all,” he teases as he follows on her heels. “You’re way too familiar with the motel layout.”
They stop at a bank of elevators, and he glances around. “We’re not taking the stairs?”
“We can if you want.” She nods toward an emergency exit door. “It’s an exterior fire escape. I’ll give you a boost up.”
His stomach drops. “No, I’m good with the elevator.”
She looks at him, face bland. “You want to push the button?”
“Is that code?” He waggles his eyebrows at her, mouth curved in a leer.
“Yes, a real tough one, super hard to decipher.” The call button lights up as she presses it with a slender finger. “What’s our room number?”
He flips the keycard in his hand to check the back. “Seven twelve.”
She hums in response, rocking back on her heels with hands in her pockets. A plaque on the wall, between the two elevators, catches his attention. He steps over to read it.
“Oh, there’s a roof pool.” He reads a little further down something even more interesting. “And a convenience store on the third floor. Do they have snacks?”
“Condoms and lube for the most part, a few hydration beverages.” Impatient, Reagen presses the call button again to encourage the elevator to move faster. “I bet the pool gets filled during the cleaning cycle.”
“Eww, that’s just nasty.”
Every level has scheduled cleaning cycles, where it rains for a set amount of time. The upper levels get frequent, light drizzles throughout the week, scheduled early in the morning to not interfere with the citizens. Lower levels are not as lucky, getting the drainage from upper levels that collects in reservoirs and dumps all at once.
Filtering through layers of charcoal between the city levels doesn’t make it fresh and new. Most people try to avoid it by staying inside during the big event. He can’t imagine wanting to swim in it.
The elevator arrives and they step on. Reagen’s nostrils flare, and her lip curls like she’s caught the scent of something unpleasant. He leans around her to select the floor, and she swats his hand away to jab the number five. “I didn’t say you could press this one.”
“I said we were on the
seventh floor.” The doors close, and the elevator rumbling as it ascends.
“Our room needs to face the street. We’ll see if my old one is vacant.” She stays close to the doors after they close, ready to spring to freedom the second they arrive.
As the lift comes to a stop on floor three, the doors open and Reagen sidesteps to avoid a collision as a giggling couple stumbles on board. They fall against the back wall, hands groping under loose bathrobes. A rectangular box of condoms peeks from the woman’s pocket.
The doors close, and the elevator rises once more. The motion must catch the man’s attention, because he lifts his head and peers around, sheepish.
“Can you press floor five for us?” He directs the question at Drake.
“Already going there, man.”
The woman giggles as she nibbles at the man’s chin, drawing his focus back to her. He pulls her in, hands squeezing her curved bottom, and her bathrobe lifts to reveal the sweet swell of bare ass cheeks.
“You guys interested in partying?” The man catches Drake’s gaze and pulls his partner’s robe higher to reveal her lack of underwear.
“No.” Reagen says from the front where she faces the door. She hasn’t glanced at the couple once. Complete lack of interest.
“You sure about that? Could be fun.” The man shifts so his robe drops off a muscular shoulder to reveal the sculpted, smooth chest beneath. The woman runs a hand across the rippling expanse, pushes the robe to expose more, and peeks at Drake from beneath her lashes.
They’re an attractive couple, the man tall with a full head of dark brown hair and a clean shave on his square chin. His lips, thin and red from kisses, glisten with the sweep of his tongue. The blonde woman tucks in beneath his chin, soft and curved, pale skin glowing against the dark swath of the man.
Appreciating the view, Drake knows his own tanned flesh would be a perfect harmonizer to the pair.
“Let’s go.” Reagen interrupts as the elevator slides to a stop on the fifth floor. She darts through the gap as soon as the doors are wide enough for her to slide through.
“Jealous girlfriend?” The woman asks, shooting a disapproving frown after Reagen. “You can join us if she’s too narrow-minded for you.”
“We could have a lot of fun,” the man adds as they exit the elevator and turn left.
Reagen, already a few steps down the left hall, glances back with a frown. As she pauses to wait for him, the couple passes her to go ahead.
“It’ll take me about half an hour. I can do it alone if you want to go with them.” No hint of judgment colors her tone as she makes the offer.
From ahead, the woman bursts into laughter and calls back to him. “Sounds like you have a girl who can take care of herself. Let us take care of you.”
“No, I’m good,” he forces out, past the temptation. Half an hour equals not enough time.
The couple pauses at door five eleven to glance back at him. “This is our room if you change your mind.” The woman glances at Reagen and adds, “You can come, too, sweetie.” But the offer sounds less enthusiastic, Reagen the consolation prize for his company.
They slide a key card into the lock and disappear inside their room.
“Figures.” Reagen grunts and walks past their room to the next door down, room five oh nine. She presses an ear to the door, listening for occupants. After a moment, she leans back, satisfied, and glances back down the hall to make sure they’re alone. “Stand next to me.”
“How’re we getting inside?” He leans a shoulder against the door, blocking her from the view of anyone coming from the elevator. She angles her own body to block her actions from the few doors behind her at the end of the hall.
“It’s an easy lock, simple three-code frequency.” She pulls a metal case from her satchel and opens it to reveal a thin metal card, similar in shape to their plastic key card. She slides the metal card into the key slot, and the light shines red, denying them entry.
When she closes the case, the top shimmers and becomes a black screen. She taps at it, green rings appearing at the points where her fingers impact. The rings last for only a second before they disappear. Undeterred, she continues tapping until one ring stays. She twitches, gives a small huff, and starts over, continuing until three rings stay on the screen. The lock disengages with a click.
“Where’d you get that gadget?” She makes it look so easy to break into a locked room.
“Why, you have somewhere you want to break in to?” She pulls the metal card from the slot, returns it to the case, and slides the case back into her bag.
“No place specific.”
“Something like this only works on low-grade locks.” She pushes the door open and grabs a Do Not Disturb sign from a hook just inside the room. She hangs it under the number plaque, on a small hook. Then she pushes the door wider and leads the way inside. “I knew the lock I’d be dealing with in advance. This doesn’t work on palm scanners.”
He follows on her heels, into a room designed for sex. The large bed, big enough to fit a group, pushes up against the right wall. The pink blanket looks rumbled in the middle, as if the maid didn’t spend the time needed to smooth it out after the last guests. Two chairs sit facing the bed. Voyeurism at its best.
When Reagen flips the wall switch, dim lighting fills the room. No reason to blind customers with reality when soft lighting can smooth out defects.
“Does that happen to you everywhere you go?”
“What?” He pauses in his perusal of the room to glance at her in confusion.
“The couple in the elevator.” Reagen unshoulders her satchel and rests it on the console table next to a private bathroom. The narrow piece of furniture wobbles on uneven legs. “It’s not the first time people have thrown themselves at you. You’re attractive, but the statistics are too high.”
“It’s happened my entire life.” He goes to the blackout curtains and pulls them back, flooding the room with bright light. Dust motes float in the air, a flurry of mystery particles. “It was a hassle when I was a kid. Almost got kidnapped a few times. Now, it works to my advantage. Tell me again why going straight to Tony’s Delicatessen is a bad idea?”
All this subterfuge seems unnecessary when a direct approach would get them faster results. Reagen’s been impatient at the speed of their investigation so far. Going slow now seems out of character.
“I’d like to avoid the manager finding out his shop’s compromised.” Reagen opens her satchel and removes a foldable desk-port. “If I have another case come up that leads me here, I don’t want to fight an upgraded security system.”
“You know Tony’s Delicatessen is sponsored by Black Corp, right?” Drake stares at the shop across the street.
“It’s not in Black Corp’s best interests to notify them.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He leaves the sliding doors to peek into the bathroom. “Laundreman’s not the only politician who frequents the shop.”
The small room has a solid pink surface from floor to ceiling, with a toilet and metered showerhead. No curtain, sink, or mirror. A functional pink cavity to hose off the stickiness of bedroom exercise. The towel on the rack hangs stiff, the fibers standing on end like a bristle brush.
“Blackmail can be a useful tool, when used in moderation.” Reagen agrees from the main room.
“It’s not great for business, though.”
“The key word was moderation.” She glances up as he joins her at the console table. “You’re surprisingly ethical for a top-level Black Corp employee.”
“I never said I was top level.”
“What level are you?”
“Why’d we need this specific room?”
“You’re horrible at subject changes.” She presses the power button on the keyboard.
“You want me to answer questions?” A shrug of indifference comes in the lift of her thin shoulder. “Want to play the truth game? I answer a question for every question you answer?”
“I don’t
care enough for that.” The screen blinks to life, and she taps at the keyboard. “We need this room because it’s close to the receiver mounted across the street. This is old-frequency technology. It needs to be close to the cameras to slingshot the feeds back.”
Now that she mentions it, the desk-port does look old. Sturdy like a brick, with a small screen-to-casing ratio. He’d seen newer versions on her desk, stacks of thin, streamlined devices.
“How does old technology make it better?”
“Newer systems aren’t always designed to guard against the outdated stuff, especially cheap ones that aren’t updated often.”
“Huh.”
“I’m activating the cameras now. They’ve been recording without streaming since Wednesday.”
“Why not stream?”
“Because it would have a higher likelihood of being noticed. And I wasn’t here to catch the feed anyway.”
The screen flickers and goes dark. “Did something happen to the cameras?”
“No. The lights are off in the club.” She taps at the keyboard, and the image shakes at the edges, then the screen lights up to display six mini screens. Three display the shop from different vantage points, another two show bedrooms, while a third looks to be positioned in the alley.
From behind the bed, a thud sounds against the wall. Another thud, and then a rhythmic thumping fills the room. The bed on their side shakes in place, a reciprocal tap as the frame moves against the wall. The pink dust ruffle sways back and forth, and dust wafts into the air.
“Oh, mood music.”
“Shut up.” She taps another key and images jump, the clock in the upper corner now showing the previous night.
“You’re right, we shouldn’t talk through the performance.”
Another tap, and the date changes to last Wednesday. The feed stops, then moves forward, speeding through the early evening as guests run onto the screen and fill the tables, shoveling desserts into mouths, before hurrying out again. In the back rooms, patrons cycle through at bouncing speeds.
