by Zahra Girard
She’s stunning. Absolutely fucking stunning.
“Don’t mention it,” I reply. “It’s just nice to see another person here order a real drink. What’s your name, Whiskey Gal?”
I hold out my hand and she takes it in her gentle, perfect little grip.
Just watching her body move, the way her dress tightens around her perfect tits as she turns to shake my hand, has my cock straining to bust out of my slacks.
She smells like vanilla and spice and her hands are so soft. Visions of her wrapping those dainty fingers around my cock and stroking every last rope of cum onto her face flow through my head.
I need to have her. I need to see how dirty I can make this full-figured beauty.
“Evelyn,” she says. “And yours?”
“Connor.”
“And what brings a guy like you to a place like this, if it isn’t the drinks? Do you like to just sip your beer and sit in judgment?”
No, I came here to kill a man. And imagine what you’d look like with that dress hiked up around your hips while I fuck you from behind in the bathrooms.
Her hazel eyes just taunt me, like she knows what I’m thinking, and when she raises the glass of whiskey to her mouth, I can’t stop staring; her lips are so plump and red and would look incredible wrapped around my cock.
Fuck me, if I get any harder, I might pass out.
I smile and keep my eyes locked on hers. I need to. Because if I look directly at her tits, I might never look away.
“Maybe I’m here for work. Or maybe I’m here for the chance to buy the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen a drink and tempt her into a night that’ll make her blush for the rest of her life.”
She laughs into her glass and her tongue slowly slips out of her mouth to lick a few drops of whiskey off her lips. “That so? Well, I’m here for work. I’m a reporter.”
She cranes her neck and scans the crowd, then hops up off her stool.
“And, work just came in. Good luck finding your blushing beauty.”
I watch her go, her ass and hips swaying from side to side and sending my head spinning.
I’ve never met a woman that makes me feel the way she makes me feel — like my cock is strapped up to a car battery… but in a good way. Electric. Alive.
Its a full ten seconds before I pay attention to anything other than her ass.
Then I notice who she sits down with and I feel like slipping into the men’s room, finding a stall, and swallowing the barrel of my pistol while I sink a few grams of lead in my brain.
Fuck me, that lovely piece of ass is having drinks with Elliot Meyers.
Chapter Four
Evelyn
“Were you followed? Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
Right away, Elliot starts in with the inquisition.
It feels like I’m in the middle of an espionage movie, full of trench coats and long-brimmed hats and meaningful glances.
Instead of the reality: I’m sitting across from the deputy comptroller for the city of Boston. He’s probably the nerdiest man I’ve ever met.
Not that I don’t know this is dangerous stuff. But, come on, I’m a first year journalist with the Boston Times who gets assigned boring city council meetings about curb repair and pothole filling, and whose boss absolutely hates her.
Who am I going to tell? Who’s going to follow me?
Heck, who even knows I exist?
Unless they happen to really care about pothole repair.
In which case, I’d rather they not know I exist. Those people are weird.
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t tell anyone, and I don’t think anyone followed me. Not that I circled the block a few times or anything.”
Though, actually, I did. But only because finding street parking for this bar’s opening night was a bitch.
Elliot narrows his beady eyes and peers at me for a second. “Are you sure?”
If the guy looked at all threatening, instead of looking like he was born with a calculator in his hand, I’d be actually uncomfortable.
Instead, I’m just annoyed.
“Look, I wasn’t followed. Relax,” I repeat.
He finally nods, but only looks slightly less paranoid.
“I don’t think you understand, this is heavy-duty stuff. And if word got out that I knew about what was really going on — much less leaking it to the press — I’d be dead.”
I sip my whiskey and put my serious face on.
“Ok, Mr. Meyers, I understand. I hope you realize I take the anonymity of my sources seriously. So your identity is safe with me.”
Well, that and I don’t have any other sources — except for the janitor at the council meeting a few months back who told me he’d give me a ‘hot secret’ if I spent ten minutes in the closet with him.
I declined.
Elliot nods and reaches up to wipe sweat from his forehead. The guy is dripping and he’s doing a damn fine job showing to anyone who looks at him that he’s a nervous wreck.
“Maybe you should get a drink before we talk any further,” I offer.
“Good idea,” he mumbles and shuffles away from the table towards the bar.
I watch him go and notice Connor has his eyes glued to me.
The man is intense in the kind of way that makes the room feel twenty degrees hotter and makes my dress feel so heavy that I just want to drop it to the floor.
Underneath that suit, he’s just rippling, taut muscle. Anyone with eyes can see it. Anyone with eyes can see he just dominates this room, too. This bar is packed with CEOs, celebrities, and plenty of others from Boston’s elite. But Connor has more presence than any of them.
They’re nothing compared to him.
Just thinking about his offer to give me a night I’ll be blushing about for the rest of my life makes my cheeks flush. Maybe, when I’m done here, I’ll take him up on it.
I could use a little more excitement.
Nodding at him across the room, I raise my glass to say ‘hello’.
He winks at me, returns my nod and then quickly turns to looking around the room.
I take a second to check out his side profile while he’s checking the rest of the place out. Solid chin, close-cut dark hair, and I even see the faintest hints of a tattoo creeping up the side of his neck.
Even though he cleans up nice, I know that the man beneath that bespoke suit is anything but clean. There’s something dark and dirty about him, and I want to find out.
I blush again, thinking about his bare chest and wondering just how many tattoos he has. And where. And how far down they go.
Connor is trouble. The kind of trouble I’d gladly climb onto if I didn’t have to work tonight.
Elliot coming back to the table brings me back to reality. He sets a pink-purple-fizzy drink on the table and — though I want to ask what the hell it is — I decide to get right back to business.
“So, Elliott, what do you have for me?” I ask.
He takes a sip and his drink leaves a bit of pink foam in the threadbare hairs of his almost-mustache.
Fishing around his pocket, he pulls out a flash drive and hands it to me.
“That’s a preview. Some unaltered records showing how the one of the city’s departments funneled fifty grand a month to the MacCailin crime family. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
I stare at the flash drive in my hand. It feels much more weighty than a simple bit of plastic and circuits.
It feels about as heavy as a Pulitzer.
I slip the flash drive into the safest place I know: my bra.
“Where’s the rest?”
Elliot pulls his eyes away from my chest and takes a sip of his drink, putting more foamy fizz on his lips.
“Hidden. Safe. When I figured out what I had, I knew I couldn’t keep it all on me. Not until I’d found someone that could take it public.”
Taking a sip of whiskey, letting the burning peaty-ness roll around on my tongue, I ponder my future. Th
is story could make me someone. It means job security; it means a pay raise; it means no more ramen dinners trying to scrape by enough money to help put younger brother through college.
It means I have to do things right.
If only my journalism classes at USC had prepared me for this moment. But then, I don’t remember seeing Organized Crime Informants 101 on the course roster.
Elliot and I spend some more time chatting, going over the basics of what’s on the flash drive and how we’ll keep in contact with each other.
It feels like espionage, CIA-level secrecy. Elliot’s nervous as all hell — and probably rightly so — and I finish the whiskey and set the glass on the table way harder than I intended to, which makes him start and nearly spill some of his feminine-fizz-in-a-cup.
“Well, you can trust me, Mr. Meyers,” I say, sounding way more bold than I feel. It must be the alcohol.
“I hope so. You have no idea the limb I’m stepping out on, here. One slip-up, and I’m dead. The MacCailin family has killed more than a few people for poking around where they don’t belong. But I believe it’s my duty to say something…”
I’ve got to give the guy credit. He’s got more backbone than you’d expect from looking at him.
Then, Elliot’s cuts his sentence short and his eyes get real wide and his mouth snaps shut.
“For you, miss,” says a voice behind me, just before another glass of brown liquor plops down on the table in front of me.
“I didn’t order this,” I say.
The waitress, a younger blonde woman, wearing a white toga-like thing — probably in keeping with the whole Angel’s Share thing — points back to the bar. “The gentleman over there sent it over. He said it was a gift for the ‘Whiskey Gal’.”
I sniff the glass suspiciously. It smells pricy.
“It’s Teeling Vintage Reserve,” the waitress says.
My eyes go wide.
When my dad’s boss retired, the whole office took up a collection just to buy him a bottle of the stuff. And that was thirty people pooling their money together.
“This stuff’s like, nine hundred bucks a bottle,” I say, out loud, and now totally afraid to even touch my glass because it just feels wrong for something to be so expensive.
The waitress nods.
Elliot just stares at the two of us, in the nervous way that Elliot does everything.
“And a heck of a lot per glass. Especially since he ordered you a double,” she says.
“Can I send it back?” I say, out loud, and immediately regret because who the hell would send something like this back?
She shakes her head. “Nope. It’s already paid for. Enjoy it.”
I take a sip.
It tastes like a leprechaun with a shillelagh is dancing around in my mouth.
It’s good. Really, really, good.
After two more very small sips — because I’m fucking savoring this — I look around for Connor and see him sitting in his usual place at the bar.
I catch his eye, raise my glass, and mouth the words “thank you”.
He smiles, raises his glass back to me, and mouths “you’re welcome”.
Then, he turns and starts chatting up an older cougar-type in a scandalously low-cut v-neck dress. It’s so low-cut, one wrong movement and her surgically-enhanced breasts will bounce right out.
I stare, completely ignoring Elliot and everything else going on around me, and feel jealousy swarm across my vision. Jealousy turns to I don’t know what — anger, maybe — as Connor, bold as all hell, takes Miss Cougar-tits by the hand and leads her towards the men’s bathroom.
It doesn’t take an ace reporter to figure out what’s going to happen next.
Why would he send me that drink only to walk right off with some other woman?
Why do I care? I barely know the guy.
Even if he does make me feel flush. And even if just the thought of him suffuses my body with heat and makes me wet between the legs. Oh, and completely distracts me from the biggest story Boston’s seen this decade.
“Ok, so how do we blow the lid off these mafia assholes?” I say, turning back to Elliot and sounding a lot angrier than I intended.
He stares at me. Nervous Elliot is probably taken aback by the fact that I’m so courageous.
And a little bit drunk.
“Why don’t you take a closer look at the information I gave you? If you decide you want to go forward, you can reach me the way we talked about — using the VPN service to contact me through the encrypted burner email account.”
“Got it,” I say, while writing down the instructions on a cocktail napkin and stuffing it in my purse.
“If you want to move forward after that, I can get you the rest of the information — I’ve got it hidden somewhere. If you don’t want to, then destroy the flash drive. Completely.”
I’ve sobered up now. I think Elliot’s nervousness and sincere fear for his life is semi-contagious.
“I’ll look this over. You’ll hear from me by the day after tomorrow, at the latest,” I say. Seeing the unspoken question in his eyes, I continue: “I won’t call you, I won’t mention this meeting to anyone, and I won’t contact you outside of the methods we discussed. Ok?”
He nods, satisfied. Then he puts a handful of small bills on the table and stands up. “I should get going. We shouldn’t walk out together.”
I wait for Elliot to leave, then start looking around for Connor.
I still owe him a “thank you” for the drink, even if he went off with another woman right while I was watching.
Maybe I can find out why.
Spotting him isn’t hard.
My eyes seem drawn to his pure magnetism. Heck, looking out over this crowd, it’s hard to find another guy who looks like he’d be capable of even standing in Connor’s shadow.
He’s by the bar, polishing off another beer while regaling the bartender with what I can tell is a dirty joke.
I try and wave, but he doesn’t see me and, seconds later, he’s slapping a thick wad of bills on the bar like it’s nothing and bolting through the crowd and towards the door.
I follow.
Connor’s a mystery, and I’m going to solve him.
Or at the very least get his phone number.
I need a little more excitement in my life.
Chapter Five
Connor
The cold Boston night air hits me like a sucker-punch to the gut. It ain’t even winter yet, but this fancy getup doesn’t do jack shit to keep the chill out.
How do those yuppie pricks deal with this shit?
They probably wear overcoats, or some other pompous jacket that makes them feel entitled.
This suit and tie shit has no utility.
You look like a jagoff, you have zero mobility, and everyone’s going to charge you more because they assume you’re rich.
Give me jeans and a t-shirt any day.
Whatever. I’m out of there and, twenty paces away from me on this dark sidewalk is my target. Elliot Meyers.
It’s time to put a bullet in that worthless son of a bitch and go home.
Or, better yet, back to one of my neighborhood bars. Somewhere where they don’t charge you fifteen bucks for a pint.
The night’s quiet. The only sounds are the distant braying of carhorns, the pitter-patter of Elliot Meyer’s nervous footsteps, and the pulsing rhythm of my heartbeat throbbing in my ears and in my cock.
I’m still rock-hard. Thanks to Evelyn.
Not like I didn’t try to keep it down — I took that not-yet-divorced cougar into the back, but I couldn’t get my head into the game. I just kept thinking about the Whiskey Gal and the way she’d look straddling my cock.
Fucking gorgeous, that one is.
I sent Mrs. Cougar away and went back to my place at the bar to down a few more beers and wait for the inevitable: Elliot to step outside into the night — into my territory — so that I can kill him.
I catch up to him t
wo blocks away from the bar.
We’re alone on the sidewalk.
Time to do what I’ve done countless times before.
I get close enough for him to hear me growl.
“Keep walking. Step into this next alley. Stay quiet and you won’t get hurt. I just want your cash, that’s all.” I say.
See, sometimes, I lie.
Well, a lot of times. Whenever it’s expedient.
Like when you need to keep a nervous man from raising a fucking ruckus and drawing too much attention.
So you make him think he’s just being mugged. Everyone in Boston’s been mugged at some point or another. It’s a rite of passage. Nothing to get too worked up about.
Mr. Nervous does as he’s told and even has his wallet out in his hands before we’re even all the way into the alley. He’s done this before. He’s so helpful.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” he stammers.
His voice is quivering. Actually quivering.
I almost feel bad for him.
Then I shrug. Not because I’m indecisive, but because it helps me reach the gun holstered behind my back.
Elliot Meyers makes a nervous burble once he sees the flash of light on the gunmetal. He tosses his wallet at me.
It bounces against my chest and falls to the ground.
I don’t pick it up.
“You’ve got what you wanted. Just leave me alone. Please, don’t hurt me. Please,” he begs.
It’s pathetic. Makes me wonder what the hell this guy did to earn this fate. He doesn’t have enough of a backbone to be trouble to anyone.
Still, no use fucking about, I got a job to do.
Elliot drops to his knees, hands folded in front of his face, tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” he begs.
“Oh, for fucks sake, man. You’re starting to embarrass me. Stand up. Grow a pair.”
But he doesn’t stand up.
Instead, teardrops go from shining at brims of his eyes to streaming down his face.
