by Camilla Monk
The slight twitch of his lips promised a world of hurt later on, but I figured life was too short for regrets anyway—especially mine. Joy groaned in despair on the other end of the line, encouraging me to dump him right away because small, limp dicks were a total deal breaker. I don’t know if it was guilt over my claim that he was poorly endowed, or because I knew he could hear Joy making terrible jokes about overcooked mac’n’cheese through the speaker, but I felt the need to rectify my account, even a little.
“He-he’s a decent kisser, though,” I stammered, feeling my face heat up at this particular lie—was it even a lie?
In any case, it was no use. Joy believed nothing in this world could redeem a mini-hot-dog dick, and we decided to leave it at that. I felt a diffuse weariness when we said good-bye before hanging up, perhaps born from the fear that my adventure wouldn’t end well and I’d never go home, in spite of March’s best efforts.
I handed him his phone back without meeting his eyes. As expected, there was a price tag on that mini hot dog. I didn’t think it would be so high, though.
His lips quirked. “I’m actually thirty-two, and I never thought I’d hear a socially crippled virgin who binges on romance books speculate on my size. You made my day.”
I had earned that one, and it hurt in all the right places. I got up from the sofa with gritted teeth and gave my best shot at a haughty glare. “I’m going to sleep. I’m taking the room. You get the couch.”
I saw the smugness vanish from his face and his hand rise in an attempt to stop me, but I ran into the bedroom before he could open his mouth, slamming the door behind me. Once I was inside, I allowed myself to fall to the floor, my back sliding down against the door.
SEVENTEEN
The Ostrich
“He was a billionaire with a fortune of cosmic proportions, but he yearned for one thing only: the beautiful waitress who worked in his massively big skyscraper’s cafeteria.”
—Livia Torrente, The Billionaire’s Beautiful Waitress
“I never thought I’d hear a socially crippled virgin who reads romance speculate on my tiny Jell-O junk, mmmhh’kay!”
Some people blow off steam through exercising, others do drugs, a few eat mints and kill people. My way had been the same for years: imitating people I hated with the voice of South Park’s Mr. Mackey.
I was lying in bed, clutching the teal comforter in aggravation, my recent interactions with March replaying over and over in my mind. Who the hell did he think he was to call me socially crippled and mock my reading choices? So he had nearly kissed me. So what? Did that give him the right to play with me like that? To monopolize my thoughts? Of course not. He was nothing special. Other guys had kissed me—really kissed me! Those had been great, memorable kisses.
Super hot, actually.
Yeah.
No, March was just some OCD-ridden freak with too much attitude, and his chest hair was lame. I slammed my fists on the bed with determination; I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me.
I was still seething, and repeating to myself that I too, was a warrior with balls of stainless steel, when I realized that some parts of my body were, in fact, not made of steel.
There was a dull ache in my bladder. I needed to pee.
Since my scalp was prickling at the idea of having to face him to access the toilets, I decided that nature could wait. According to the TV’s clock, I struggled for fifty-four minutes before the urge became intolerable and I had to get up. Mortified, I slid into my jeans and tried to crawl out of the bedroom unnoticed, to no avail: March wasn’t asleep. He was resting on the room’s long sofa, reading something on his phone.
Detaching his gaze from the screen, he gave me a lazy smile. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“I need to . . .” I gestured to the toilet’s door, scratching my tangled hair, eyes still half-closed.
He nodded his understanding, and I scurried across the room to lock myself in. Hell-bent on making sure March didn’t discover that I possessed a bladder like the rest of mankind, I stuffed the bowl with toilet paper to muffle any undignified sound—and yes, I’m aware that this is stupid and I could have clogged the toilet. Having a crush is complicated. Flushing proved even more of a torturous process, especially with all that paper. I shuddered at the loud gurgle that sounded like a thousand voices yelling, “Hey! Island went to the TOILET!”
I washed my hands and headed back to the bedroom, only to be stopped by his voice. “You seem tense. Are you still angry?”
“No,” I mumbled.
“I see. Still angry, obviously.”
Ignoring his snide comment, I leaned against the bedroom door, focusing my gaze on his phone to avoid his mocking eyes. “What are you doing, playing?”
“No, I’m checking the messages coming from my website.”
I gawked and scuttled across the room until I was standing near the sofa. “You have a website?”
“Yes. I suppose it’s important to keep up to date with today’s latest technologies. It’s responsive too,” he explained, turning the screen of his phone so I could get a better view of it. I struggled to adjust my sight to the blinding bluish light and examined the page. March’s website included three elements: a single line of text that said “Please fill in the following form to contact me,” a contact form—indeed—and . . . a close-up picture of an ostrich.
“Whoa. It’s . . . nice,” I lied. “Why the ostrich, though?”
“Well, the engineer said I should put a personal touch. I like ostriches. There’s a certain depth to their gaze,” he mused quietly.
I knew there was no reasoning with personal tastes; I didn’t press the issue. “So you get the messages, and what? How does it work?”
“My assistant sorts them first and forwards me those worthy of a second read.”
“Phyllis?” I asked, remembering the phone call he had made before freeing Antonio from his trunk.
“Yes. She runs my place, takes care of the paperwork, and updates the website.”
I twitched. “March, there’s nothing to update here.”
He gave me a surprised look, as if I was missing the obvious. “She changes the picture, of course! I have this folder where I collect my ostrich pictures. She changes it every Monday.”
I stared at him, baffled. Who the hell was March? Was he the ruthless professional killer who had killed at least eight people since Friday night? Or the gentle and slightly lunar guy telling me about his collection of ostrich pictures? I figured that since he seemed to be in the mood to chat, I’d seize this opportunity to further my study of the market dynamics of the criminal underworld. “Speaking of your job, you never answered me, back in the plane. Say that you get a serious message, how much for a day of March?” I asked, kneeling on the carpet by his side.
His expression turned challenging. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Two hundred, plus expenses.”
It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what he meant. “Like . . . two hundred . . . grand?”
He nodded.
I did the math in my head. “That’s . . . more than six thousand bucks for a backrub!”
A mischievous smile curved his lips. “Would you like one?”
I recoiled in horror. “God no! I don’t spend that kind of money!”
He laughed, and I think that little game might have gone on if his phone hadn’t started buzzing. March picked up, and I listened anxiously in the dark. I couldn’t make out the entire conversation, but the deep voice on the other end of the line sounded like Ilan’s, and March’s body language was getting less and less relaxed as the conversation progressed: he didn’t like what he was hearing. Once the exchange was over, he remained silent for few seconds and then got up from the sofa, suggesting we were done for the time being.
“March, what’s going on?”
“Ilan had a cleaning team take care of Rislow’s hideout. They found him dead,” he explained.
“He didn’t survive the wound . . .” I looked away as I said this, almost angered by the realization that I cared, even when Creepy-hat had been the most worthless piece of shit to ever roam the face of the earth.
“He was shot in the head.”
My head snapped up. “What? Someone came afterward?”
“Yes.”
March’s eyes turned dark, concern lurking in their depths, and Creepy-hat’s words rang in my ears. “Does it have anything to do with what Rislow said? He said you picked the wrong side, and Dri—”
He knelt down to be at eye-level with me, and before I could ask if he thought Dries was the one who had killed Rislow, that damn finger landed on the tip of my nose again. “Island, I can’t discuss this with you. All you need to know is that you are my client, and I won’t let anyone near you.”
I closed my eyes in frustration. There was such a thing as too many secrets, and March embodied the concept perfectly. He had me feeling like I was standing in front of a two-hundred-foot-tall onion with nothing but a table knife to work my way through all those layers, and I feared there might be tears. Lots of them.
“Are you gonna brush me off like that? I’m not stupid, you know. I can tell there’s been something wrong from the start. You weren’t supposed to take care of me; Rislow was. Did that Queen person hire you because she suspected he might be working for Dries? What’s really going on, March?”
His lips pressed in a grim line as he picked a shirt from the mystery case. “I’m not entirely certain.”
“Have you talked to Dries?”
“Phyllis is looking for him.”
Getting up from the sofa, I watched him strap on his holster. “Where are you going anyway?”
“To have a word with your mother’s notary.”
“In the middle of the night?” I asked incredulously.
He checked his watch. “Yes. One of Ilan’s informants called to warn him that Mr. Étienne had shown up in a club where he’s a regular. Given the circumstances, I’d rather not wait any longer to question him.”
“The”—I scraped my brain for a memory of the club Ilan had mentioned during our trip from the airport to his place—“Rose Paradise. What sort of club is that?”
“A strip club.”
I stretched my neck and arms before walking to the wardrobe. “Okay, just let me grab a T-shirt!”
A stern expression appeared on his features. “You’re staying here.”
Two could play that game.
“I am coming, and instead of bossing me around, you should thank me for not asking what else you’re lying about. Should I ask what makes you so sure Dries didn’t kill my mother? Maybe it’s because you did,” I said, glaring at him.
I feared I had gone too far with such a ludicrous accusation when his jaw ticked in rising anger, but his gaze eventually softened, and he gave in. “Get ready. Ilan will be here in a few minutes.”
EIGHTEEN
Them Bitches
“Rick loathed the idea of cheating on Belinda with a stripper spy, but he had made a commitment to serve his country, and the CIA demanded that he draw his weapon.”
—Sabrina Boys, Slip of the Thong
When Ilan entered the suite at midnight sharp, March was ready, and so was I. Well, almost: clothes flew out of my Monoprix bag and all around me as I searched for a suitable pair of socks under their amused gaze. I finally found the perfect pair for a strip club night—pink ones, of course—and announced I was good to go as well.
March’s horrified stare stopped me dead in my tracks. “What are you doing?”
“I-I’m going. I’m still allowed to come, right?”
“Yes. But not before you’ve done something about . . . this—” He gestured to the clothes on the ground.
My nose scrunched up in an expression of despair, but that didn’t move him in the slightest. He watched me with unforgiving eyes as I picked up every single item of clothing and folded each one meticulously before placing them back in the bag.
I feigned hurt. “Are you happy?”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t have to ask. This should come as a reflex,” he said in a patronizing tone.
“You’ll never change me, I’m a free spirit!”
His eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about that. How much do you want to bet that I’ll break that free spirit into a spirit who picks up her clothes?”
I heard Ilan snicker behind us at this last remark, and I let March steer me out of the room. It was only when we crossed the lobby that my mind registered the obvious. When had the two of us started making plans for the future?
Oddly enough, I seemed to enjoy the Rose Paradise more than March and Ilan did. Both appeared to be nervous, almost shy, when we were in men’s heaven—a divine garden of pleasure filled with enchanting rivers of booze and where titties grew on trees. Go figure.
I, on the other hand, tried to make the most of this new experience, since I knew I was lucky to have even been allowed inside. The two of them had been admitted fairly easily, despite the fact that they weren’t wearing suits. When the bouncer had stared down at me, his cold glare had said it all. Boobless little people who wore jeans weren’t allowed in. Thank God for guns, solid ties with the French police, and Ilan’s threats of summoning a raid on the place; all of these had helped us smooth out our differences. Soon, I was frolicking among drunken executives and gorgeous bikini babes on a pink leopard-print carpet, wiggling my hips to the sound of electronic music.
Carried by the recent increase in my self-confidence levels, I quickly mastered the complex administrative rules of this den of iniquity and turned to March for some financial support while Ilan questioned a barmaid. “I need money for Rose tickets. Sasha here will agree to dance for us in exchange for one Rose ticket,” I announced, beckoning over a blonde stripper in a black see-through nightie with a body that rivaled Kalahari’s.
March looked at me and Sasha, aghast. “Island, I’m not entirely certain—”
“You don’t like strippers?”
Ilan came back toward us, and Sasha gave him her brightest smile, perhaps in hopes he had some tickets to spend. He frowned in response. “Island, no man will ever admit to enjoying strip clubs in front of his girl. It’s an unspoken rule, like the bro code.”
I looked up at his tired green eyes, searching them for a sign that he was joking. “But I’m not March’s girl, and I’ve never been to a strip club. If you don’t want your tickets, I’ll take them!”
Ilan shook his head in disbelief, and both men put a hand on my back, steering me away from the statuesque Sasha and toward a long, dark hallway decorated with a slew of erotic statues poorly imitating ancient Greek sculpture—I’m pretty sure Praxiteles’s young athletes did not sport ten-inch boners. As we passed private booths where gorgeous girls performed lap dances on stoned businessmen bathed in a reddish hue, I heard Ilan whispering to March in French.
“Au moins, elle est pas jalouse. C’est déjà ça.” At least, she’s not the jealous type. It’s something already.
I have no idea how it feels when you’re sitting there with a stripper on your lap, struggling to control the business in your pants, and suddenly two big guys plop themselves on either side of you, kick your stripper out, and clasp a hand on your mouth so you won’t scream. I guess watching the stripper go must be the worst part. We were worried she might tell security her client was in trouble, so we gave her lots of Rose tickets, and she blew us a kiss before strutting away happily.
The guy we were now holding hostage looked more like an adman than a notary: short and lean with an elegant dark suit, a red tie that I found too flashy, and red shoelaces that matched the tie—a sure sign that style was an important part of his life. I think it was the tie-coordinated-with-shoelaces thing and the gel in his graying black hair that made me dislike him almost instantly. I noticed a small bowl of peanuts sitting near a half-empty bottle of champagne on the low black table his stripper had been dancing on. I was
tempted to dig in, but I remembered all those stories about bar peanuts being your number one source of germs and how eating them meant you’ll get to sample several people’s urine.
Since March was so good at pleasantries, he made the introductions while Ilan pressed his huge hand over the guy’s mouth.
“Good evening, Mr. Étienne, I’m terribly sorry we had to interrupt your date. I’m Mr. May; I kill people for a living.”
When he heard that, Monsieur Étienne showed a spectacular lack of balls. He started squirming and screaming against Ilan’s hand, his face turning redder than his ugly tie.
Unimpressed, March went on. “My associates and I would like a word with you. Can I trust you not to scream again?”
He opened his jacket enough for Étienne to see the gun and nodded to Ilan to release his grip on the guy’s mouth. Étienne remained perfectly still, his eyes darting around the booth in alarm, his voice a panicked hiss. “Je suis au courant de rien! Dites à votre boss que je sais rien!” I haven’t heard anything! Tell your boss I know nothing!
God, he sounded like Pepé Le Pew. March went on in excellent French, with an ominous smile. “I’m here with Miss Chaptal, whose mother’s estate I understand you are in charge of. She would like a word with you. Can I ask you to spare us a few minutes?”
Something shifted in Étienne’s expression. His muscles seem to relax. “Chaptal? Léa? What . . . You weren’t sent by Pizza Tino?”
March and I shook our heads slowly, looking at each other in puzzlement. Ilan, on the other hand, seemed to understand what was going on. “Tino? Is he still dealing car parts? I thought he was retiring. I heard the Corsicans tried to blow up his villa in Calvi—”
The notary’s eyes widened again. “I know nothing about that; all I do is take care of the paperwork! I told his men I knew nothing!”
March stroked his chin slowly. “Am I to understand that the men who ruffled your assistant were there on behalf of Mr. . . . Tino?”
