by Whitney G.
Then again, this woman is far sexier than any supermodel I’ve ever seen. Her name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood and she’s far more intriguing than they are as well.
She’s twenty-four years old, fresh out of Fashion School, and way too damn naïve. She’s also damaged, irrefutably broken, but she hides it well under her six-figure wardrobe, beneath a smile that she’s been groomed to perfect.
I’ve only been watching her for a few weeks, but I already know her day to day habits. Every move in her predictable, unwavering routine.
Monday through Friday, she steps outside her expensive condo for a two-block walk to The Paper Café. The order is for her boss, and it’s always the same: Caramel spiced latte, add foam, hold the sugar. She hails a cab to Vogue’s headquarters in the One World Trade Center, where she spends the next twelve to fourteen hours catering to the whims of the top magazine editor in the country.
During her hour-long lunch breaks, she phones her best friend—Gillian Weston, and they talk and laugh about absolutely nothing. (I don’t even bother trying to overhear their conversations anymore.)
After work, she tries her best to distract herself from the loss of her mother by buying new books she’ll never read or running through Central Park until she can’t take anymore. She occasionally slips through the doors of Club Swan and spins her pain away, around the comfort of a pole; from what I can tell, she only dances on the faraway stage and she never lets any customers touch her. She’s there for herself, not anyone else.
It takes all of the restraint in the world for me to not go in and watch…
On weekends, she starts her mornings by faithfully penning five new pages in her diary. It’s a habit she’s kept since she was twelve, and the entries range from the sensible (“I really wonder if Fashion is what I’m meant to do with my life.” to the utterly absurd (“Last night, I dreamed that I was a bird,”). When she’s not watching Law & Order: SVU marathons or running last minute errands for her boss, she spends her Saturday nights swiping on Tinder. She almost always swipes left. (Especially on me, for some goddamn reason.)
Tonight’s “right swipe”—a blond-haired Wall Street guy who calls himself Jameson Turner—is an aberration in her system. He’s due to meet her at a bar down the street in thirty minutes, and I can already tell from the blush on her cheeks, that she’s fantasizing about all the dirty things he’s sent via private message.
“I’m going to leave your tight pussy soaking wet, have you begging for more of my cock … Tonight will be a night you’ll always remember, sexy girl.
She has no idea that his name isn’t really Jameson Turner, that he’s not even from this city. He’s actually Connor Ryan, a five-time sex-offender from Philadelphia who has all too easily escaped felony rape charges due to his parents’ massive wealth and influence.
His approach on nights like this is laughably lazy and unoriginal. Twenty minutes before the date, he calls the girl and asks her to meet him at a nearby lounge, so they can “cut through the noise to get to know each other a little better.”
Once there, he charms her like a skilled predator who knows his prey—telling her stories of all the places he’s traveled, listening carefully about who she truly wants to be in life. Mid-conversation, he slips two “roofies”—date rape drugs— into her drink and then he patiently waits for her to say the inevitable: “I think I need to go home, my head hurts.”
Of course, the girl never gets home. Instead, she wakes up in an abandoned alley hours later—bleeding and confused. By the time she pieces together the night, his Tinder profile is deactivated and he’s crossing state lines to play his twisted game with someone else.
I can’t believe how many times he’s gotten away with this shit…
Blushing and wide-eyed, Meredith suddenly steps closer to the curb. She holds her phone up to her face and her smile falters.
Jameson has rescheduled her date at the last minute, promising to make it up to her on New Year’s Eve.
She mouths, “Ugh!” and her stunning silver stilettos almost give way as she waves to her Uber driver.
I take one last drag of my Cuban cigar, and steal a long and hard look at her sinfully red, sexy lips. My brain races with thoughts of how perfect they would look wrapped around my cock, how my hands would easily grip her almond-colored hair and guide her greedy mouth up and down my length.
Don’t even think about it…She’s just a job. Just a job.
A grey Nissan pulls over, and I tap my steering wheel. I’ll wait a few minutes before heading home and calling it a day.
I promise myself that after tonight, I won’t intervene in her life anymore—even if it’s for her own good. I’ll have to treat her like any other assignment. Otherwise, I’ll fuck up and get attached.
When the Uber is out of sight, I step out of my car and pop the trunk. Everything inside is exactly how I left it this afternoon. Connor Ryan is tied up in wires, his mouth shut with duct tape. His eyes are wide and he looks scared shitless, but he’s only getting a small dose of how all of his victims have felt.
Grabbing the edge of the duct tape, I tug hard and pull it off.
“Fuckkkkk!” He yelps. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. I did what you said. I texted her and asked her to reschedule.”
“No, I asked her to reschedule.” I pull his cell phone out of my pocket and hold it up. “She’s not very happy about it, but she’ll get over it when you stand her up on New Year’s Eve, and she’ll never know how big of a bullet she dodged.”
“Bullet?” His eyes go even wider. “Don’t shoot me, please...”
“I’m not going to waste any of my bullets on you,” I say, offended that he would even think he meant that much to me. “Each one of them costs ten times more than what your life is worth.”
He nods, continuing to shake.
“I’m going to drive you to the Greyhound Station,” I say, pulling a boarding pass out of my pocket and tossing it into the trunk. “From there, you’re going to catch the 3201 bus, and you’re not going to mention me to anyone. You’re going to ride home to your pathetic, coddled life that your parents continue to pay for, and you’re going to confess to breaking house arrest and crossing state lines.”
His eyes widen, and he looks as if that punishment is somehow worse than me shooting him.
“If I print out the news forty-eight hours from now and see that you’re not being sent to prison for violating your parole, I’ll be very disappointed. But then you’ll give me the perfect excuse to take a nice drive to Pennsylvania, where I’ll show up to your house, your vacation home, and any of your family’s private estate addresses where you might be dumb enough to think you can hide from me. Then and only then, will I consider wasting one of my best bullets on you. Are we clear?”
“Yes …” Tears fall from his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I tape his mouth once more and slam the trunk shut. Then I look at my watch.
His flight isn’t for another three hours, and I still have more than enough time to do some research for another job.
I start to throw his phone into the trash, but I can’t for some reason. I open his inbox and text Meredith, knowing that I should leave her alone, but I want to be sure this is put to bed.
Jameson (Me): I’m really sorry I had to reschedule on you. What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?
Meredith: Moving on to a guy who won’t cancel on me at the last minute. Delete my number.
I smile. Good girl.
I start to toss the phone, but it vibrates in my hand once more. A new text from her.
Meredith: The only way I would even consider going out with you again—on New Year’s Eve, Mr. “I Own This City,” is if you suggested something other than a bar. Something nice that would truly make it up to me, preferably something that would show a hint of how much you supposedly ‘own’ this city.
Jameson (Me): When exactly did I say that I ‘owned’ this city?
Meredith: Last week. You said y
ou get into all of the best clubs for free because you know all the owners. Would you like me to send you a screenshot?
Jameson (Me): Yes, please.
She sends it within seconds, and his words from a thread he’d long deleted make me roll my eyes at first sight.
Jameson (Me): Trust me, sexy girl. Everyone in this city knows about me or my firm. That’s how I roll. Whenever I do take an off day, I can show up to any of the top clubs here and get into them without saying a word. Every club manager knows me by name and BEGS me to drop money in their clubs.
I shake my head. I’d never heard of him until last week. The moment I saw him on the national offenders’ report and saw he’d be in my city, I’d immediately put him on my club’s never-let-him-in list.
Meredith: Should I assume that you were making that up just as much as our date tonight?
Jameson (Me): Not at all. I have a table for New Year’s Eve at Fahrenheit 900. I’ll send you a reservation confirmation. We can meet there and I’ll make this up to you.
Bad boy…
Michael
Before We “Met”
(Well, Slightly After)
* * *
This woman is definitely going to be a problem…
Meredith stands in the doorway of the penthouse suite, her stunning brown eyes looking into mine—searching for a way to extend our conversation for several more seconds. For the past several hours, I’d fucked her all over the room. I’d devouring her pussy repeatedly, made her come on almost every surface, and forced her to scream my name at the top of her lungs each time.
I’ve officially broken every rule in my book, shattered every personal law.
“Why are you leaving right now?” she asks. “Right when you think I’m sleeping...”
“You were sleeping.” I trailed her lip. “I told you to stay in the bed.”
“I was listening to you talk until you stopped.” She smiles, cementing her title as the sexiest woman I have ever met. “I don’t I’ve ever talked so much in between sex this much.”
“Me either…”
“You could finish telling me about your tattoos or your travels,” she said. “Or I could tell you a secret about what I do on the side when I’m not working at Vogue.”
“I already know about that.”
“Huh?” She raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I already know what you do when you’re not working,” I said, quickly thinking of a way to recover from that near-reveal. “You swipe left on every guy you see on Tinder.”
She laughed. “No, not that. If you come back in, I can—”
I cut her off with a kiss, silencing her sentence before she can talk me into staying. Before she can make me lose what’s left of my dwindling restraint. I want this night to last longer, just as much as she does, but I can’t.
“Have a good night, Meredith,” I say, slowly pulling away from her. “Happy New Year.”
“You’re really not going to come back in and help me christen a few more services in this four-thousand-dollar a night room?” she asks, her cheeks red. “I didn’t get a chance to do as much on you…”
“The penthouse suite is forty thousand dollars a night.” I step back, beyond tempted. “And no, I won’t come back at all.”
I walk away from her before she can ask another question, before I can go against my better judgment and end this night buried deep in her pussy. Pressing the elevator button, I stare at her until the doors glide open, taking her in for what should be the last time.
As the car goes down, I try to convince myself that what I’ve done is okay. That months from now, when she sees me again, she won’t suspect anything until I stuff her into the back of a van and make her disappear for a while.
When I make it to the lobby, I pull out my personal cell phone and notice a new text message from the only person who has this number. My brother.
Trevor: I had one of the runners deliver your dry cleaning to your SoHo condo. You know, the place where you were supposed to be to discuss business tonight. As for me, I’m parked in front of the closest Sweet Seasons Café. Come see me whenever you start thinking with your brain instead of your cock.
I reach into my coat, feeling around for my car keys, but they’re not there.
Shit.
Walking over to the front desk, I show my ID and request a duplicate room key for the penthouse suite. I take the elevator up to the room once more, and the moment I step inside, I see Meredith fast asleep on the couch.
Completely naked, she’s sprawled across the cushions, hanging off the edge. Her face is in danger of hitting the glass coffee table is she moves another inch.
My keys are on the minibar, right within reach.
Grab the keys and fucking leave … If she hurts herself, so be it.
Without thinking, I walk over to her and slip my hands under her thighs—lifting her up and carrying her into the bedroom. I grab a silk robe from the closet and slowly help her into it before tucking her under the covers.
As I turn to walk away, she grabs my arm and her eyes flutter open.
“Yes, Meredith?”
“I really like you already…”
I don’t respond to that. I gently push her hand away, and wait a few seconds before she falls asleep again.
Grabbing my keys, I get the hell out of the hotel and suck in as much fresh air as I can when I get to the street. I make my way down the block to the closest Sweet Seasons Café until I reach my brother’s car. I look over my shoulder before opening the passenger’s side door and shutting myself inside.
“For the record,” Trevor says, the moment I lean back in the seat, “I think you’re getting sloppy.”
“In that case, I think you’ve gained twenty pounds in two weeks.”
“It’s part my next assignment.” He laughs. “Middle aged man in less-than perfect shape. I need to gain weight to play the part. Otherwise, there’s no way any of the suburban moms will believe I’m a widowed father. I look too good as the regular me, you know?”
I want to laugh, but he’s pissed me off already.
“I’m not getting sloppy,” I say. “I’m being thorough.”
“By going on a goddamn date with the girl?” He scoffs. “Is fucking her a part of this particular job? I seem to have missed that part in my notes.”
“I didn’t fuck her.” I lied.
“You mean yet?” he asks, but I don’t answer.
“I mean, I’ve seen you insert yourself in people’s lives before, but not in a way where they can actually remember your face. Don’t you think that’ll be a big problem months from now when she’s supposed to go missing?”
“I was just making sure that she got home safe.”
“And her home is in the Four Seasons? In the penthouse suite?”
“It is tonight.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “I told you that you didn’t need to do this job. I could’ve had someone else do it. Hell, I could’ve done it.”
“You’re a glorified bookkeeper. I’m the best at this for a reason.”
“Even champions can have an off-year.” He lights a Cuban cigar. “Anyway, the clients want to know how much you’ll charge to change this to a C-23 job.”
“I’m not interested in anything extra for this,” I say. “Your guys said they wanted her missing in six months and safely returned in thirty days after a media blitz. That’s all they’re getting from me.”
“Well, they’ve had a change of heart.” He pulls out an envelope. “They’re also offering a significant change in fees, too.”
“Please tell me you’re not walking around the streets of this city with a fucking envelope of hit-money.”
“I know better than that.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s the bank codes and the pending amounts. To be paid out the moment she’s gone and you can confirm she’ll never return, and her body will never be found.”
Curious, I take the envelope from his hands and open it. Everythin
g I need to know is printed in black, pure facts and numbers. Switzerland Holdings Bank. The most I’ve ever been paid for any single job, more than the last five combined.
I tap my fingers against the paper, wanting to weigh the pros and cons of giving these people what they want, but it feels different this time. Wrong.
Granted, I’ve never been a fan of any person who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, but unless Meredith Alexis Thatchwood was some type of undercover criminal and she’d fooled me with her daily routine somehow, I didn’t see how she could be the kind worth killing.
Her taste is still on my lips, and I know I won’t be able to stop replaying the past few hours in my mind for a while. There’s something there between us, something I’ve never felt before, and a part of me wants a little more. I also know, without a doubt, that for the first time since we started this hell-ish, underground service, that I’ll struggle with a job. Especially if she’s involved.
Leaning back in my seat, I think long and hard about why she would ever deserve to be murdered—who she possibly could’ve hurt to make them seek out our private firm, but I can’t think of anything.
Usually, there’s no contact between me and the actual client. No explanations, either. They asked one of the underlings or associates for a job, and those words slowly made it up the chain. The less people who needed to interact, and the less facts I knew about who was involved, the better.
“That number makes you want to reconsider, huh?” Trevor puffs an ‘O’ and cracks his window. “I’ve done all of my due diligence, by the way. They have the money, and they have a lot to lose if this ever gets out, which protects us as well. I told them that there’s nothing to worry about.” He pats my shoulder. “I told them that they’re dealing with the best.”
I shake my head. I can’t resist getting the background story this time. “Who the hell are the clients who want this done? Do they even know Meredith, or is this some scorned lover, former friend type shit?”
“They more than know her,” he says, blowing another “O” before turning to face me. “Well, ‘he,’ anyway. He’s her father.”
