Hard Time: A thief and a con artist - who will come out on top? (Hard Series Book 2)

by Chloe Fischer

  “Are you going to grace us with your presence today or are you going to stand out here admiring yourself all day?” Tristan snapped from the doorway.

  He turned as the door opened fully and the day manager glared at him in annoyance.

  “And you’re late again,” she muttered but it was more to herself than the man at her back. She had worked with Xave Sinclair long enough to know he didn’t care who he inconvenienced.

  Grinning lazily, he followed her inside without responding and she grunted.

  “It’s slow today,” she warned him. “But there’s cops all around. Big drug bust up on Grand.”

  He flopped onto the swivel chair at the front desk, turning to the computer.

  “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that, Xave?” Tristan growled, snatching her purse from the floor at his feet as if she worried he would touch it, contaminating the contents somehow.

  He still did not speak, relishing the sense of discomfort his presence seemed to inflict upon her, but he did turn his vivid green eyes on her, watching her pale visibly.

  Tristan would not be the only one who felt ill at ease in his company; there were few people who would consider Xavier Sinclair a comforting entity.

  But that was the point entirely; Xave was not looking for friends. His goal in life was to be left alone.

  “Bye,” she muttered, spinning to leave.

  He turned his gaze back to the computer and logged in under his name, opening the company log to see who was working that afternoon.

  Grunting silently, he braced himself for what was bound to be a long night.

  He was stuck working the drama queen shift, but that wasn’t surprising; there was a reason that Xave was kept employed at the dungeon after all - and it wasn’t for his boyish charm.

  As if on cue, Sasha barreled into the lobby through the back door, her crimson robe barely covering the leather bodice she wore beneath.

  She froze when she saw him, teetering on her heels like a cartoon character coming to an abrupt stop.

  “Oh. Xave,” she muttered, glancing around. “Where’s Tristan?”

  “Gone.”

  His voice was unusually soft, like a breathless whisper laced in venom and while he used it sparingly, it had the proper effect.

  “Oh.”

  She looked about uncertainly and Xave returned his gaze to the screen before him as if she had already disappeared.

  “Well…” Sasha seemed to be gathering her courage to speak and Xave swallowed a smile.

  “Xave?”

  He glanced up at her expectantly, his eyes boring into her chocolate brown ones but she faltered.

  “Never mind,” she decided, spinning around on her seven-inch stiletto platform to vanish into the rear of the building.

  Xave smiled openly in her absence. He knew she was going to report his arrival to the others. With a little bit of luck, he would be left alone to troll the chatrooms in silence for an hour or two, or at least until the next sub walked through the doors of Lady Katrine’s.

  Lady Katrine had retired five years earlier but her memory still lived within the walls of the mid-level dungeon off Interstate 40.

  There were certainly classier places for the business clientele to attend, but Lady Katrine had established a good rapport with local law enforcement, keeping her establishment off the radar and her clients appreciated the discretion.

  Lady Katrine had been a submissive herself but in the years since she had retired, the market had turned and just as many people would pay for someone to dominate them. Most of the girls employed within these mirrored walls were well-skilled in the art of dominating the men that paid them and submitting to the guys that paid for that.

  Xave always marveled that the women found him highly unnerving given their respective professions.

  Ironically, it seemed the subs found him less intimidating than the mistresses, and for his part, Xave found them less irritating.

  The front door opened and Xave glanced up.

  “Mr. Rogers,” the man said pleasantly, depositing his credit card on the counter before the dark attired manager. “Here for Mistress Tatiana.”

  Xave nodded, accepting the card with one hand while pressing the intercom with another.

  The radio would signal the waiting women in the back who would then come to claim their client when Xave called out a confirmation.

  He peered down at the credit card, noting its platinum status and swiped it, closing his eyes as he did.

  A gentle breeze swept through the entranceway and all was still for a long moment. All except for Xave’s fingers, that is, which were working frantically before the trancelike nature of the instant dissipated.

  In seconds, Mr. Rogers exhaled and Xave slid the card back across the granite countertop where the older man waited patiently.

  He pressed the intercom again.

  “Tatiana,” he intoned.

  Xave sat back, slipping a long hand over the piece of paper sitting in naked view before him. Mr. Rogers had not seen it as his eyes were fixated on the interior door, waiting for the voluptuous Russian to throw open the door in dramatic fashion.

  It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, Xave thought wryly as Tatiana finally appeared to bring him inside.

  As they disappeared, he folded the piece of paper where he had written the card information and slipped it into his wallet. It had been a long while since he had gotten his hands on a platinum card.

  While the clients were well off enough to afford five hundred dollars an hour with one of Lady Katrine’s girls, they were hardly billionaires.

  The fates are smiling on me today, Xave thought. He needed a new laptop after all.

  It was an ingenious scheme, really.

  If, by some miraculous fluke, one of the men had learned who pilfered his credit card number, no one would come forward. How could they and save face? The eye of scrutiny would be harsh for these men, if their coworkers and families learned of their little sessions. Not to mention that the police were not apt to take a man frequenting a dungeon overly seriously.

  Xave had yet to be caught mishandling the cards but he was not concerned. He was Xavier Sinclair; he was untouchable.

  It was a knowledge he had acquired long ago, a piece of information which had empowered him from a young age.

  Xave had spent his childhood bouncing from one foster home to another. He had been dumped on the system when he was only a kid, and his earlier memories were vague.

  His mother had been a dark-haired beauty with soulful eyes and a long string of suitors who visited night after night.

  It was not until Xavier was in his teens did he realize that his mother was a street walker with a heroin addiction.

  He had been wrenched from her tender loving care when he was found wandering the streets of Harlem one night in February with no shoes or shirt, malnourished and filthy at the tender age of nine.

  Xavier had not been able to provide Child Protective Services with any information about his biological father and thus had been thrown into the foster care establishment, never to be loved again.

  No one wanted a potential problem child from a neglectful home. He wasn’t cute and young after all. He looked like trouble with his penetrating eyes and apparently sullen disposition.

  Thrust from foster home to foster home, state to state, a hard shell grew around Xave, one which shielded him well.

  With each move, Xave felt a piece of his innocence die and a burning desire for vengeance began to grow inside him.

  The problem was, Xavier did not know with whom he was angry.

  It could have been the greedy foster parents who only took him in for a paycheck but barely acknowledged him but to scream or slap at the boy for some triviality.

  Perhaps he was furious at his mother, a lost soul who had not been ready for life, let alone motherhood.

  Sometimes, he would conjure the image of a father but whether it was someone he had known or someone he had conco
cted in his imagination, he could not be sure.

  Maybe he was angry with the illusion of a man who should have protected and cared for him, instead of leaving him to die with a drug addled woman.

  Xave did not know for certain but he knew the rage was there and it was real, mounting in him like a fiery beast ready to erupt from his soul.

  It was no surprise to anyone that Xave grew darker with age, always wearing black, listening to heart blackening music.

  Any sign of precociousness he had once shown was deeply buried in the internal scars he carried with him.

  At eighteen, Xave was released from foster care in Arizona with a sealed juvenile record for theft.

  But by then he had learned to be more careful, determined never to be caught again and without looking back he set out to become the master of his own life. Vowing never to be dependent on the system again. Shortly after, he met a wealthy widow named Anne.

  At first, Xave had believed that Anne was the mother he had always been seeking with her nurturing nature and desire to dote on him.

  He naively believed that he was finally leaning toward happiness in the security of Anne’s care and for a while, he was certain that a life of crime and instability was behind him.

  She bought him anything he wanted, providing him with an allowance and spoiled him in ways he had only seen in movies.

  His benefactor encouraged him to pursue his love for art, supporting him in a way he had always desired.

  Xave had never known such good treatment, but it seemed that no sooner had he permitted himself to let go of his wariness, it became clear that Anne was no different than any of the other adults he had known in his life.

  Her cruel streak surfaced three months after she had moved him into her lavish home in Scottsdale.

  He had missed several phone calls from her when he was out drawing in the desert. His reception had been spotty and when he arrived home, Xave was met with a frying pan to the skull. There had been no prior warning of Anne’s propensity for violence, nor had Xave believed the sweet, nurturing woman could be capable of such a horrific act.

  When he had finally regained consciousness, he found himself in the storm cellar. He remained locked in there for three days without food or water.

  He believed that she had left him there to die. He waited for his life to end. The whole time he berated himself, furious that he had let his guard down. How many lessons would it take to learn that nobody really cared about him?

  When Anne finally came for him at the end of the third day, Xave had been down, but his spirit was not broken. Anne had found the wrong underdog to abuse and within a week, the boy she had believed she had scared into submission, silently drained the accounts he could access of hers and headed back to New York.

  It was a move he had been yearning for all his years of being shifted around like a used couch that no one wanted but no one wanted to take to the dump either.

  When he arrived at Penn Station, he suddenly felt empty. The anticipation had been anticlimactic.

  He had so been looking forward to returning home, yet New York was not home. If it had once been, it no longer was and suddenly Xavier was lost.

  The realization only compounded his anger and he went on a two-week bender.

  After sobering up, Xave finally admitted to himself that he could not depend on anyone. He was alone in the world with no one to dig him out of his pain.

  It was a dismal realization for a teenager but it had served him well over the years.

  The front door opened again and another man walked inside, this one much more nervous than Mr. Rogers had been.

  A newbie, Xavier guessed, eyeing him with interest, but there was something vaguely familiar about the elegant black man.

  Maybe he wasn’t a newbie. Maybe he had been there in the past after all.

  He wore a diamond studded Rolex and a four thousand-dollar Armani suit.

  He’s just come from the airport, Xavier realized, offering the stranger a tight smile.

  “You have an appointment?” he asked coldly, ensuring that the newcomer remained tense.

  He nodded quickly and cleared his throat.

  “Yes…with Sasha.”

  Xave waited impatiently.

  “Your name?” he demanded in exasperation.

  “Oh, uh…” he seemed reluctant to give it but something in Xave’s stare must have encouraged him.

  “Clark Jameson.”

  Xavier extended his hand for payment and pressed the intercom, turning his head to look dead into the camera deliberately.

  Mr. Jameson quickly handed him a Visa card and Xavier noted the name, swallowing his pleasure quickly as he realized from where he knew the man.

  Ah yes. NBA star, Clark Jameson. Welcome.

  He made no comment of course, again closing his eyes tightly as the renowned superstar stared at him. Even basketball stars had their right to an illusion of privacy at Lady Katrine’s, after all.

  As Xave opened his lids, he noted the basketball player’s frozen expression and he picked up a pen, jotting down the information as Mr. Jameson watched on, uncomprehendingly.

  In seconds, the client stepped back from the desk, his card in hand and the dungeon manager signalled Sasha to come out.

  Two platinum cards in one day. The gods really do love me, Xave thought as Sasha led Mr. Jameson away.

  Xave was too busy planning his weekend to notice Sasha’s almost desperate stare.

  I will get a new Mac and maybe a new bike. It’s been a while since I rode. I could use the exercise.

  The key was to not push his luck, after all. He had managed to stay off the radar since his teens by design, not chance. If he overspent on the stolen cards, he was sure to get caught and no prosecutor would hesitate to put him in jail.

  But do people with platinum credit cards really check their statements? Probably not. But he still had to be careful.

  If he had learned anything early on, it was that greed would be his demise.

  Anyway, he had a gift which ensured that he wouldn’t get caught.

  Feeling satisfied, Xavier opened eBay and began searching for his new purchases. He wouldn’t be so dumb as to buy them from Lady Katrine’s but there was no harm in looking while he had down time.

  Later, he would just go to an internet café and order stuff to his post office box downtown.

  No sooner had he typed his desire into the search engine did the inner door fly open again. He did have to raise his head. Xave could already tell it was Sasha. She was the worst of the drama queen crew.

  “Xave?”

  He did not bother to look up, continuing to scroll through the items on the desktop. If it was important enough, she would call out to him again.

  “Xave?”

  There was a tremor in her voice that he hadn’t initially heard and his head jerked up, opening his mouth to respond. The words died on his lips.

  “Xave?” she sobbed again, her hands trembling. Her black corset was slick and wet, red streaks painting her body.

  Blood had spattered her olive face and caught in her hair.

  Xave sprung from the chair.

  “What the hell happened?” he growled, rushing toward the front door. He locked it, spinning back to look at her.

  “What did you do?” he demanded, drawing near her. “Answer me! What the hell did you do?”

  She shook her head and tears fell onto her cheeks, mixing with the lines of crimson.

  “I think I killed him,” she gasped. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Who?” he choked, a sick feeling consuming his intestines. “Who’s dead?”

  “My client, Clark.”

  Chapter Two

  A hazy light poured through the red curtains, catching the wisps of smoke flowing from the dragon head incense holder.

  She stared deeply into his eyes, her stunning purple irises wide and intense. Her eyes were surrounded by thick, dark lashes, and outlined with a heavily dramatic streak of
liner. She gnawed on the fullness of her lower lip.

  A single wisp of silken chestnut hair fell over her flawless face as it knit in concentration.

  Gasping, her hand flew to her chest, fingering the evil eye talisman around her slender throat and she nodded with grim assertion.

  “Oh, there is a darkness surrounding you, Alvin, there is no doubt. You are in grave danger!” she told him in her throaty voice, breathing shakily, manicured nails closing around the pendant as if hoping to ward off the darkness she predicted.

  He stared at her with huge, terrified eyes, through his owl-like glasses.

  “Why?” he gasped, glancing from her scared violet eyes toward his outstretched palms secured within hers. “What the hell else can happen? Why do the gods hate me so much?”

  Danica sighed and shook her head woefully.

  “I fear it is a curse,” she murmured. “It would explain much of your suffering. Let me see if I can conjure an image of the spellcaster.”

  Danica closed her long lashes and inhaled deeply.

  “Ah yes! Someone with blonde hair and blue eyes. A fair witch but a witch nonetheless. She walks among us without disclosing her true nature.”

  Alvin’s face registered understanding instantly.

  “Cindy! That bitch! I knew there was something wrong with her! I’ve always known it! I warned Rob about her!”

  “She will not stop until she has destroyed you entirely, Alvin. She is a vindictive woman and filled with greed.”

  The chubby man nodded vehemently.

  “She is! She wants me out of the picture so that my brother gets my parents’ entire inheritance.”

  “Ah…” Danica exhaled slowly. “Yes, I fear she may succeed, Alvin. I am very sorry. The darkness is too strong, the hold…”

  She trailed off, lowering her stunningly purple eyes.

  “No!” Alvin cried, wrenching his hands away. “There must be something you can do! You are the best psychic I have ever known, Danica. You have a gift and if anyone can stop her from bleeding me, it’s you!”

  The brunette beauty rose from the chair, shaking her head.

  “Alvin, the forces at play here are far too dangerous. Not only would I personally upset the demon spirits, I could put you in further harm’s way.”