We shake hands, and I follow her out of the office, where she calls the private elevator. I try not to think about what comes with packing an overnight bag, but when the metal doors open, my nerves get the best of me.
“At least tell me what she looks like.” I wink at her and flash my most charming smile. “Come on, Karen. Just a hint. Is she attractive? Old? Obese?”
Her expression gives nothing away, but there’s a slight flush in her cheeks. “Good luck, Decker.”
Fuck. I step into the elevator and catch the doors right before they close. “What do I wear?”
She gives me firm eye contact, her expression severe. “Be yourself.”
CHAPTER 6
DECKER
That night, I bounce my leg in the back of a limo as the tree-lined streets of the Village dissolve into the darkness behind me. When the driver picked me up in front of my apartment, he said nothing beyond a curt Good evening, Mr. Gabrielli. I could’ve made him walk the eight flights of stairs and meet me in my tiny studio, but I needed the frigid air to cool off my nervous energy.
It didn’t help. My stomach’s a mess, and I’ve chewed the hell out of my cheek. I don’t know where the driver is taking me or why I’m alone in this pretentious car. Evidently, my soon-to-be companion is too busy or important to make the ride across town.
If I had to guess, my destination is somewhere private and secure, a place conducive to sex, like a hotel.
My overnight bag sits on the seat beside me, mocking me. Will I even need a change of clothes or will she keep me naked, on my knees, doing tongue exercises between her flabby old legs?
My gag reflex kicks in, and I drag a hand down my face, focusing my thoughts on anything but that.
I didn’t leave much behind in my apartment. Just a couple boxes of clothes and combat sports gear. The rent’s paid through the next two months thanks to the twenty-thousand-dollar advance that was deposited into my account a few hours ago.
Twenty grand, and I’m dressed like a hoodlum. My Danzig t-shirt should’ve been thrown out years ago, and my jeans are so worn the holes have holes. Faded converse, black leather jacket, and a studded belt—all of it says I don’t give a shit. But Karen Flores said to be myself, and I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping for clothes to impress a woman.
For the next fifteen minutes, I tap my fingers on the armrest and keep my thoughts on the end goal. Whoever this woman is, I’ll charm the fuck out of her, keep her satisfied, and rub elbows with her wealthy network of friends. If I can drum up enough clout and money behind me, I might be able to open another combat sports school.
My chest expands with a rush of excitement. I have the experience to train all ages and skill levels. Raised in Brownsville, Brooklyn by a single mother, I learned how to scrap at a young age. It was run, fight, or die on those pot-holed streets, and I was never much of a runner. While my mom failed me in many ways, the year she put me in mixed martial arts lessons was everything. It gave me confidence, ambition, and focus when I needed it most.
Karen Flores was right about the Contender Sports business model. Children athletes are where the money’s at. As it turned out, I discovered a passion in working with kids. I miss training with them, teaching them life skills, and watching them find their footing through tough adolescent years. While I might not be able to instruct another child again, maybe I can find an investor willing to fund a school for all ages. Maybe I’ll find my passion again.
The limo motors along Central Park and stops in front of The Mark, a swanky hotel with a gold-trimmed overhang and a grand entrance. The driver hops out, but I don’t wait for him to open my door. Grabbing the duffel bag, I step out and find another man in a suit, wearing a small receiver in his ear.
“Follow me, please.” He leads me through the lobby, his shiny shoes moving silently across the black-and-white striped flooring.
Instead of pausing at the bank of elevators, he continues down a corridor and uses a badge to access an elevator tucked out of the way. When we step inside the lift, he swipes the card again to take us to the only upper floor available.
The other buttons lead to lower-level service floors and a parking garage, presumably a private garage. Why did he bring me in through the lobby? I guess the client isn’t concerned about her association with me? Or maybe she’s not as high-profile as I assumed? Maybe she slipped into the hotel through the private garage and no one knows she’s here?