4Aaron
Another weekand no fucking updates on Megan. I’d spent the week running guns and was forced to delay what I considered my most important task—tracking down Megan’s lying ass. The longer it took me to find her, the more my rage against her grew.
The first place I’d decided to investigate was the address on the driver’s license. D hadn’t found any new leads yet, and like me, he’d been called away on one of his field assignments.
So far, all D and I knew was that Megan Jones was not only the name Megan wrote her books under, it was also an alias to hide who she truly was. It bothered the fuck out of me that I had no idea who this woman was. Facts were, she was as dangerous as anyone in my MC. The scariest part of the situation was that we’d never allowed an outsider to get that close to us. Megan could have killed all of us if she’d had a mind to do so.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I’d chosen to depart during the middle of the night and had driven the long stretch from Florida to Texas. I was tired as fuck but restless at the same time. My body was exhausted, but my mind was too anxious to stop me from tracking down Megan or whoever the fuck she was.
A little after seven in the morning, I sat outside the office building of the lady whose address was on the driver’s license. I’d tried the home address on the license, but no one had answered the door. D had linked the woman’s home address on the driver’s license with her place of business.
Going straight into investigative mode, I hadn’t even bothered to check into a motel. Instead, I’d parked my truck across the street from the office building and fed the parking meter some of the change from my ashtray before I hiked across the paved street.
When people started to enter the building, I merged my body in with a group and followed them in. I’d observed enough to know that this wasn’t one of those buildings that had metal detectors and guards that wanted to see credential before you were allowed in.
A fresh, welcoming aroma met me as soon as I stepped inside the building. The open floor plan allowed me to look up several stories to a giant tinted-glass ceiling. There was a coffee shop, a restaurant, and a few small shopping outlets on the first floor. You could glance up and on certain floors, see the large scripted letters that showcased the names of some of the businesses.
In the lounge area near the coffee shop, people sat with their laptops opened or swiping at their iPads, drinking coffee, and conversing. Their interactions with each other were loud and animated, no doubt, the caffeine doing its job.
The click of heels alerted me to a group of three women walking in my direction. Their conversations ceased as all three glared at me like I was a mouth-watering steak being prepared to their liking. I’d shave my beard off, so my face was cleaner and fresher-looking, I presumed. I’d pulled my hair back into a ponytail, secured by a rubber band which I thought made me look more approachable.
One of the ladies licked her lips suggestively, one’s eyebrows shot up as a gleaming smile spread across her face, and the other just gawked. Their pace slowed considerably the closer they got to me. Their heels scraped against the floor as they made an abrupt stop in front of me, halting my movement.
As if practiced, the group greeted me in unison. “Hello,” they sang. Their greeting was followed by girlish giggles.
The brunette from the group asked, “Can I help you?” Her seductive tone and heated gaze indicated that she was offering the kind of help that could only be given behind closed doors.
After shaking my head no to the question, I greeted them with a quick, “Good morning,” and zipped around them, quickening my steps to get away from them.
Clicking heels started up again, and their voices carried on purpose, I was sure.
“I’d like to help him all right. Right out of those clothes,” one stated before they all laughed.
Another one of them expressed, “I’d like for him to help me out with something on my desk.”
Their not-so-quiet banter made me smile. I’d gotten used to women treating me like I was a piece of meat. Therefore, I didn’t feel bad about my tendency to fuck them once and leave them. However, it was too bad I’d been unable to apply that same principle to Megan’s conniving ass.
The glass-encased legend on the lobby wall displayed that the Megan Jones attached to the address on the driver’s license was an attorney that worked out of an office on the seventh floor. Could there be a connection that tied this Megan to myMegan?
As I turned to head towards the elevators, I was nearly trampled by another woman, and was hit with, “Hi, can I escort you to where you need to go?”
A lanky blonde with a blue business jacket and a short pink skirt that showed off legs for days had found her way into my personal space. Her attire indicated she worked someplace within the building. The woman didn’t hide her scanning eyes as they roamed my body from head to toe.
“Thank you,” I said. “But, I think I can find my way.”
She leaned in closely, and for a moment, I thought the woman was going to kiss me until I caught the flash of a business card she had pinched between her manicured fingers.
“You ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call me,” she offered, not the least bit ashamed that she was flirting with a perfect stranger, giving him an invite to her pussy as far as I was concerned.
I smiled and nodded my head as I took the card, being careful not to engage her in conversation so that I could continue with my mission. She hadn’t even bothered to ask my name, which reinforced what I was to her. When she walked away, I didn’t have to glance back in her direction to sense her eyes all over me.
In jeans and a white T-shirt, I was likely the most plainly dressed person in the building, but people, especially women, often went out of their way to be nice to me.
With over fifty tattoos scattered all over my body, shoulder-length hair, and a darkly-shadowed chin, I wasn’t exactly the kind of man a woman wanted to take home to meet her family.
However, I was the man a woman didn’t mind having a one-night stand with; the one they didn’t mind cheating on their husbands with or the one they’d fuck in just about any location at any time.
At times, I didn’t think they saw a person. I was a package. I was the epitome of the bad boy they fantasized about. I was the walking image of someone they wanted to fuck, and no matter what I did to myself: beard, no beard, short hair or long, I’d never be the man they would take home to family or the one they wanted to marry. Shit, I wasn’t even the one they would take out to a restaurant, and the thought of having a kid with my ass probably gave them nightmares.