“Can I just say,” Keller lifted his head from his green bowl, his gaze zeroing in on my crotch, “you look delectable in your birthday suit.”
I looked down. The towel was still wrapped around my waist, but my cock was swinging about under it, like a limp third leg. I glanced at Hallie coolly to see if she shared his fascination. She busied herself trying to spear a cherry tomato onto her fork.
“I’m going to head out for a few hours.” I directed this at Max, the only person in the room who didn’t want to ride my cock.
Max nodded. “Let me know if you need me to stay overnight.”
A part of me longed to put him in way of temptation. If he fucked her, I could fire him, could bail on this post, and go back to my ordinary life.
“I’ll let you know.”
I went upstairs and dressed in a pair of dark cigar pants, leather sneakers, and a black tee. I grabbed my wallet and phone and made my way downstairs.
I opted for Hallie’s BMW Hydrogen 7. The Nissan LEAF was banged up due to my brush with the Russians.
I drove down to the nearest bar. A black-bricked low building with a pink neon sign stared back at me.Cocks and Tails. Los Angeles was not known for its subtlety. I wanted to be found by Kozlov. Wanted them to corner me.
Pushing the wooden, round-topped door, I shoved past a mass of sweaty, half-naked people dancing to the tune of a truly horrible remix of “In a Manner of Speaking” by Nouvelle Vague. I was about to turn around and head out—this was a mistake, I didn’t need a beer, I needed to make shit right—when I noticed a smaller, separate room for bar-goers. I waltzed inside. The space was dark, gloomy, with high stools and soft erotic paintings. The array of people at the bar sat either in couples or alone, squinting at their smartphones to see where their Tinder date was.
What the hell. One drink wouldn’t hurt.
I slid onto a stool and rapped the bar.
“Jameson, neat.”
“Coming right up,” a barkeep with a blunt haircut and facial piercings squeaked.
As if on cue, a woman of theDesperate Housewivesvariety—tall, leggy, blonde, with enough makeup to paint a house, slipped onto the seat next to me. She wore a hot pink blazer, matching shorts, and white kitten heels.
“According to the women’s magazine I read today as I waited for my dentist appointment, men who order Jameson know what they’re doing.” She signaled the bartender with her hand.
“White Russian for me.” Then, turning toward me, the woman—twenty-nine? Thirty?—grinned seductively. “What does my drink order say about me?”
“That you’ve never worked in a bar before, so you are under the misguided assumption the milk in the fridge hasn’t expired,” I deadpanned.
She let loose a throaty laugh, caressing her throat. “Maybe I’m optimistic.”
“Isn’t optimistic the PC word for delusional?” What the hell was wrong with me? Did I want to bed this woman, or get kneed in the balls by her?
She laughed again, undeterred. “I like a guy who is quick-witted.”
“And I like to work for my sexual conquests. Care to at least pretend to make it hard for me?”
I could practically envision Hallie giving me herholy shitballs, you’re tragicface.
The bartender returned with both our drinks. I noticed the leggy blonde sniffing her black-on-white cocktail before taking a sip. I glanced around me, hoping to see suspicious people who might look like they’d followed me. This time, Iwantedto be caught.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I think the milk is in its prime.” She shot me a sidelong smirk. “And for the record, so am I.”
I offered her a curt nod. It was becoming extremely difficult to repel her. Maybe I was better off just fucking her and telling Hallie. One of us needed to screw up to stop our oversight from happening again. And I could always count on myself to let people down.
“Are you always this forward?” I asked.
“Only when I want something real bad.”
Smirking, I said, “That can’t be a total stranger you just met at the bar. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Damn. Maybe you’re as good as they say you are.” The woman pivoted on her stool, angling her entire body toward me. “Let’s cut to the chase.”