Wicked Intentions

23

In the closet, I pull out two pairs of Ryan’s dress shoes. I swiftly remove the laces and tie them into square knots. Wrapped around the drainpipe that runs the length of the building next to the balconies, they can then be tied into Prusik knots, the kind rock climbers use. They’ll slide up a line, but downward pressure will cause them to lock.

Perfect for scaling walls.

I look at Ryan’s laptop on the coffee table for a moment, but decide he’ll have too much security on the device to make it worth an attempt at snooping. I’d never get past the login screen. Besides, my curiosity about him is useless.

No matter what he said about finding me, this is the end of our road.

I leave my handbag behind. Like all the clothing, cosmetics, and fake IDs in my hotel room, there’s nothing in it of value to me anymore. I take one last look at Ryan, sleeping peacefully on the floor, and allow myself a final twinge of regret.

It’s surprisingly painful.

Adios, beautiful stranger. Maybe in another life.

Then I step out onto the balcony into the warm evening rain, and look up.

9

Ryan

A

fist pounds

on my hotel room door. Over and over, as relentless as the thudding inside my skull. The two are so perfectly in sync, in fact, that it’s entirely possible the pounding fist is in my imagination.

Until I hear the muffled shout.

“Ryan! Brother! Open the goddamn door before I kick it down!”

It’s Connor. He sounds pissed.

I open my eyes…and I’m looking at a smooth white ceiling. For some reason, I’m lying on my back on the floor. And Connor is pounding on the door, shouting like a maniac.

What the f**k happened?

When I lift my head, the room swims for a moment before settling. An unfamiliar bitter taste lingers on the back of my tongue. The faintest scent of pepper teases my nose before disappearing like a ghost.

Then I remember exactly what happened, and a searing bolt of anger jolts me to my feet. Heart hammering with adrenaline, I look wildly around.

It’s morning. The rain has stopped. Everything is still and quiet, including the dumbass roosters in the distant hills who can’t tell time.

I’m alone, but alive, which honestly is more than I counted on.

“Brother!” Connor roars. “I’m coming in!”

Before he can smash through the door—because he will, he’s dramatic like that, plus he loves to break s**t—I shout, “I’m comin’, you damn ape. Pipe the f**k down!”

My voice is hoarse. Along with the headache and the small bit of vertigo which has now cleared, it’s the only aftereffect of whatever Angeline dosed me with.

Muttering, I stomp to the door and yank it open.

“What?” I holler.

Then I blink.

In the doorway stands Connor, bristling and veiny like Wolverine. Behind him, a small crowd has gathered, which includes Tabby, Darcy, Kai, Juanita—and Elvis, perched on her shoulder—several uniformed people who appear to be hotel staff, half a dozen police officers, and four burly Middle Eastern dudes wearing identical black three-piece suits and murderous expressions.

I peg them as security or bodyguards, judging by their size and general vibe of badassery.

Darcy looks down at my crotch. She snorts. “Well, hello there, big boy!”

This is when I realize I’m stark f*****g naked.

I shout, “Juanita, cover your eyes!”

She rolls them instead. “Pfft. Why don’t you cover your junk, perv?”

Darcy bosses, “Zip it, short stuff. A man needs to air himself out every once in a while.”

Juanita says, “Gross!”, which startles Elvis, who sits up on his hind legs on her shoulder and starts sniffing the air for danger.

Exasperated, I clap my hands over my d**k. “As you can see, I wasn’t expectin’ company. Anybody wanna share why you’re all standin’ in front of my door at the crack of dawn?”

A young black guy in a beige uniform peers around the bulk of Connor’s shoulder. He speaks with a distinct Caribbean accent. “Good morning, sir. I’m Camilo Bembe, the general manager of the hotel. Uh, we’re so sorry to disturb you…”

He clears his throat. He’s trying desperately to pretend I’m not standing there with my d**k in my hands. “But there’s been an unfortunate incident. These officers need to ask you some ques—”

“WHERE’S THE GIRL?” booms one of the thugs.

The hotel manager jumps. Kai shrieks like a startled baby. Connor looks at the goon and growls low in the back of his throat.

I say, “Oh, you’re lookin’ for her, too? Popular little thing, isn’t she? Can’t help ya, though, boys. Wonder Woman roofied me before takin’ off in her invisible jet, so I’ve got no fuckin’ clue where she is. Maybe you should check her room.”

Tabby coughs into her hand to stifle her laugh. The four thugs shift their weight from foot to foot. Connor looks at the ceiling and sighs.

“Get dressed, Mr. McLean. We need to ask you some questions.”

That comes from one of the police officers to Connor’s right. He’s tall, coal black, and slim as a reed, with unusual eyes the color of grass. His hand rests casually on the butt of the sidearm strapped to his waist. His tone is impassive, but the subtext is clear. You’re in big trouble, son.

Yeah, well, wouldn’t be the first time. I smirk at him. “You betcha. Anything to assist an officer of the law.”

I turn and saunter toward the bathroom, leaving the door open and my bare ass on display.

Connor sighs again. Darcy says, “Lawd.” No one else makes a peep, except for one of the swarthy bodyguards, who mutters something in Arabic under his breath.