BABY

POOR OLD GRANT

His suite was on the twelfth floor and smelled faintly of cedar, cologne, and money trying to seem tasteful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, rain painting the glass in silver streaks. He loosened his tie as soon as the door shut behind us, performing comfort for an audience of one.

“Make yourself at home,” he said.

“I try not to in places I don’t own.”

That earned the laugh I expected.

He moved to the minibar and poured two drinks without asking what I liked, which told me everything I needed to know about his marriages. I wandered slowly through the room while he worked, fingertips grazing surfaces I had no interest in, giving him a view he thought was accidental.

“Whiskey?” he asked, offering a glass.

“I’m flexible,” I said, taking it.

He stepped closer when I sipped, watching my mouth over the rim. Predictable. We talked in softer voices now, the kind strangers used when pretending privacy had created intimacy. He asked if I always traveled alone. I asked if he always invited women upstairs this quickly. He said only the interesting ones. I said that sounded like a volume discount. He laughed, touched my waist lightly, then left his hand there half a second longer than courtesy required. I let him. For now.

Grant mistook permission for momentum the way men like him often did.

He stepped in close and kissed me with the polished confidence of someone accustomed to being welcomed. It wasn’t bad. Smooth, practiced, designed to impress itself. I kissed him back just enough to keep the evening moving where I wanted it.

When he broke away to refresh our drinks, I drifted toward the windows, city lights glittering below the rain-streaked glass. My hand slipped into my purse and closed around the small packet waiting there.

He returned carrying two whiskies, pleased with himself in that effortless way wealth often rehearsed. I accepted my glass and set it aside untouched.

As he leaned in again, attention fixed on my neck and shoulders, I tipped the powder into his drink with one quick movement and gave the amber liquid a lazy swirl.

Gone without a trace.

Perfect.

We settled onto the couch while the rain whispered against the windows. He talked too close to my ear about chemistry, timing, and how rare it was to meet someone like me. I smiled in the right places and nudged his glass back into his hand each time he forgot it.

The change arrived slowly.

His shoulders relaxed first. Then his words began to wander. Stories lost their endings. He repeated a compliment and never noticed. His eyes took longer to focus each time they found me.

“You alright?” I asked, all concern and silk.

“Long day,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Come here.”

I helped him toward the bed, steadying him like a thoughtful date seeing a man who’d had too much to drink. He dropped heavily onto the mattress, blinking up at me with sluggish admiration.

I eased him back against the pillows.

“Close your eyes for a minute,” I said softly.

He obeyed.

Moments later, sleep claimed him.