Page 11 of A Shot in the Dark
“What are you offering per mile?”
From the backseat, I watch Boots’ strong hands, covered in their sleek and glossy black leather driving gloves, resting with complete self-confidence on the steering wheel. The little bit of Boots’ skin that I can see is tan—including the back of his hands, yet each of his knuckles stands out in stark relief to the midnight black leather, and other than a glimpse of his right ear and the slight notch in it, the dark, close-cropped hair around it, the stoic side of his high cheekboned face and well-chiseled jaw, there is nothing to Boots but his perfectly pressed black uniform, matching cap and ink-colored sunglasses. I stretch my legs out and lean back, wondering who the man driving me really is as we go back and forth about cost, wear and tear on vehicles and tires, and the value of a person’s peace of mind.
He cares least about the latter, and makes the fact perfectly clear: I am merely a client, a job to complete—a package to deliver. He has deadlines and he’s never missed one yet. And he’ll be damned if I’m the reason he fucks one up.
“Nice mouth,” I snap. “You know, using that word demonstrates a serious lack of imagination or vocabulary.”
“I donotlack imagination,” he guarantees with an assurance so fierce it verges on savagery. “Any diversion from the original plan requires money.”
“I have that.”
He wants a piece of it, so we arrive at an agreement.
And a motel of questionable merit.
I step out of the car, wobbling a moment on my heels like I’ve forgotten how to walk. I’ve been sitting in a car so long, maybe I have. I put my hand on the car to steady myself, my bracelets clinking against the paint.
“Watch it,” Boots warns. “You’ll chip the paint and I’ll add it to your fee.”
What a dick. Taking in the flaking paint and trash that moves through the parking lot like tumbleweeds, I have one word for Boots: “Really?”
Boots rolls up to his full, lean height, saying in a tone laced with venom, “Donotquestion my judgment.”
I open my mouth to retort and he steps forward, nearly pressing himself to me, nostrils flared as he invades my space. There is something exceedingly fuckable about the man. We both stand there, glaring at each other—eye-to-sunglasses.
He inhales, his chest filling; a flicker crosses that stoic facade of his, and he steps back like he’s been burned. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Whoareyou?” he demands.
“My name is?—”
He thrusts that black-gloved hand up between us again. I have the sudden urge to lick it—just. to. piss. him. off.
No, I realize. Not to piss him off…
“No,” he snaps. “No. fucking. names. Affiliation. Who are youwith?”
My eyes go wide, glued to that suddenly stunning glove. Those powerful fingers… “I’m notwithanyone. I dumped my boyfriend, got fired from work, and am evidently being hunted by a stalker. And I haven’t paid my sorority dues in over two years, sooo… I have noaffiliation.” I hook my fingers in the air to surround the last word. My volume drops as I peer past Boots’ scowling face—the twist of his lips so cruelly sensual—at my decidedly dingy surroundings and admit with an honesty I didn’t anticipate, “I could die right here and no one would give a shit.” I sigh. “Actually, by the looks of this place? Iwilldie right here. This place is in serious need of a top-down makeover.”
He grunts and looks me up and down.
For a moment I think I see a hint of raised eyebrows as he appraises me.
I’m appraising him, too; the parts of him Icansee are striking. Rugged. Powerful. But packaged in a tailored suit. The parts of him I can’t see?
Spark my curiosity.
I know exceedingly little about this man; among the little I know is the fact that Boots is NOT my “one” or “only.” But he could be one who’s fun… And I could use a little fun. A little something fierce. Something that, in the end, means absolutely nothing.
It’s as Boots brings my luggage into my room that I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door, and ask, “Have you ever fucked a client?”
“That doesn’t sound like professional behavior,” he says, but from behind the dark tint of his sunglasses I feel his gaze stroke along the length of my body.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“You think you deserve an answer.”
“I do. And I always get what I want.” After Jonathan’s lengthy pursuit of me ending in nothing worth staying connected to, a man this arrogant is a breath of fresh air.
“The lady always gets what she wants.” He lifts his chin.
