Page 3 of Don't Trust Him

It’s a thrill.

And that, more than the money is what keeps me going. The thrill of getting a deal done. Of moving kilos of cocaine to satisfy the party guy in college frat bro and his CEO dad with the executive nose sore.

So, yeah, when Juan says I want a challenge, he’s right.

This is absolutely what I want to be doing. Well, maybe I want more responsibility, I mean, but living an absolutely pampered life, that can’t be beat.

“Ms. Lang!” the concierge on duty, Carter, pops in and he presents me with the bath bombs I ordered. Because, when I’m not smuggling cocaine, I’m asking our concierge to get me a local spa’s products so I can take advantage of the incredible tub in my suite’s bathroom.

This lifestyle lends itself well to the finer things in life, for sure. It’s a very materialistic way of life. There’s isn’t much spiritual growth here. No real human connection. No one you can really fall in love with, like other offices with their co-workers and #MeToo movements. Someone in my line of work touches my ass, I’m usually going to be breaking his legs.

I look towards the bar and wonder if I want to go tonight, or if I’ll just stick to the lounge. I mean, what this life doesn’t lend itself well to is getting close to any man. I am constantly paranoid that some fuck face is looking to fuck me and steal a shipping manifest out of my room. I mean, I’ll cut off a motherfucker’s dick if he fucks with my work with the knife that’s right there in my room.

Maybe put it on a room service tray, but then again I don’t want to scare housekeeping. They’re so lovely and they keep my tissues made up like flowers. I like that shit. Definitely don’t want to mess with them.

I can see myself going to the bar for a Passion Tea Collins. Ordering five and then falling asleep like a rock. Getting some stares as I wait for my drink. Flash a few smiles at the common folk as I walk back to the elevator.

I also think I’d flirt with the men that might want to buy me the Pacific Daiquiri. It’s blue and it has a flower in it, so I’m down in that sense. But otherwise I don’t find anyone interesting enough.

Or if they too interested, I’m fucking paranoid.

“I’ll get started on this,” I tell Juan. He stands up and I stand as he leaves. I see his face. There’s a flash of disappointment. This is the closest Juan is going to come to getting the glory. In taking the briefing and acknowledging my mission, I’ve basically dismissed him. To go back to his boring life and his boring family and his boring house he lives in.

“Bye, Eliza,” Juan says.

Is that a hint of displeasure?

No. I’m paranoid. I need to chill. When all you do is look for shadows, you never get out of the dark.

The waitress gets the door for him, coming out to bus his drink and to see if I need anything else.

I do, but nothing she can give right now. She tells me to try these new cookies they got in, and tells me breakfast is going to have excellent croissants. “I’m a croissant snob, and these are the best,” she assures me.

“You haven’t steered me wrong yet,” I tell her, and that’s the truth. “I’ll definitely try those in the morning. And damn, these cookies are divine.”

I may have to eat an extra one because I’m sure as hell not getting laid this century.

Two

Grayson

I’m ready for the next kill.

I call the InterContinental Hotels Ambassador phone line and tell them I’m looking for a suite in Downtown Los Angeles, and they set me up. Tell me to make sure I hit up the rooftop bar, Spire73, while I’m in DTLA.

“Sure thing,” I say, smiling and genuinely happy with the level of service I’m receiving.

“Thank you again for being a Royal Spire Elite Ambassador, Mr. Teague, and we hope you enjoy your stay,” the woman on the other end of the line says after she asks me if she can help me with anything else.

Shit. Maybe drug dealers should go to school to get hospitality degrees, or poli sci degrees, or whatever they do to please hotel management, because they could learn a thing or two about rewarding loyalty.

I’m going to DTLA InterContinental Hotel to take care of a wayward dealer that got too big for his britches. The distributor in that area, for our cartel, sent me in because this job isn’t just about slitting his throat, it’s about doing it with an audience. Well, an after the fact audience. I have to stage the bodies so that everyone else gets the message. Apparently this is a bigger deal than just a hit. Zario, the head of the cartel, is pe

rsonally flying in and wants to see me after the matter is taken care of. So that tells me this is a killing with a message.

The message being, you don’t fuck with the cartel. The cartel fucks with you if and when and how it sees fit. You serve it. You stay loyal. Then you’ll live a good life. Fuck the finest bitches, drink the finest alcohol, and sleep in beds that make you remember there’s a happy moment before you sleep like a goddamn dead man and then get up and face another day.

You aren’t loyal? You think you need to mete out your own justice and fair share?

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