Page 19 of Saxon

She swipes her card and pushes open the door, none-too-subtly pushing us through.

Saxon prestidigitates a $100 bill and hands it to her. "You're the best…" he peers dizzily at the nametag on her breast pocket. "Helga."

"Da, I know. Now go sleep in bed, hmm?"

She shuts the door behind us, and we hear the door to the service corridor snick shut.

We both wait a few minutes with our breath held and then I burst into laughter. “Holy shit, holy shit! That was fuckin' wicked!"

Saxon grins—in his case, a grin seems to be a there-and-gone tilt of his lips. "Smart thinking, and better acting, Terra. I'm impressed."

I huff on my nails and rub them on my dress front above my left breast. "It's an act I've used before."

"Clearly. You're a little too good at it."

"I could say the same about you."

He shrugs. "Gotta get creative to get close to a target, sometimes."

"And you gotta get creative to get rid of creepy, clingy, under-sexed losers, sometimes," I shoot back.

"Fair enough." He looks around the common area of the penthouse suite. "I don't see your friends."

I frown. "If they're not here, then I don't know where they are. I can check the bathroom and bedroom."

"You said the reception was in the hotel bar?" He asks.

"Yeah, but they were gonna change first. And by change, I mean get it on, and believe me, if they were getting it on right now, we would hear 'em fuckin'. We'd have heard 'em from the elevator. Em's a screamer."

His smirk is dirty. "So are you."

I find myself blushing, which is super fuckin' weird and makes me nervous. I haven’t blushed about a boy since before I got my period.

"Hey, I don't normally scream," I say. "I’m not lookin' to give your ego any more of a boost than you already walk around with, but you did somethin' to me I ain’t ever felt."

This time, his grin is a full one, with teeth and smarm. "You ain’t felt nothin’ yet, darlin'."

"Your Boston accent is wicked good, by the way."

"’Cause I'm from Boston."

"You are?"

"No, I'm just saying I am." He rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm from Boston."

"I'm gonna go check the bedroom and bathroom," I say.

"No, you're not." He draws a pistol, checks the load, replaces the magazine, and cups the bottom, assuming a professional ready-shoot-people tactical stance. "I am."

He glides quickly and silently across the room to the door leading to the bedroom. He twists the knob and shoves it open with his foot, pistol barrel scanning the interior, and then he darts in and pivots to check behind the door, his elbows tucked in against his sides, gun held at an angle next to his chest as he pivots for the corner sweep. Once that's done, he pivots again, assuming a more normal stance as he glides out of sight.

There are no gunshots, but I do hear the unmistakable sound of Emily screeching in shock. A few minutes later, Saxon emerges with Emily and Tom in tow, Emily looking shaken and pale.

"Can you please tell your friend she needs to leave town?" Saxon growls, pistol dangling at his thigh. "She won't listen."

I scurry over to her, slamming into her with a hug. "I'm sorry, Em. I'm so sorry. I picked the wrong guy. I didn't know he had enemies, he was just there, and hot, and dressed for a wedding."

She shudders. "It's my fault for pressuring you to find a guy like that. I'm sorry."