Page 6 of The Primary Pest (Iphicles Security #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

Ajax

Ajax Freedom. I come ever closer. The world suffers from the sins of men like you, depraved and indecent. Indolent and lascivious. Only I can save the world from the peril you place it in. Only I know how to end the evil that you represent. There is no one who can save you now.

The newest threat of the I’m-coming-ever-closer variety said nothing revolutionary. None of it bothered Ajax anymore. Threats were a dime a dozen.

Besides, this motel was exactly the kind of place Ajax liked.

From the drab paint, the crusty commercial carpet, and the bullfighter pictures on the walls, it was a classic California motor inn like the ones he’d seen on old Route 66 when he and his hippie-dippy grandfather had road-tripped together.

They weren’t chain places but had names like the Melody Inn and Serenity Lodge.

They had a certain structure—a square U of buildings around a pool.

They had icemakers at each corner. Other times he and his grandpa had stayed in little cabins where they’d felt like the only people in the world.

He was dying to look around the place. There was a glassed-in spa and sauna room across from the office.

No one had been in there when they’d walked by, but the water had to be warm because steam misted the glass.

Ajax liked both dry heat and the drama of dripping water over lava rocks to create steam.

He enjoyed the anonymity of sitting with men who wore only towels inside the cedar-scented cubicles and made no eye contact as if it would be misconstrued.

Dmytro and Bartosz probably weren’t interested in hearing what he wanted, but perhaps instead of the pool, they’d let him relax inside the closed spa room.

There were few cars in the parking lot, and no one could possibly know they’d be there.

Surely it would be safe enough since there appeared to be only one way in or out.

He made a mental note to ask, but then Dmytro and Bartosz started barking at each other in whatever language they spoke, and Ajax sat in the desk chair to wait and watch.

Dmytro, the taller one—the one with eyes like ice chips—had brown hair. In a breeze, some of his locks lifted in rippling slow motion like wheat.

Unlike every other thirtysomething guy Ajax knew, Dmytro’s hairline didn’t look like it was going to recede anytime soon. In fact, he had hair like some shady post-Soviet kleptocrat—thick and silky. In some places it glistened with hints of silver.

OMG, another silver fox. No fair. His parents had apparently hired a straight silver fox to guard him twenty-four seven—one who even looked like his old bodyguard, Anton, for God’s sake. Ajax glared at him and muttered, “Coincidence? I think not.”

Maybe they thought he couldn’t get into trouble with a fatherly type. That joke was on them. If ever there was a twink with daddy issues, that twink was him. He wanted to call a guy Daddy and get his ass spanked for being a bad boy sometimes. Was that so weird?

Guys his age were dumb. They wanted to play the field.

Often they were tragically immature. Ajax wanted a guy who was settled.

He wanted someone who had gravitas and intelligent conversation to offer.

He wanted a man who could be patient with him because he was aware he could be…

a bit of a pill. His heart was in the right place.

He could treat a good man to fine dining, art museums, concerts, but he was thoroughly over clubbing.

Was it too much to ask to stay home and cook and maybe throw a ball for a dog?

Ajax wanted the family life he’d never had. He didn’t see anything wrong with that.

He’d always been ahead of his peers, leapfrogging through school, getting what he wanted from life. His mother said the kids his age would catch up, but… no one would look twice at him after the Ajax Freedom debacle.

Bartosz brought their luggage. He left Ajax’s bags strewn around passive aggressively. Dmytro’s duffel sat neatly on his bed. While Ajax arranged his things, Dmytro shot him a smile that made him shiver all over. Again, no fair. No fair having a bodyguard who was a walking wet dream.

Between the two guards, Bartosz was probably logistics, and Dmytro was… Well, if this were a spy movie, a man with eyes as cold as Dmytro’s would be the assassin—the man with a talent for marksmanship, close-quarter combat, and poisons.

Mother always said if it looks like a duck, and it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, make sure you have plum sauce on hand.

Dmytro looked like a mercenary, and he was utterly silent when he walked across the room. He was controlled, focused, dangerous, economical. He never wasted a movement. Never said an unnecessary word.

That his smile was sometimes a sweet aberration gave Ajax both a shiver and a secret thrill. Something genuinely feral growled deep inside him.

Despite how forbidding Dmytro was, Ajax felt struck by lightning every time he met Dmytro’s gaze.

He was smitten. Smote. Whatever. His gut did a little happy dance whenever Dmytro’s eyes landed on him.

His cock wanted to stretch and fill. Ajax was ready to plead for the merest touch of one of those big hands on his skin.

Sure, Dmytro seemed angry. He was hard as forged steel. But Ajax had played with every dangerous thing he could get his hands on all his life. Now, he itched to get his hands on lethal, perfect Dmytro, with his bull-like shoulders, trim waist, huge arms, and silent confidence.

Dmytro was heroin to Ajax. One whiff and he was hooked.

Bartosz came back half an hour later with burgers, shakes and fries.

They came in an anonymous white bag and the kind of drinks carrier everyone used, so Ajax couldn’t begin to identify which restaurant they’d come from.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though. Plus he’d gotten about a hundred little ketchup packets.

He was apparently not the only hungry one because the three of them inhaled their food in silence.

Bartosz nodded to Dmytro, who jerked his chin, and left them alone in their room together.

What did Dmytro keep checking on his phone? Was he with someone? And if so, was that person a woman or a man? Were they nice or dangerous like Dmytro?

“What are you staring at?” Dmytro asked abruptly.

Caught, Ajax had no choice but to go on the offensive. “Aren’t you supposed to be calling your office?” He glanced up. “There’s probably asbestos in that ceiling. Mother would pair your liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti if she saw that popcorn.”

“She could try.” Dmytro hummed to himself while he continued to scroll.

A full minute passed. Dmytro said nothing

Ajax hated the very nature of silence, and Dmytro had mastered the art of creating the most uncomfortable silences ever.

Each minute lasted forever.

When Ajax couldn’t take it anymore, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

“None of your beeswax.” Nearly colorless eyes bored into him.

“No need to be hostile.” Ajax sat on the bed, stung.

“I’m not hostile. I’m private.” There went that smile again—the one that wasn’t shared by Dmytro’s eyes. Ajax got up and wandered the room, opening drawers, poking at the ancient four-cup coffee maker. He turned the television on and off.

When he went to play with the clock and phone, he wound up behind the Ice Man and glanced over his shoulder to see his phone screen. Facebook? Two of the most adorable little girls Ajax had ever seen hugged each other in a photograph, each wearing a furry headband with ears.

They were so precious his chest hurt. “Oh my God. It’s Pooh and Tigger. I can’t even . Who are they?”

At first Dmytro didn’t answer him, and actually, Ajax was glad.

It gave him a brief ache of time in which to imagine they were Dmytro’s nieces, and he and Dmytro would get to the bottom of this whole death threat thing together.

Dmytro would then confide he had some profoundly conflicted feelings for men, after which they’d take the girls to Disneyland.

The screen went black. “They’re my daughters.”

“I see.” Ajax’s heart sank. All the really hot ones were taken. “So their mom is, er… with them now?”

“None of your beeswax .”

Ajax went back to playing with the motel phone and accidentally dialed the front desk.

“Oh, shoot. How do I—” Whatever button he’d pushed, the phone kept on ringing until Carl answered.

“SeaView Motel. How may I be of service to you this evening?”

“Um. I wondered if—” A single look from Dmytro stopped him. “I’m just bored, Carl, I’m sorry.” He drew out the words like a dying man. “What’s there to do around here?”

“Well—” Carl probably would have answered, but Dmytro took the phone from him and hung it up.

“Little hint,” Dmytro offered. “When you’re in hiding, you hide.”

Ajax went to sit, but at the last second, he stopped himself. “Well, that’s disgusting.”

“What?”

“The bedspread.” Ajax didn’t like having to explain something so obvious. “This”—he pointed—“has probably been jizzed on by everyone who has ever used this motel.”

“How do you figure?” Dmytro’s question sounded genuine.

“How old do you think it is?” Ajax whispered.

“Old.” Dmytro glanced at the faded paisley pattern.

“But statistically speaking, at least half the visitors have probably been women. Some were likely children. Not everyone jizzes on motel bedspreads. Some people might, for example, pull the bedspread down and jizz between the sheets, and some might fuck in the bathroom, or up against a wall, or over the chairs. I bet some have even enjoyed fucking right up against that window. I know I would. I have jizzed all over motels like this one, but never on the bedspread. That would be unsanitary.”

The weird thing was, Ajax couldn’t tell whether Dmytro was joking. His face was devoid of any clues. Maybe he was glad to make Ajax uncomfortable for a change?

“I think you’re probably an outlier,” Ajax managed to say hoarsely. “What happens now?”