Angel Colón - No Happy Endings

“Who says I’m pretending? Maybe I’m just breaking your balls.”

His smile widened. “A curious expression. Very American. I rather like it, though I wish it had a different meaning.”

“Like?”

“Something not quite so painful.”

I took a slow sip of my wine, thinking. I’d hoped to charm him with the gritty, hard to get angle. Being the femme fatale wasn’t in my wheelhouse. But my pops always told me to follow my gut, and that not to was a big mistake. Where he came from, and where I grew up, there are some mistakes you don’t come back from.

So I shifted into unfamiliar territory. I eyed him up and down and took another sip. That gave the bartender time to return with our drinks. My new friend ignored his while I polished off the rest of my glass of wine and placed it next to the full one he’d bought for me. I made sure to leave some lipstick on the rim for good measure, as I tapped my fingernail on the glass.

“You’re very forward,” I said from low in my throat. I was hoping for a husky growl, something along the lines of Mae West, but it came out sounding more like Kathleen Turner with a cold.

“Yes. But I’m afraid I must be. You see, I am only here for this final evening before I return home.”

“Where’s home, exactly?”

“Dusseldorf.”

“Is that in Switzerland?”

His eyes narrowed. “No, of course not. It is in Germany.”

Shit.

I reached for my wine glass. “Oh, I though you sounded Swiss. They speak German, too, right?”

He contemplated me for a long uncomfortable moment. I drank some vino and gave him a look with just a hint of smolder in it. At least, that was what I was shooting for. If I had the same luck as my Mae West voice, I probably just looked like I was constipated.

His expression softened, though, and he picked up his drink, took a gentlemanly swallow, and smiled. “The Swiss cannot choose a side in war, politics, or business. Nor can they choose a language. They speak German, true, but also French and Italian. Really, all they are good for is making watches and banking. Especially banking.”

“And chocolate.”

“German chocolate is far superior.”

I made a pouty smile. “I’ll bet.”

“One might argue we are better at banking, too. The bank I work for is a particular example.” He took another drink, this one much longer. When he set the glass down, it was almost empty. “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Bella,” I told him.

“Bella,” he mused. “How appropriate.”

I smiled at him, but all I could think was spare me.

“Bella, I am Konrad.”

I held out my left hand like a debutante. “Charmed.”

He took it lightly, and then the bratwurst brain actually kissed my knuckle. I knew Cam was watching this, and that I’d never hear then end of this bullshit. But I smiled and acted impressed.

We sat there for another twenty minutes, though if you’d asked me at the time, I’d have said it was two hours. Or two years. As urbane and European as Konrad purported to be—and truth be told, his manners fit the bill—in the end, he was just another horny guy looking to get his rocks off. Just another man who thinks the most interesting conversation is one in which he talks about himself, or what he thinks, or what he plans to accomplish.

Only this one happened to piss off the wrong people. With some cash to spend. And the right number to call.

It took him most of that twenty minutes to make himself believe he’d wowed me with his sophistication. I’m sure he thought he had me so primed I was about ready to slide right off of my chair. Of course, I had something to do with that perception. I played up the sexy almost-vamp, throwing in the occasional innuendo to lead him down the garden path.

By the time we’d worked ourselves into talking about fantasies, I was really glad that Cam was going to handle this one. He had a penchant for the messy, and Konrad the douchebag Deutscher deserved it based on self-image alone.

“I find traveling is a great opportunity to explore one’s boundaries,” he told me right after we broke the ice on fantasies.

“I’ve found it is the very best opportunity,” I added.

“And what boundaries do you wish to explore, mein Bella?”

“Why? Are you looking to be my Marco Polo?”

“I am.”

I glanced around surreptitiously. “And are you willing to do whatever I say?”

“Oh, almost certainly.”

“Because I don’t figure you European guys are as hung up on some things as most Americans. You can probably do what I want you to do without feeling like it’s weird.”

He smiled perhaps his first genuine smile of the night. “I believe I am able to guarantee that.”

I gave him a look that was meant to be half seductive, half conspiratorial. Then I reached for my purse, popped it open and showed him the lace edge of a pair of black panties. “I want you to put these on and meet me in my room,” I whispered, staring directly into his eyes. “Will you do that for me, Konrad?”

He didn’t answer, but the lust brewing in his bright blue windows to the soul told me I’d hit it out of the park. He’d climb a razor blade pole to get to me now.

I balled the panties up into my palm, then pressed them against his stomach. For all his outward appearances of calm but lustful, touching him told me a different story. Heat radiated off of his body, and I could feel his heartbeat tripping along.

He covered my hand with his own, then took the panties and placed them in his jacket pocket. His eyes never left mine. I gave him my best intense “fuck me” look, striving for an Oscar. Meanwhile, my stomach turned at what he must be thinking.

“Allow me to finish my drink?” he said softly.

I shook my head. “We’ll order room service.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Very well.” He removed his billfold and laid a fifty dollar bill on the bar. “Will you wait here?”

“No. I’ll be in my room. Waiting.”

“Which room?”

“Nine Oh Four. Knock just once.”

He nodded, all business now that he’d landed me. He left his chair and strode confidently away without a backwards glance.

I caught Cam’s eye from across the room and nodded after Konrad, who was all but goose-stepping his way to the men’s room. The panty routine was more than just to get him hot and bothered, it was to keep him in that bathroom stall for a while and make Cam’s job easier.

Me, I stood up and walked out of that bar as Konrad hit the bathroom door.

Needless to say, I wasn’t staying at the hotel. I picked the room number because it was Mike Richter’s career save percentage. I wasn’t huge into hockey but my pops was still around in ’94 when the Rangers won the Cup, and he’d been pretty excited. He told me that everyone said it was Messier, the team captain, who was the reason for the win, but Pops always said it was the goalie the whole way. He never quit on a play, Pops said. Plus he was an American-born player in a league full of Canadians, so he had that going for him, too.

I breezed through the lobby of the hotel, and out the front door. There weren’t any cabs lined up outside, but I saw one half a block over and hailed it with a hearty whistle. And maybe I stuck my leg out, too. Just a little.

The cabbie pulled up to a stop. I got in back, but left the door open. “Start the meter, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Sure thing, doll.” He smiled at me in the rearview mirror, his coffee-stained teeth looking yellow in the reflection of the streetlights.

Doll?

Normally, that would piss me off, but tonight was different. It was a strange night, and I was feeling it. Playing the sex kitten was actually a little bit… fun. And I might not be any threat to the legacy of Angelina Jolie, but I was a woman. And every woman can be sexy, right?