Ava Gray - Skin Game

It didn’t take Kyra long to get ready. She changed into jeans with holes in the knees and tugged a hoodie over her T-shirt. Snagging her backpack, she gave the room a final visual inspection to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind, and then she slid out the door. Kyra crept past his room down to the office; there was a pay phone outside. She found Mia’s number on a scrap of paper tucked in her wallet.

After scrounging up sufficient change, she dropped it into the machine and dialed. The phone rang four times and popped to voice mail. Mia’s cheery voice said:

“I’m not available to take your call. Leave a message, please.”

“Just wanted to let you know I’m on my way,” she said quietly, and disconnected.

Reaching voice mail told her precisely nothing. If Serrano had Mia, it was unlikely he’d allow her to answer the phone. She might also be busy. It was pretty early. Calling Fargo information wouldn’t help; Mia always stayed in furnished short-term housing, so she wouldn’t show up on information.

But she could get the numbers of all the hotels that offered furnished corporate suites. Fargo wasn’t enormous—how many could there be? It was better than being stupid and going blindly back to Vegas with a killer who had already deceived her once.

Kyra had to get change for the phone, and then she made the call and scribbled down all the numbers. Ten phone calls later, she’d discovered that nobody named Mia Sauter was currently staying—or had ever stayed—at any of the locations. That seemed pretty conclusive that Mia wasn’t in Fargo. She turned, found Reyes leaning on the Marquis across the parking lot. No telling how long he’d been watching her. Kyra sauntered toward him, tucking her wallet back into her bag.

“Satisfied?” he asked. “Are we still heading to Vegas?”

God, how she hated to answer, “Yeah.”

Reyes couldn’t say he’d ever cared before what anyone thought of him, but he missed the light in her eyes when she looked at him. Now there was only suspicion and dislike. He couldn’t complain. He’d earned it.

The damn stubborn woman wouldn’t let him take his turn driving. He wasn’t worthy to touch her sainted father’s legacy or some such crap. He’d love to smash the shit out of her fantasy that Beckwith had been something special, but she didn’t deserve that. Sometimes it was kinder to leave people their illusions.

By late afternoon they were in the Badlands, and the sun went down in a ball of fire, leaving streaks of red and orange to crack the sky. She didn’t talk. Instead she sang along with the radio, ignoring him. It was ridiculous to be bothered by that, but he felt seven years old again, coming and going without acknowledgment. He could stand in a room with his dad for hours, and the old man would never say a word, lost in a smoky haze or simply plucking out bluesy notes for a song that would never be finished.

Her silence made him that helpless kid again, and he hated it. More than anything, he wanted to walk away. Forget his part in this. She’d laugh gleefully at the idea she could wound him, and he hoped she never figured out how much power she possessed.

They rolled into Vegas near midnight. The lights gave the city a festive, faintly decadent air. He’d always wondered what anthropologists would make of the place, once it lay in ruins a thousand years from now. They’d find a palace fit for a Roman emperor, an enormous Venetian villa, and a strange pyramid all in the same immediate area. No question, Vegas was a strange place, full of vice and urban magic.

For the right price, you could buy almost anything, which was why he kept an apartment here. The condo in Cali was the closest thing he had to a home, but he had four places total: Cali, New York, Vegas, and London. You never knew when things might get interesting, and you might want to slide out of the country for a while.

“I have a loft downtown.” It was the first time he’d spoken in hours.

To his surprise she didn’t argue. “Good for us. It will be better if we stay out of hotels. I don’t want Serrano knowing we’re in town until we’ve had a chance to scope out his movements, find out where he’s keeping Mia and lay out a plan of attack.”

Smart. He was struck again by her intelligent pragmatism. Kyra wouldn’t focus on her hurt feelings until after they got the job done. A surge of admiration went through him like a spear.

“You’ll want to turn left at the next light,” he told her. “And then straight for three miles. I’ll let you know as we get closer.”

They reached the loft just before one, and Reyes directed her to his spot inside the parking garage. He had been a little worried that they might have trouble with bikers along the way, but apparently with Dwight dead, they’d lost interest in pursuing a vendetta. That qualified them as clever as hell in his book.

Kyra didn’t seem pleased with the wrought-iron industrial cage lift that took them to the fifth floor. She kept peering down as if expecting something terrible to happen. Reyes didn’t comment, merely led the way to the apartment, and let them both in. He had a different set of keys for each name, each life, but only the condo in Cali belonged to Porfirio Ten-Bears Reyes.

“It’s a little Spartan,” she said, as she surveyed the place.

That didn’t seem to require an answer. He knew what she meant: one chair, no television, no pictures, no couch. A fine film of dust covered everything, and it felt close inside. Someone with time and imagination could probably do well with it; the hardwood floors were nice, and he quite liked the brick wall that accented the white plaster. A black spiral staircase led up to the bedroom, where he had an air mattress. It was a nice one, but anyone who came in would be able to tell nobody lived here long-term.

Kyra went to the balcony doors and opened them to let in some fresh air. Under other circumstances, he would have gone to the store and cooked for her again, but he didn’t imagine she wanted to repeat the experience. She was the sort of woman who learned from her mistakes. His pain had shifted into quiet resignation. At this point he just hoped there would come a time when she could think about him without regret.

She tossed the greasy fast-food bags on the gray and black marble countertop. The galley kitchen was small, and he’d never bought food for the fridge. He couldn’t remember spending more than a week here on any occasion. After this, he would have to sell it. He couldn’t use the loft again without seeing her here, silhouetted by the city lights. A breeze blew in from outdoors, tinged with exhaust, and it spun through her curls like delicate fingers.

“Eat up,” she invited.

But she didn’t touch his food. Once she would’ve unfolded the foil and laid out his fries on top beside the burger, as if setting the table with expensive china. It was funny how such a number of small things added up to something important. This time, she left it in the bag, and he didn’t want it. The smell of charred meat, grease soaking into soggy bread, did nothing for him.

“The bathroom is here.” He pointed to the right of the door. “You can sleep upstairs. I’ll camp out down here.”

Kyra took a big bite out of her burger, chewed, swallowed, and then pointed a french fry at him. “You won’t win points by being chivalrous. But I’m not arguing against taking the bed. You deserve to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

He had another air mattress in the closet, which would make them equal in terms of comfort, but he decided not to point that out. As she finished her meal, he realized she’d thawed from silence to sniping, which had to be better. It felt better anyway, though perhaps that impression came as a result of upbringing. Poor bastard, he mocked himself. All grown up and still tangled up with Daddy issues.