Ava Gray - Skin Game

Foster got out of his vehicle, hit the lock button on his remote, and kept an eye on the landscaping. It was impossible for him to walk to his building without constantly scanning side to side. As it always did, his heart pounded a little harder in going up the stairs to the third floor. If anyone had chosen tonight to try and kill him, this would be their best chance.

But as it had been for the last six hundred nights, he made it to his apartment unimpeded. Sometimes he almost felt disappointed in the ones hunting him. In that regard, he had some sympathy for the woman against whom they’d dispatched a professional. But if they’d only tried a little harder, they might succeed in making his life interesting. Instead he’d slipped into the skin of this nonentity, Addison Foster. Doubtless this man had grown up in New Hampshire and summered in the Poconos. He’d attended all the right schools.

Most days, he hated the son of a bitch, even as he was forced to live his life.

But not entirely.

The woman was waiting for him, as she was paid to, three nights a week. He did not speak to her as he hung his jacket in the closet. As instructed, she was already wearing the blindfold. She’d chained one of her wrists to his bed-post, and he took care of the other one himself. Then he left her that way, anticipation flooding his veins. He took a slow, leisurely shower, washing off the smoke and stench of a night at the Silver Lady.

The prostitute knew better than to make small talk. She was slim and lithe, younger than he wanted to think about, most likely, but not too young. His tastes didn’t run in that direction. At his request, she had no body hair, just the dark mane on her head. It was dyed, of course. She’d been a mousy blond the first time she came to him, but in Vegas, you could have anything, if the price was right.

Just looking at her cuffed to his bed made him hard. She didn’t move when he opened the table beside the bed and produced a condom. He rolled it on with the ease of practice, and she lay sweetly still and passive as he came down on her. The good girl had already lubricated herself, so he slid in easily.

Foster found it easier to do this with whores, who didn’t question his preferences. Regular women always wanted to know why when he said, don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, and for God’s sake, don’t touch me. He’d given up on that type of exchange years ago. In many ways, this was cleaner and more honest.

Holding himself away from her on his arms, he began to thrust. They touched nowhere except this point of penetration. He could tell by her breathing when she started to like it. That was the thing that surprised him most about their arrangement. He found it strange that a working girl could take pleasure in his very particular tastes, but this one did, no question. She came almost as silently as he did—with a soft exhalation and a nearly imperceptible tightening of muscles.

It was exercise, nothing more.

As soon as he finished, he rolled away from her and unfastened one of her arms. He went to the bathroom and shut the door. She knew her cue. While he washed and disposed of the condom, she would dress and disappear. She’d never once seen his face.

That was the way it had to be. If she ever found out who he was—or more important—who he had been, things would change for her—and not in a good way.

By the time he came back into the bedroom, she was gone. Doubtless she envisioned he had some kind of hideous deformity, something he didn’t want her to see or touch. Maybe she even got off on the thought that she was fucking a circus freak. There was no accounting for kink.

The truth was, his difference lay beneath the skin, nothing that could be measured or quantified. He merely accommodated it as best he could. Foster shrugged into a silken robe. The maroon dressing gown would surprise Serrano, he thought. He reckoned Foster a complete ascetic or possibly a homosexual. That too was part of the plan.

Then came the next part of his nightly ritual. Foster checked all the traps in the apartment, tiny cues that would tell him if something had been moved or touched. If the girl had shown signs of letting herself in and prowling in his things, well, they would not have continued their association. But she only did what she was paid to do, the consummate professional. He respected that in a woman.

He had a downright soft spot for the one who’d humiliated his boss on closed-circuit TV. Giving one of the guards the idea about YouTube had been priceless. Foster didn’t think Serrano had seen that yet. The fireworks would be spectacular.

When he was content the apartment was still clean, he drew a titanium case out from its hiding spot. Inside, there was a laptop. He powered it up and input eight different passwords, taking him through various layers of encryption. He waited for a connection, then two words popped up on the black screen:

KNOCK KNOCK.

Despite his general distaste for the drama, he typed: WHO’S THERE?

MOCKINGBIRD.

Ah, he’d gotten lucky then. Foster smiled as he input, SHRIKE HERE. I KNOW HOW WE CAN TAKE HIM DOWN.

Kyra had crossed the state line into Texas awhile back.

Now she just needed to decide where she was going to stop and how long she’d stay. She’d been running ever since she left Vegas, having the uneasy feeling if she lingered in one place too long, they’d catch up with her. She had to assume Serrano had people looking for her. God, if only she could’ve seen the look on his face.

Laughter overwhelmed her, almost drowning out the sound of the wind rushing through the car. If she had any sense, she’d be making arrangements to get out of the country, but she had no idea how to smuggle a large sum of money past customs. Unfortunately, the kind of people who might help her seemed equally likely to kill her and take the cash.

Plus, she didn’t want to go anywhere she couldn’t drive. She just wasn’t leaving the Marquis, so that limited her choices. Canada might be an option, if she could get across the border with the money, but they’d tightened security lately, and she didn’t want to wind up in jail. The same went for Mexico, and she’d have a language barrier to overcome there. No, Canada looked like the best option. She just needed to wait for Mia to get back—and stay free until she did.

She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, gazing out over the plains. No help for it. Her shoulders were burning, and her ass was sore. She needed to rest, maybe take a couple days off and have a little fun. In every town, there were always idiots who could use some separation from their money. Sure, people would say she had no reason to work anymore, but that would be like telling a composer to stop writing music, just because he’d earned enough doing it. Some things you did for love.

Making a split-second decision, she yanked the car to the right, taking the exit. She followed the sign pointing toward Mount Silver. It looked to be no more than a tiny dot, several miles off the highway, but they’d have a cheap motel at the very least. Places like this always did. In the morning, she’d take a look around and consider her options.

Sure enough, she found a place on the outskirts of town called the Sleep E-Z. It was a concrete block U-shaped building that looked as if it had been last updated in 1957, and a series of motion-detecting lights flickered to life as she parked beside the office, illuminating an unholy collection of lawn gnomes. After climbing out of her car, Kyra stretched to pop the kinks out of her shoulders and back.

There was no restaurant attached to the property, but she had some ramen noodles in the trunk. With any luck, there would be a coffeemaker in the room. When she got to the office door, she found it locked, but there was a bell for after-hours service. It took almost five minutes, but eventually a man wearing low-slung tan pants and a dingy wifebeater came shuffling out through a curtained area in the back. He surveyed her suspiciously through the door and Kyra raised both hands to show she wasn’t armed.