I knocked on her door. “Who is it?”

“Housekeeping,” I said, straining my voice in much too high an octave.

“No, thank you. I’m all right,” she said.

I smirked to myself. “Housekeeping.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said more sternly.

“Housekeeping. You want head for pillow?”

It got quiet and I stifled my laugh.

“Come in, David Spade,” a weak voice commanded.

I swung the door open, expecting her to be crouched on the bed with one of her ridiculous books. Bridge could party with the best of us, much to my dismay, but she was a complete nerd at heart. But instead of her nose buried in the pages of the latest, I found her lying pathetically slumped over the edge of her bed, her silver bathroom trash can perched just below. My heart sank for her.

I sat next to her and shifted my baby sister’s hair away from her shoulder. “You okay, dude?”

She ignored my question and took me in instead. “Where do you think you’re going, Tom Hardy from Inception?”

“Funny. I’m meeting someone. You watch too many movies, by the way.”

She smiled at me but barely. “You look sharp. Lots of effort for whomever she is.”

I didn’t correct her misassumption. “Thanks. Can I get you anything before I jet?”

“A time machine?”

“No can do, kiddo. Whatever you ate has to take its turn. Don’t worry, though, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.” She nodded, but looked unconvinced. “If you need anything, ring my cell.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your date would appreciate that,” she teased.

I smiled the best I could and stood. “Bye, Bridge.”

“Bye, Spence.”

I closed her door behind me, and reminded myself to check on her when I got back.

Chapter Two

I whipped my Aston Martin into Sofitel, but dodged the valet, choosing to park in the back of the lot. This is one place where I didn’t need to be remembered. I only wanted to blend in. I got out and locked my door, taking out my cell and ringing Lola as I made my way to the Sofitel entrance. She answered on the second ring.

“I’m here. Room five-seven-eight.”

“Lobby,” was my only response.

I hung up. I’d reimburse her for the room as I always did, to avoid a paper trail.

By the time I entered the lobby after walking the remainder of the lot, Lola sat secreted in a corner next to the cool steel sculpture at the room’s center. She stood when she saw me, devastatingly beautiful as always. She inclined her head and I reciprocated. She eyed me with appreciation but as always, she did nothing for me. Uncommonly pretty but not much else. Also, never dip your pen in the company ink, gentlemen, even if the company isn’t necessarily aware she’s stocked.

We entered the hotel bar. I, casually with my jacket unbuttoned and a single hand in my front pocket and she, seductively as any femme fatale there ever was. I spotted my target, Peter Knight, waiting at the bar, studying a whiskey neat twirling in the glass before him. Damn, I cursed under my breath. He’d beaten me there. He didn’t notice Lola either, though, making my stomach clench a little in hesitation. I hoped he was distracted instead of the stand-up guy I suspected he was. I fought the nausea.

Lola and I sat together in the darkest corner of the bar, as out of sight as we could possibly get. Peter Knight kept glancing at his watch, waiting for the meeting with an executive that would never come. He ordered one more whiskey and that was my cue. I glanced at Lola, nodding once and she stood, making her way toward Peter, choosing a seat two down from him.

She ordered the same drink Peter had because we’d done our research and her hand covered the rim of the glass, the drug she’d held in her palm fell to the bottom. I could tell it had already begun to dissolve. Her hands moved to the sides of the glass to cover the effects.

I knew when it was fully mixed because her hands fell flat on the bar top. She leaned back into her stool and displayed her breasts, her arms moving to rest on her lap. Every man with a pulse, including Peter this time, took note of her. She was effortless. She smiled lasciviously at him.

“Hi,” I heard her breathe.

Peter only nodded once and turned back to his drink. Confirmed. He looked but he didn’t touch. My jaw pressed tightly. Damn, he didn’t take the bait. Plan B.

Lola quickly glanced my way and imperceptibly shook her head once. I stood, coolly removed a handkerchief from my front left pocket, patted my neck and forehead, replaced it, smoothed out my jacket, tugged at my cufflinks ensuring the cuffs were stiff and made my way to the bar top, sliding into the stool right next to Peter. He smiled at me then glanced at his watch once more. I was running out of time. The bartender approached me.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“What are you drinking?” I asked Peter.

He smiled. “Macallan, eighteen, neat.”

“The same,” I said with a grin, oozing charm. Open up room for conversation.

“Popular tonight,” the bartender said simply, making my adrenaline spike.

“It’s a great vintage,” I hedged.

We silently watched the bartender pour me a matching glass and walk away to attend another customer. I internally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Jonathan,” I lied, extending a hand.

I was always Jonathan. I don’t think “Lola” knew it as anything else during our little charades.

“Peter,” he answered, taking it.

I took a sip then set the glass down, nervously twisting it back and forth in the palms of my hands. I sat up slightly, checking my actions and angled myself toward him, making eye contact. Establish trust. I breathed deeply, taking yet another sip. Don’t waste time.

“Are you were from the area?” I asked.

“No, actually, I...” he started but before he could finish, I faked a clumsy movement, sweeping the pen he had sitting on the bar top next to him onto the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, as we both made a move to retrieve the pen.

I grabbed it first and awkwardly fumbled with it, distracting him further. Hope he buys this. I watched through my peripheral as Lola subtly switched her roofie laced whisky with his glass. When she righted herself, I handed it back to him. He sat back in his stool.

“Butter fingers,” I joshed.

He took a swig, a third of the glass’ contents gone.

“Nervous?” Peter asked, more astute than I previously gave him credit for.

I went with it. “Uh, yeah. I’m meeting a girl here. Blind date.” I noticed Lola smirk.

“Well, that explains it then,” he laughed, slapping me on my sore shoulder. I took the pain. I deserved it. “Get out early, I always say. Dating is the pits,” he joshed.

I cleared my throat and followed his lead as he took another swig, unaware of the poison streaming down his gullet.

“Married then?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Thirty years next week, actually.”

I felt beads of sweat pour down my back at the declaration. He took yet another sip. I narrowly stopped myself from swiping the glass from his hands. Even if he drops, which he will, you can still back out. Just help him to his room. He’ll think he’d had too much. He’ll only wake up with a great night’s sleep.

“And you’re still happy?” I asked, ignoring my conscience, grasping for anything terrible, anything that could justify what I was about to do.

“Oh, you know, it’s not easy, not all the time anyway, but I can honestly say I am genuinely happy with Maggie. She’s my everything, if I was being candid.” He laughed at some private joke. I hated jokes. My punch line would destroy him if his wife ever found out.

My gut began to ache so terribly, my hand inadvertently scrubbed at my neck. He mistook it for nerves.

“Don’t worry, son. I’m waiting for someone, too, though it looks like he’s a no show and I flew in all the way this close to Christmas for nothing. Anyway, I’ll wait with you.”

“That’s so kind of you,” I told him honestly as he finished his drink.

He ordered another.

I glanced at Lola and she lightly tapped at her wrist but avoided eye contact.

Peter and I spoke of nothing consequential over the following fifteen minutes, but when that time came to a close, he appeared totally inebriated. So much so, that the bartender stopped by.

“Is he staying here?” he asked. “Wish I’d known the guy couldn’t hold his liquor.”

“It’s not a problem. He’s got a room here,” I told him. “Don’t worry, he’s a friend. I’ll take him back to his room.”

He nodded in answer, setting our tabs down on the bar top. I paid his as well as my tab in cash to avoid trace backs or, for that matter, waiting any longer. The drugs were seriously taking effect, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle his dead weight despite my daily reps of two-eighty-five.

I made a move to stand as Peter slumped forward a little. You waited too long. “Come on, dude,” I told him, throwing his arm over my shoulder. We made our way toward the elevators.

“You’re a good man,” Peter slurred. “That’s rare…someone so young.”

I didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, really.

We barely made it to the elevators. I pitched him inside and sat him against the sidewall then held the door open with my hand, praying no one else would come. Lola quickly emerged ten seconds later without a word spoken and we let the doors close.

“We waited too long,” Lola finally said, when we reached her floor. She stuck her head out when the doors opened. “It’s clear,” she said.

I swung middle-aged Peter Knight onto my shoulders with only a little difficulty, glad for the minute rest I’d gotten between supporting his weight during the walk through the lobby and reaching Lola’s floor. “Lead the way,” I told her.

Lola took me to her room, quickly unlocked the door and we entered. The entire ordeal couldn’t have taken more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I pitched him onto the bed. He laid there, clothes in disarray, hair mussed, and snoring.

Lola and I watched him for a good thirty seconds, waiting for him to stir but he didn’t, he was dead to the world.

“Shall we get started?” she asked.

I vacillated back and forth between right and wrong, willing myself to just walk away, begging myself to figure a way out but no argument was more convincing than the mil’ I was getting paid. Besides, I thought, as long as he complies, this is not a big deal at all. He can go back to his wife and kids and I can go back to Brown a little bit wealthier.

“Yes,” I finally answered.

Lola slithered from her dress and stood in her lace bustier and garters, let her curled hair down and went to the mirror, leaning over to freshen up her lipstick. I went to the bag on her bathroom counter and removed the SLR, slid on the power button and waited for her at the foot of the bed. I watched her, taking in her beautiful body, admiring her, internally acknowledging why she was the most expensive call girl I knew. She caught me staring in the mirror and smiled with perfect white teeth.