Risky Business

“Nothing sketchy, Ellie. I promise. Cross my heart even.” I make the motion on my chest, but Ellie’s doubt-filled face doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more dubious at my intentions so I decide to put my cards on the table. It’s a gamble, but I think Ellie will respond to the truth better than any cover story I could cook up.

“Look, I’m gonna be honest with you here. I’m a nice guy, a good one . . . you know that. She’s giving me shit about my motorcycle riding being dangerous, so I want to show her what it’s all about. Nothing more, I swear. She tracked me down at Verdux last night, so I’m returning the favor.”

Hopefully, honesty really is the best policy with Ellie because she narrows her eyes, scanning me like a human lie detector. Crazy thing is, I believe she can actually tell whether I’m lying or not, so it’s a good thing I’m telling the truth. Mostly.

Oh, I do want to show Jayme what riding is like, but I also want to feel her thighs wrapped around my hips, her chest pressed to my back, and her arms squeezing my torso. I don’t let any of that show to Ellie, but I’m pretty sure she still knows.

After a long minute when I’m not sure she’s going to help me, Ellie looks at her watch. “Well, would you look at that? It’s my bathroom break time. I’ll be gone for less than five minutes, right down that hall.” She points toward the closest restroom. “So if anyone happened to take a quick peek in that binder over there, I wouldn’t know about it and certainly wouldn’t be responsible in any way, shape, form, or fashion.”

I grin at her clever workaround. “Thanks, Ellie. I promise it’ll be fine.”

“Just know that I’ll sell you out in a heartbeat if anyone comes a’questioning.”

“Won’t happen,” I vow, hoping I’m right. “But if it does, I’ll buy you a whole case of those Fireworks cookies you like.” I’ve noticed her eating the Pop Rock candy-covered cookies from the souvenir shop in the park from time to time. “Hell, I’ll buy you a case for this.”

“For what?” she asks, playing dumb. She stretches exaggeratedly and then gets up and slow walks down the hall, whistling a tune to herself. I don’t waste any time, lunging for the binder she indicated and flipping to the page for yesterday.

I find Jayme’s address and quickly memorize it. “Ten thirty-four Everton,” I repeat to myself a few times.

I damn near speed walk to the parking lot, throwing a leg over my motorcycle. Though I’m itching to peel out, I take a moment to program the address into my phone to get directions. The preview shows it’s taking me to a nice area, and as I head that way, I smile behind the face shield of my helmet. “I’m coming for you, Jayme.”

A short ride later, I pull up to the curb of a far beyond ‘nice’ apartment building. Either Jayme is making serious bank at her job or she’s got a secret revenue stream from somewhere because this place is swanky with a capital ‘who’d you wank to get a place here’ vibe.

The first obstacle? The beast of a doorman who looks like he moonlights as a bouncer at a heavy metal thrasher club. With his bald head and dead stare and a body that’s stuffed into a suit that he looks like he’s about to burst out of, he basically dares me to come his way and be his evening’s entertainment. But I’m not scared. In fact, I can understand why Jayme would appreciate a building with security masked as concierge service.

I turn off my motorcycle and confidently stride to the doorman. “Hey, man! How’re you doing tonight?” I greet him.

“Fine. Can I help you?” His question is polite, but the tone is more ‘fuck off’ than ‘let me be of service’.

“Yeah, I’m here to see a friend.”

“Name?”

“Jayme Rice.”

He looks at me as though contemplating stabbing me or breaking my neck, and it’s a hard decision because he’d enjoy them both.

“Your name,” he explains, his face void of all expression.

“Carson Steen,” I say with a smile, knowing that the last name has enough weight to open typically unopened doors.

Not this time. He blinks once, giving the impression that he’s checking a mental list, before stating formally, “You’re not on the list of visitors this evening, Mr. Steen. Perhaps another night.”

The suggestion is a complete dismissal if ever I’ve heard one. I’ll admit that I’m surprised. I didn’t expect it to be this hard to get in the door of an apartment building, even one with a doorman. I consider doing something dubious like shimmying up the fire escape or distracting the doorman-slash-guard and rushing past him, but something tells me he’s got me in his sights, and nothing short of a bomb going off will tear his threatening glare from me now.