Page 7 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
I remember the matching suits that all the guards around the club are wearing. In fitted dress slacks and a tailored, navy blue button down, this guy is dressed similarly to Zeke, only Zeke looks like a little boy compared to him. This guy is certainly built like the guards, but he isn’t dressed like one.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Okay,” the dispatcher acquiesces. “I have a patrol unit nearby. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Please, wait on the line and stay put.” He hesitates. “Whatever you do, don’t draw any attention to yourself.”
No shit.
I release a breath and along with it goes my anger. I’m being unnecessarily mean to this guy, even if my jabs are just in my head. Sarcasm may be my defense mechanism of choice, but it’s not a very nice one.
A few minutes.
I can do that.
I can wait that long.
“Okay,” I tell the operator.
I walk even further away from the door with the phone still pressed against my ear. But I walk back to the door almost immediately after, my curiosity getting the better of me.
I’m saving this girl, so I can spy on her, I reason.
With my eye positioned at the door’s keyhole, I watch as the man starts patting her down with his free hand. His body is still flushed against hers, keeping her pressed into the wall. The girl has an indignant look on her face, and she appears to be more angry than scared. That’s yet another thing to add to the long list of things about this situation that are strange.
Something is off here. I start to reconsider my decision. Maybe I’ve been too hasty in calling the police. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous regions over the past two years, so violence seemed like the most obvious conclusion to me. But now, judging by how the guy steps back with a mischievous grin quickly replacing his angry features, I know I’ve made a mistake.
I glance down at the phone in my hand. The operator is still on the line. Fuck. He sent a patrol unit, and they’re already on their way. Is it too late to call the whole thing off? I debate my options for two more seconds before making another hasty decision.
I hang up on the police.
I end the call and wipe down the phone, removing all of my fingerprints from it. It’s an international prepaid phone that I bought a couple years ago in Mozambique. It’s unlikely that they’ll be able to trace it back to me.
I’ve never even made a call on it before. I had no one to call, and I only bought it for emergencies anyways. I’ve been meaning to get a new phone with a national provider, but my lazy ass hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I’m glad for that now.
After flipping the phone over, I remove the battery and SIM card out of it. The battery goes into the trash, while the SIM card goes in one of the toilets. I take the phone—which I’m still holding up with a paper towel in order to keep my prints off it—and place it in the sink under a stream of water. I make sure that it’s low enough that they can’t hear the sound of the water from outside, though the odds of that happening are slim. The club is loud, after all.
I grab the wet phone and throw it in the trash. Then, I use the wet paper towel to wipe down anywhere I might have touched. I know I’m being paranoid. No way will the cops take the time to fingerprint a bathroom that has to have a lot of fingerprints everywhere just to identify me.
Whatever.
Better safe than sorry.
When I am done indulging my paranoia, I return to the keyhole in time to see a guy approaching. He’s a dark shadow of leisurely movement until he comes closer and the light shines on his magnificent, stony face. I recognize it immediately.
It’s him.
Blue Eyes.
Asshole.
Hell-bound.
Whatever his name is.
I still haven’t decided what I want to call him.
How do you give a name to someone who has the power to tilt the earth on its axis? Because, surely, that’s the only way I can possibly be feeling like this right now. Like the world is tumbling inward, and this man, who brought me to the brink of orgasm then left, is suddenly in the center of it.
Maybe I’m just crazy?
