I walked over and placed my fingers around her upper arms. Her muscles tensed, and I could tell she wanted to back away from me, but she didn’t.
“What’s the problem?” I snapped.
Odin crouched down behind the edge of the couch and whined slightly. Bridgett glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Nothing,” she replied softly. “It’s all good.”
My hands slid up to her shoulders, and I crouched slightly to get a look into her eyes.
“You need to get something through your head, Bridgett,” I said as I gripped her shoulders just a bit more. “I’ve said this before, and you don’t have any clever ways of word-smithing it now. This is fucking – nothing more, nothing less. My cock goes in various places around your body for cash. You’re a whore, and I’m a regular john. There is nothing special here.”
She didn’t look up, and her muscles remained tense. It occurred to me that she might have thought I was going to hit her. I wouldn’t have – it wasn’t my style. If I was going to kill her that would be a whole other story, but I didn’t usually hit people I was going to kill. Not unless I really needed to do so.
“You got that?” I asked once more.
“I got it,” she answered quietly.
“You need me to cut you off? Find someone else?”
She looked up at me, and her eyes glistened. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed twice before she shook her head. She looked away from me and down to the floor.
“Truth hurts, huh?” I said bluntly, and she flinched as a tear finally escaped from her dampened lashes.
Maybe it was cruel, but it had to be done. The last thing I needed was a hooker who thought she was more to me than she was, and the last thing she needed was for someone in a rival boss’ business getting the idea she was important to me.
There was just no way I could give her what she wanted.
Chapter 7 – Easy Murder
Atlanta was always one of my favorite towns. It was decently warm, didn’t have the constant wind of Chicago, and the people were as entertaining as they could possibly be. Everyone always seemed just thrilled to death to be where they were, even if where they were was begging on a street corner or drunk in an alley. Even the drunks on the street entertained me.
“You see that guy?”
“What guy?” I asked the fifty-something black dude who was drinking a foul smelling liquid out of a paper bag. He’d been doing so since I sat down by the steps of the Marquis One Tower near one of the funky statues that may or may not be lions.
“The one over there!” He reached his arm out to its full extent, added a pointing finger, and shook it around in the air like a flopping fish on the rocks.
I laughed.
“There are twenty guys over there!”
“C’mon!” he insisted, and I had to get up to follow him.
As we rounded the corner, we faced the valet parking area of the Marriott Marquis. It was a beautiful area with a giant fountain underneath part of the hotel. The echo of the water as it moved over the cement structure was more deafening than the noise from the cars waiting to be valeted.
“That guy right there!” the drunk said as he waved his arms around a bit more. He reminded me of one of the characters from Sponge Bob, but I couldn’t remember which one. “It’s that guy! That one guy – from the movies!”
My ears perked up a bit. I was supposed to meet Jim in an hour at the Hyatt, not the Marriott, which was right across the street. I wondered if something was wrong, though I knew the two hotels were attached by a skywalk. Scanning the motor area, I didn’t see any sign of either of them, so I looked back at my inebriated friend.
“It’s Mel Gibson!” the drunk suddenly yelled out, and my shoulders dropped in relaxation.
I looked over where he was pointing, and though the guy did vaguely resemble Gibson, it definitely wasn’t him. The drunken dude continued to squeal about Braveheart, but the show had lost its appeal. I gave up on the entertainment and hiked up the numerous back steps of the Hyatt, then followed the escalator to the lobby and bar area. There was a football game on, so I figured it was as good a place as any to be found when Jim showed up.
The bartender at the Hyatt was a good one, and I do like a good bartender even though I didn’t drink often. He was a dark-skinned, bald guy who didn’t weigh more than about a hundred and twelve pounds. He had a Caribbean accent of some sort, but I couldn’t quite discern from where. He poured me two fingers of some decent scotch and let me just sit there and watch the game at one of the tall, round tables. I paid just enough attention to figure out who was playing, who was probably going to win, and to take note of at least one egregious foul I could bitch about later with Jim if he cared to talk football.
It was a team Jonathan favored, and I wondered if he was watching the same game back in Chicago. I hadn’t seen him outside of work for a while, and I considered sending him a quick text suggesting we hang when I got back into town, but of course I couldn’t. My regular phone was turned off so I couldn’t be tracked back to the area.
Jim showed up just a few minutes late with one of the other security guys I had seen before, though only through my scope. He said his name was Damon, and he shook my hand like someone once told him a firm handshake would impress people. He made a lot of eye contact as well, also something he’d been taught and followed to a tee – not because he saw the value of it, but because someone he believed told him it was the right thing to do.