Page 12 of Logan

CHAPTER 7

Logan

Sitting in the hotel room,waiting for the prostitute I’d hired to show up, reminded me of my brief time working undercover on a case against one of the Mexican Cartels.

Back then, I’d been lucky enough to keep my hands clean while maintaining my cover, but I swore I’d never put myself in that position again. Yet, here I was, once again pretending to be a scumbag for the sake of the “greater” good.

Somehow, it felt even worse this time. Before, I’d agreed to the mission without understanding what it would really cost me, emotionally. This time, I knew exactly what it meant, yet I did it anyway.

Reminding myself that I wasn’t actually going to sleep with Clay didn’t help. I’d hired him, and as far as he knew I was just another client. It made me feel dirty. Unfortunately, the number for his “middleman” was the only lead I had, and the only way I would get close to him was as a client.

At least the hotel would give us privacy. I’d even gotten there early to check the room for hidden cameras, just to be sure.

Twenty minutes passed as I sat on a hard-backed chair, one of the room’s only pieces of furniture that wasn’t the bed, fighting a war with myself. I lost track of time, and when someone knocked on the door, I jumped.

Show time. The next few minutes would determine whether my mission succeeded or failed.

As I reached for the door handle, a thought struck me.

What if it wasn’t Clay waiting on the other side?

I only had Jordy’s word that Blue Steele was Clay’s working alias. Maybe he’d lied, or maybe Clay had passed the name on to someone else by now.

It was too late to turn back. I was already opening the door; I would simply have to face whatever greeted me on the other side.

“I’ve got a delivery for Mike Smith,” the man standing on the other side of the door said.

It was a code phrase meant to make sure I was the right client, but I barely heard him. I barely even remembered to reply.

“Oh, um. Yeah. Hold on. I left the money in my other jacket. Come in while I get it.”

I stuttered my way through the correct coded response, too busy looking at his neck. The man wore a long coat that covered most of his body, but most of his neck was still visible, revealing the seahorse shaped birthmark there.

Unless I was unlucky enough to come across another prostitute with the exact same birthmark, this was Clay Dahler.

“Sooo,” Clay drawled, obviously sounding uncomfortable. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

Stupid.

I was already messing it up. Any normal client would have ushered him out of the hall, and away from prying eyes immediately, but I’d just been standing there overcome with a sense of nervous relief. I felt more like a shy teenager about to ask his crush to prom, rather than an experienced investigator undertaking a mission.

As I stepped out of the way of the door, I finally looked up from his neck and I had to withhold my gasp.

The picture I’d been given of Clay was over a decade old, but I’d never really thought about what that meant. In my mind he was still that smiling, wide-eyed child. While there were still enough similarities to let me know I had the same person, Clay had outgrown his childish features. Instead of a fluttering little cupid from a Renaissance painting, he looked like theGenie du Maalcome to life.

The history of the statue says that the Cathedral of Saint Paul had hired Joseph Geefs to create an image of Lucifer, but the final product was deemed so beautiful it distracted the church’s parishioners. So, they’d commissioned Joseph Geefs brother, Guillaume, to remake the statue. Yet, the new statue turned out more beautiful than the first, and the church was presented with an even greater distraction on their hands.

As Clay walked past me, I could understand the church’s distress.

A man like this could tempt anyone into sin.

Wavy blond hair fell to his shoulders, showing off the line of his neck. His blue eyes were no longer round with youth, but instead were sharp and sultry. He was lean, yet still soft, and moved with the grace of a dancer. The long coat he wore did its best to hide his body, but nothing could disguise the length of his legs.

The only blemish was the painfully dark bruise marring his left eye. Some makeup had been applied to try and hide it, but not enough. The bruise was obviously still fresh, and slightly swollen around the edges.

Once Clay was inside, I closed the door and kept my back turned toward the room as I took a deep breath. Getting angry over the bruise wouldn’t do any good, and there was no reason for me to notice his looks. Beautiful or ugly, healthy or injured, he was a victim in need of rescue. End of story.

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