Page 31 of Sticky Fingers
Jim and Brian head for the door quickly. As fun as it must have been to rummage through Sonia’s thong collection, I’m sure they have a life they would like to get back to.
“I’ll invoice you.” Drake shakes my hand and then quickly exits my apartment, shutting the door quietly behind them.
Dead end. Again.
Fucking hell.
Moving towards my wet bar, I grab a glass and pour myself a couple of fingers of scotch before settling down in front of my computer screen again.
Taking a long sip, I savor the burn as I click through the photos of her home. Opening them full screen, I contemplate her bedroom decorated in sand and coral tones.
She’s a neutral woman. Nothing flashy about the place.
Everything is tasteful and decorated with class.
Her bathroom is clean, and there isn’t a bunch of women’s crap out on the countertop cluttering things up like so many bitches’ bathrooms.
Her place looks very similar to mine. Interesting.
A loud knock on the door interrupts my musing.
Minimizing the windows on my computer, I get up and head to the door. Maybe one of the guys forgot something.
I look through the peephole—and do a fucking double take.
It’s Sonia…and she looks fucking pissed.
She knocks again while I’m looking at her. Fuck,
her flushed face really turns me on.
I open the door and step to the side, using the hand I’m holding the scotch with to wave her in.
“Missing me already?”
Turning, I walk into the living room and ignore the fact that I know she’s fucking angry.
There’s fucking murder in her eyes.
I’m assuming she knows someone was in her apartment because we ended the evening in a high-fucking-note. Aside from the blue balls issue, that is.
“Look at this.” I turn around and she sticks her phone in my face.
Very clearly on the screen I see Drake, Brian, and Jim enter her apartment and split up.
I’m trying to keep my face, blank but I’m sure a bit of a smirk is coming out.
“I know this was your doing.” She swivels her body to stand next to me, so we can both see the screen she’s holding up. “Look at this.”
She flips to another video, and it shows her bedroom with her dresser drawers being opened and closed while photos are taken.
I see a poor, confounded-looking Brian who picks up a massive twelve-inch black wand that he accidentally turns on.
The fucking snake-like appendage starts to shake as the bulbous head begins to vibrate, and he drops it on the floor with a yelp.
I sigh mentally to myself as I watch three grown men—people who have spent weeks living off the land in war-torn Iraq as they fought ISIS—chasing after a galloping vibrator that screams down a hardwood floor.
I close my eyes and cringe as the three of them finally pounce on it and tackle the machine, turning it off by banging the head against the wall repeatedly, as if doing battle with a wild snake.
