Page 13 of Wicked Things
I laugh. It’s almost too hilarious to bear. “Mr. Barbieri wouldn’t know peace if it leapt up and bit him on the ass.” I take the envelope and I head for the elevator. God knows what’s waiting for me in this room. Barbieri’s had time and opportunity to tamper with everything, and I’m betting he has. There are probably trip wires and incendiary devices in the walls. There are probably thugs hiding in the closets, brandishing knives and guns, ready to fill me with lead.
How fucking cliché. Maybe he expects me to leave, now that I know he’s wise to my arrival. I’m not going to bend to his will, though. He can go fuck himself.
I hit the call button on the elevator, stab the button for floor number seven once I’m inside, then I wait for the doors to roll closed, sending the shittiest look possible to the receptionist.
“It’s your funeral, Mr. Mayfair,” she calls after me. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
******
If the suite is rigged with explosives, I can’t find them. There are no weapon-toting heavies in any of the closets either, or lurking behind the doors. The bathroom doesn’t even have a curtain for anyone to hide behind, and the bed is one of those ridiculous Japanese creations that’s only an inch off the ground, so no way there’s anyone secreted away underneath that.
There’s a mint on the pillow, just as there would be if this were a proper hotel, and tiny bottles of shampoo and shower gel sit on a marble dish next to the sink. On the antique wooden desk next to the window sits a bottle of something else entirely: Johnny Walker Blue, worth about five hundred bucks, if I’m not mistaken. It rests on top of a neatly folded slip of paper. I slide the note out from underneath the bottle, scanning the strangely neat, feminine handwriting that loops all over the paper.
Mr. Mayfair. Thank you for finally answering my summons. We’re honored that you’ve have chosen to grace us with your presence. I’m sorry it took such drastic measures to get you here, however I am not a man who likes to be ignored. You will learn this about me in time. Since I see you have obviously declined to accept my generous offer of rooms elsewhere, please make yourself comfortable here until I send for you. I hope you find everything to your liking.
R. Barbieri.
Please make yourself comfortable until I send for you? Bitch fuckingplease.Does he think I’ve come here to fall at his feet and beg for his stupid job? Does he think I’ve come out to the east coast with my tail tucked between my legs? Does he not realize I’ve come out here to fuckingkillhim?
I screw up the note and toss it in the trash, then I set my duffel bag on the end of the bed and I unzip it. I could up-end the bag and dump its contents out onto the comforter in less than a second, but I’m fuming right now. Instead, I remove the items from inside slowly, carefully, setting them out one by one in front of me, allowing myself the pleasure of imagining how I might use each one to end Roberto Barbieri’s life. It’s very fucking satisfying. Very satisfying indeed.
I take apart the Desert Eagle and I clean it meticulously until it’s gleaming. I load it, slide it into my waistband at the small of my back and head for the door.
Roberto Barbieri’s gonna wish he’d never been fucking born. I yank the door open, and there’s a woman standing directly in front of me with her hand raised, knuckles about to rap on my door. She jumps, leaping back.
“Shit! You scared me.”
“I’m good at that,” I growl. She’s young. Pretty. Her dark hair is curling around her face, and her makeup looks like it’s been professionally applied. She’s wearing a light, knee-length jacket, synched tight at the waist, and a pair of knee high black suede boots with ridiculously high heels.
She’s afraid. She’s also a hooker. I can tell just by looking at her. “I think you have the wrong room,” I say slowly.
She swallows, the muscles in her throat working overtime as she looks over my shoulder at the door. “No. This is the only suite on this floor. I was sent here specifically.”
“Well you can leave now. I didn’t order room service.”
The girl’s cheeks flush. She’s offended. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not the kind of dish you can send back to the kitchen.”
I lean forward, running my tongue over my teeth, studying her face. She bears a passing resemblance to Sloane. I’m not stupid enough to think that’s a coincidence. These guys are fucking high if they think I’m this easily distracted. Or tempted, for that matter.
“Turn around. Walk back down the hallway. Get back on the elevator. Do not come up here again. Do you understand?”
The girl—she can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two—stares back at me defiantly. “You haven’t even seen what’s on the menu yet. Why don’t you take a look before you act so rashly?” She quickly unfastens her coat, allowing it to part, revealing a black lace bra and panties, both see-thru, both barely covering her tanned, toned body. She’s wearing a black lace choker around her neck—one with a shining steel loop attached to it. She’s prepped and ready to be abused, that much is clear.
A couple of years ago, before I met Sloane in that dark hotel room for the first time, my dick would have already been growing hard in my pants. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I would have taken hold of her, my fingers biting into her flesh. I would have picked her up and carried her back into the room behind me, thrown her down onto the bed and I would have held onto her tight while I slid my cock into that pouty little mouth of hers.
A lot has changed since then, though. My dick doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even twitch. The only animalistic part of me that responds to this blatant sexual display is my temper.
I place my hand on her shoulder and I push the girl away from me, snarling. “I don’t care if your pussy is fucking gold plated, bitch. Get the fuck off my floor before I toss you back in the elevator myself. I’m not known for being gentle.”
She adopts a sulky, prettily frustrated expression. “But Daddy, what if Iwantyou to be rough?”
Daddy? Did she just call meDaddy? I tip my head back and I laugh. I’m six months away from earning that title. It’s a sacred, precious title to me now, and the fact that this half naked prostitute it trying to use it to turn me on is both fucking hysterical and infuriating at the same time. I allow my laughter to die on my lips. Taking a step forward, I pull the door closed behind me, clear my throat, and then I reach up and grab hold of the girl. I take a handful of her hair in my hand and I grip onto it tight, pulling.
“Ow! Ow, stop, you’re hurting me!”
I set off walking down the hallway, pulling her along behind me.
“Fuck, asshole! I said stop!” she cries.
