Page 1 of Agency
Chapter One
Ambyr
St. Louis.
Gateway to the west.
I’d never been to St. Louis. And, looking around from the driver’s seat of my rented Acura, I could see why. Empty lots, aging buildings that were barely taken care of, stained concrete all slicked with rain and glittering with reflections from the overhead moon–they all lent themselves to this feeling of blight and exhausted realization at the fact that the world had moved on without the city.
Sitting there in my rental on some downtown side street outside a dive bar I’d found online, I both listened and felt as the metro light rail ran east across one of the two nearby elevated tracks. I was close enough to the heart of the city, and Busch Stadium, that public transportation kept running even this late. I imagined I could lean forward and peer out through the windshield and spot the Gateway Arch that had been visible from my hotel room’s window. Logically, since the structure was over a mile north and had more buildings than I could likely count in one night between me and the landmark, I knew that was impossible. Instead, all I could see was more of the rust covering one of the seemingly infinite multitude of train bridges crisscrossing the city.
But still, for whatever reason, Iwishedthe lit-up arch had been visible. Desperately. Just one glimpse could have given me something to look at, rather than just the tired street, or sagging buildings that made this place seem like anywhere else in the Midwest. Would at least give me something that would make my short stint in St. Louis memorable.
Imagined hopes dash, I pulled down my rental’s vanity mirror and checked my makeup. Not strictly for vanity’s sake, either, despite the name of the mirror I was using. Turning my face left and lifting my chin, I made sure the makeup covering the scar on my jaw was still applied well enough that the permanent physical marring wouldn’t be noticed. Not that the scar detracted from the rest of me, either, or distracted in any way.
No. No, the scar was just memorable. More memorable than my height, red hair, or blue eyes, or even the slight line of freckles my makeup was more than enough to cover.
And I’ve always preferred that I wasn’t remembered very well by either my clients, or the men who had a short, walk-on roll in the theater production of my life. At least not my features. No, I’d rather just leave them with a brief memory of our night together. An impression of our time spent, an impression which lingered for far longer than the remembered image of my face.
After all, I wasn’t going to remember their faces for very long. Why should they get to remember mine?
I slung my purse over my shoulder as I got out my rental. Heels clicking on the asphalt and a hand cinching my light coat tighter against the cool air, I made my way to the front door of the Bothersome Beaver. Squat and surly looking, the red-brick bar seemed to be a popular Cardinals fan hangout. There wasn’t a game tonight, though, and the place looked almost deserted.
Deserted and, honestly, kind of perfect.
Because tonight? Tonight I didn’t want to find a man who wouldn’t be anything more than a bed warmer. No, I just wanted to find something that might keep me warm for the night, no man necessary. Wine or a cocktail? Beer and a shot? Didn’t matter.
And, all I needed for that was an out of the way bar with bad lighting, and the kind of patrons that wouldn’t remember me in the morning.
I’d begun to lose track of the countries and cities I’d visited over the last twelve years, or the men I’d slept with. Places in the Middle East, back in my early years, then Europe, Asia, Russia, and of course all over the United States. Really, a decade of going wherever they paid me the most. Over a decade spent hopping from one country or city to the next on business, always seeing clients I couldn’t stand and wouldn’t have given the time of day, if not for my chosen career.
True, there’d been a couple years when I stayed based around Virginia. But, God, those had been a boring two years.
And oh, I enjoyed the work, I supposed. But the day-to-day wore on me. Never staying in one place for very long, never being able to put down roots. Just a short break between visits, then off to the next city. There were other parts of the job I wasn’t a big fan of, of course. But the roots part was the biggest one.
I could afford to settle down, too. Maybe buy a place to come home to after a long “business trip”. The work paid well enough. But why bother? Wasn’t as if I’d found anyone to put those roots down with. No one to let my roots and branches begin to twine and join with.
I mean, sure. There’d been men. Plenty of men–often times a new one in each city. You could always find an interesting guy if you were even only half-heartedly invested in seeking one out.
Interesting, at least, for the first night.
Those were a dime a dozen.
But more than just the one? Not likely.
Besides, no matter how interesting they were, I was still going to be slipping out of that hotel room in the morning, with a soft and whispered: “Had a great time, handsome. But, the room’s paid up till noon, then you need to get the fuck out.” Or, if I was in their room, they might not even get that much.
Because there was always the next city or country to visit, the next stop on my itinerary already staked out for me by my agency and ready to go. Always another plane to hop onto, and another stamp just waiting to be pressed onto my passport.
I pushed open the door to the Bothersome Beaver, briefly swept my eyes over the little tavern. A shotgun bar headed down the right side, with tables to the left and a couple billiards tables at the back. Only a handful of patrons were inside, and most of them glanced my way for a long second as I entered and made my way down to the farthest available spot from the front entrance. Neon signs of both domestic and local breweries bore down on me from all sides, reminding me with their constant hum and light what kind of blue-collar dive I’d stumbled into, and how little I fit in here while wearing my little black dress and heels.
I didn’t care. I’d never be coming back again through that front door, anyways.
“Vodka martini,” I said as the bartender came over while I was still removing my coat. “Dry. Best vodka you have.”
He was an older man, maybe early-sixties. His face was like a map of the mass transit system crisscrossing the city, with every wrinkle signifying a route or street, and he fit perfectly to the type of guy who would choose to work this type of place on a slow weeknight.
“We don’t really do—”
