Royally Not Ready(4)

Stiff, avoiding me at all costs, he doesn’t say anything, but I catch his mouth twitch in humor.

“How much do they pay you? Do you have a gun? Or do you consider your hands lethal weapons? From the looks of it, they seem like Grade-A chokers. Have you ever choked anyone? Wait, don’t answer that, I don’t want to be an accomplice in your murders.”

He continues to look around, not saying a word.

“Ah, I see what’s going on. They must dock your pay every time you say something, right? You know, I get it. You have mouths to feed, probably. How many kids do you have? Wait, wait, let me guess, that will be more fun. Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I’m going to say ten. You look like the kind of man with strong lovemaking genes. Like a workhorse in bed, pounding that semen, one right after the other, having that wife pop them out—”

“Miss Campbell,” comes the silky, English voice from earlier.

I turn to see Mr. Mysterious standing behind me, still wearing the black pants and button-up shirt from earlier, but now he has a suit coat draped over his broad shoulders, and he’s clouded in a masculine scent that reads more like fresh mountain logger than shadowy assassin. Man, this guy. He’s got to be at least six three with a jacket size no smaller than forty-six long. They build them big where he’s from.

“Well, hello, there. How lovely of you to show up.” I thumb toward Suit. “Not much of a talker, this one. Do you dock his pay for talking?”

Completely ignoring my question, he says, “I believe you have requested my phone.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his phone. He offers it to me, holding it out in his large hand.

Take a look at those fingers. Hello, lover.

“Is that really a phone, or perhaps a bomb acting like a phone? I need you to prove to me that it’s a phone.”

That anger I saw rear up earlier reappears as he taps the screen, entering a passcode so fast that I only catch two numbers: three and eight. He then turns the screen to me, showing off his black wallpaper with all his apps lined up in folders.

“Who doesn’t have a wallpaper on their phone? Seems a bit psychotic, don’t you think?”

“Miss Campbell, what I have to talk to you about is of high importance. Please take the phone and follow me.”

I take the phone and then say, “First, I need to make a phone call.”

I might be following a strange man to God knows where, but I have gained some form of self-preservation over the last few years.

I punch in Timmy’s number and then put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Timmy, baby, it’s me.”

“Do they have you captive? Remember our safe word.”

“We’re in the lobby. The Viking look-alike is about to take me wherever we’re going. Is Luis there?”

“Yes, he’s tracking the conversation.”

I smile to myself. “Good.” I glance up at the monstrous man in front of me and say, “You may proceed with wherever you’re taking me.”

The man adjusts the cuffs of his jacket and starts making his way through the lobby, me following behind him and the suit behind me. Like ducklings in a row, we cross the tiled floor.

We dodge a few of the single ladies looking for a good time from earlier. They already have drinks in hand and are eyeing the hotel bar for any incoming hockey players. We move past a restaurant full of the glitz and glam of vibrant Miami fashion and to a back door that leads to a private rooftop overlooking the pool.

“What’s going on?” Timmy asks over the phone. “Have they bound and gagged you?”

“No, they’re just taking me to a private rooftop area. It’s all very dreamy out here. We really need to hang out at the Moxy more.”

Flowers cascade down perfectly placed pergolas draped in string lights, and red couches line the back wall, with round, stone coffee tables placed in front of them. Candles are lit up on every surface, while the aroma of fresh flowers, sunscreen, and this evening’s dishes float through the air.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you brought me up here to propose.” I glance around. “Is this some sort of hidden camera thing? One of those blind marry-me shows?” Calling out to empty space, I say, “Okay, camera crew, I’m onto you, come on out.”

The Viking gestures to a red couch and says, “Take a seat.”

Okay, he’s unamused.

I set my clutch on the coffee table in front of me and then maneuver my body down to the soft surface of the couch, sinking in further than I expected. I adjust my V-neck once again and when I glance up, I catch his eyes on me, studying.

“What?” I ask. “Did I have a nip slip?”

Without a word, he takes a seat next to me on the couch, not so close that I feel like he’s going to make a move, but not so far that I have to shout to have a conversation. A respectable distance.

“I thought I told you to wear something decent?”

“Ooo, I missed the memo on when you became the boss of my body.”

“Good one,” Timmy says on the phone.

“Thank you.” I chuckle.

“I’m going to need you to end that phone call,” the Viking says. “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.”

“But they’re making sure I’m not murdered.”