Thorne Princess(89)

“I’ll let you know.”

I went upstairs and dressed in a pair of dark cigar pants, leather sneakers, and a black tee. I grabbed my wallet and phone and made my way downstairs.

I opted for Hallie’s BMW Hydrogen 7. The Nissan LEAF was banged up due to my brush with the Russians.

I drove down to the nearest bar. A black-bricked low building with a pink neon sign stared back at me. Cocks and Tails. Los Angeles was not known for its subtlety. I wanted to be found by Kozlov. Wanted them to corner me.

Pushing the wooden, round-topped door, I shoved past a mass of sweaty, half-naked people dancing to the tune of a truly horrible remix of “In a Manner of Speaking” by Nouvelle Vague. I was about to turn around and head out—this was a mistake, I didn’t need a beer, I needed to make shit right—when I noticed a smaller, separate room for bar-goers. I waltzed inside. The space was dark, gloomy, with high stools and soft erotic paintings. The array of people at the bar sat either in couples or alone, squinting at their smartphones to see where their Tinder date was.

What the hell. One drink wouldn’t hurt.

I slid onto a stool and rapped the bar.

“Jameson, neat.”

“Coming right up,” a barkeep with a blunt haircut and facial piercings squeaked.

As if on cue, a woman of the Desperate Housewives variety—tall, leggy, blonde, with enough makeup to paint a house, slipped onto the seat next to me. She wore a hot pink blazer, matching shorts, and white kitten heels.

“According to the women’s magazine I read today as I waited for my dentist appointment, men who order Jameson know what they’re doing.” She signaled the bartender with her hand.

“White Russian for me.” Then, turning toward me, the woman—twenty-nine? Thirty?—grinned seductively. “What does my drink order say about me?”

“That you’ve never worked in a bar before, so you are under the misguided assumption the milk in the fridge hasn’t expired,” I deadpanned.

She let loose a throaty laugh, caressing her throat. “Maybe I’m optimistic.”

“Isn’t optimistic the PC word for delusional?” What the hell was wrong with me? Did I want to bed this woman, or get kneed in the balls by her?

She laughed again, undeterred. “I like a guy who is quick-witted.”

“And I like to work for my sexual conquests. Care to at least pretend to make it hard for me?”

I could practically envision Hallie giving me her holy shitballs, you’re tragic face.

The bartender returned with both our drinks. I noticed the leggy blonde sniffing her black-on-white cocktail before taking a sip. I glanced around me, hoping to see suspicious people who might look like they’d followed me. This time, I wanted to be caught.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I think the milk is in its prime.” She shot me a sidelong smirk. “And for the record, so am I.”

I offered her a curt nod. It was becoming extremely difficult to repel her. Maybe I was better off just fucking her and telling Hallie. One of us needed to screw up to stop our oversight from happening again. And I could always count on myself to let people down.

“Are you always this forward?” I asked.

“Only when I want something real bad.”

Smirking, I said, “That can’t be a total stranger you just met at the bar. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Damn. Maybe you’re as good as they say you are.” The woman pivoted on her stool, angling her entire body toward me. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

Glancing down to her impractical heels, I tsked. “If you want to continue being at a point of disadvantage.”

“I know who you are.” She placed her hand between us on the bar.

Was she working for Kozlov? Or was she FBI? She looked too refined for the former and too dumb for the latter.

“You do?” I took a sip of my drink. “Enlighten me, then.”

“You’re Ransom Lockwood of Lockwood and Whitfield Protection Group. A security company based in Chicago. You currently work with Hallie Thorne, daughter of President Anthony Thorne. And you’re an impossible man to hire, which makes me wonder if there’s an interesting backstory behind why you chose to protect the First Daughter.” She raised her glass in a toast, downing it in its entirety.

I motioned for the barkeep to get her a refill.

Expressionless, I turned back to her, not confirming nor denying her words. “Where are you going with this?”

“Where do you want me to go with it?” she purred.

Far the fuck away from me.

I just came here to get cornered by the Bratva, lady.

I shrugged. “You’re the one who’s here with an agenda and my unauthorized Wikipedia page.”

“What did you come here for?” She rested her chin on top of her knuckles.

“A quick fuck,” I was half-lying, half warming up to the idea.

I needed to get Hallie out of my system, out of my head, out of my life. This woman seemed like an unlikely candidate, now that she knew who I was. No matter. Plenty more fishnet stockings in the sea.

“What if you could get out of here with a satisfying fuck and five hundred thousand dollars richer?” She played with the edge of her blazer, exposing slivers of her skin. Of her boring, smooth, unmarked body.