he went on, “even the slightest mistake, rest assured that I’ll track you down and I will crucify you.”
“All set!” Annie yelled. Clark’s tone changed in an instant when she appeared on the front steps.
“Does that sound reasonable?” he asked me, putting on a cheery mug for Annie.
“A little overkill, actually, but I think I get the gist.”
We left him, and as my trusty Jeep trundled down the endless driveway, Annie turned to me and asked, “What were you two talking about?”
I noticed one of the pooches off in a field lying on its belly and chewing contentedly on a scarecrow’s head.
“Hunting,” I said.
“Oh, good,” she said, and put a reassuring hand on my thigh. “He can be a little protective sometimes, but I think he’s warming up to you.”
CHAPTER SIX
HOWEVER MUCH I wanted to play nice with high society, there was still a little punk in me, and a little pride. So you know what I ultimately decided at the party at Chip’s? To hell with Sir Lawrence Clark. He was a lost cause anyway. The guy had me pegged from the get-go, and I had a few ideas percolating on how to get him off my back. I gave him a big wink across the room and headed out of the party with Walker.
The only man I really owed anything to was Davies, and I owed him everything: the fresh start, the job, the house, the chance to meet Annie. I’d do whatever Davies Group asked of me. If I stepped carefully and watched myself, I could stick with Walker on his midnight monkey business without betraying Annie. It was work, after all, official duty. At least that’s what I was telling myself as Walker murmured something ominous about Tina.
Should I wait up? Annie texted me.
Late night, hon. Work stuff. So sorry. Miss ya! I texted back. It was all technically true. Walker punched something into the Cadillac’s navigation system, and I pulled out. We drove in silence, except for the occasional snap of Walker chewing his fingernails and the cheery female voice telling us to “Continue. On. Wisconsin Avenue. For Two. Point. One Miles.”
I think we were in Maryland. We pulled off the highway near a strip of box stores and into a development called Foxwood Chase. It was one of those bulldozed patches of woodlands where the contractors built so quickly there was not a tree or a bush left standing, only houses circling a retaining pond that looked like a gravel pit. I could see empty houses, and empty lots beyond them, not uncommon out in the exurbs of DC. A lot of developers had gone under, a lot of houses had been foreclosed. It gave the whole place the feel of a ghost town.
Our chirping navigator directed me into a gated driveway. Walker leaned over from the passenger seat and waved at the little video camera beside the fence. Open sesame. We pulled up to a mock villa McMansion: columns, three-story entryway, spiral shrubs, the whole nine.
A bodybuilder type—young, maybe about 280 pounds—opened the door. He had a baby face and dimples and wore a wife-beater and a white Cleveland Indians baseball cap set at a rakish angle. He gave Walker one of those bro-style handshakes where you clasp fists and pound each other’s back. He gave me the hairy eyeball, at least until Walker said, “It’s cool, Squeak, I vouch.” Then the dimples were back in full effect as Squeak walked us inside.
I guess I, like many people, carry around a lot of preconceived notions about whorehouses. I’d pictured a Victorian mansion in New Orleans, an elegant, still-beautiful older madam, a lot of lace.
But the more I thought about it, the more this made sense: a four-thousand-square-foot white box of a house, unfurnished except for black leather couches and a sixty-inch plasma TV. I’d assumed there’d be a bar to hang out at, or maybe some kind of strip club setup where I could keep my eye on Walker without doing anything that would make me hate myself too much. This was VIP style, however, and there was nowhere to hide. Reluctantly, I
“All set!” Annie yelled. Clark’s tone changed in an instant when she appeared on the front steps.
“Does that sound reasonable?” he asked me, putting on a cheery mug for Annie.
“A little overkill, actually, but I think I get the gist.”
We left him, and as my trusty Jeep trundled down the endless driveway, Annie turned to me and asked, “What were you two talking about?”
I noticed one of the pooches off in a field lying on its belly and chewing contentedly on a scarecrow’s head.
“Hunting,” I said.
“Oh, good,” she said, and put a reassuring hand on my thigh. “He can be a little protective sometimes, but I think he’s warming up to you.”
CHAPTER SIX
HOWEVER MUCH I wanted to play nice with high society, there was still a little punk in me, and a little pride. So you know what I ultimately decided at the party at Chip’s? To hell with Sir Lawrence Clark. He was a lost cause anyway. The guy had me pegged from the get-go, and I had a few ideas percolating on how to get him off my back. I gave him a big wink across the room and headed out of the party with Walker.
The only man I really owed anything to was Davies, and I owed him everything: the fresh start, the job, the house, the chance to meet Annie. I’d do whatever Davies Group asked of me. If I stepped carefully and watched myself, I could stick with Walker on his midnight monkey business without betraying Annie. It was work, after all, official duty. At least that’s what I was telling myself as Walker murmured something ominous about Tina.
Should I wait up? Annie texted me.
Late night, hon. Work stuff. So sorry. Miss ya! I texted back. It was all technically true. Walker punched something into the Cadillac’s navigation system, and I pulled out. We drove in silence, except for the occasional snap of Walker chewing his fingernails and the cheery female voice telling us to “Continue. On. Wisconsin Avenue. For Two. Point. One Miles.”
I think we were in Maryland. We pulled off the highway near a strip of box stores and into a development called Foxwood Chase. It was one of those bulldozed patches of woodlands where the contractors built so quickly there was not a tree or a bush left standing, only houses circling a retaining pond that looked like a gravel pit. I could see empty houses, and empty lots beyond them, not uncommon out in the exurbs of DC. A lot of developers had gone under, a lot of houses had been foreclosed. It gave the whole place the feel of a ghost town.
Our chirping navigator directed me into a gated driveway. Walker leaned over from the passenger seat and waved at the little video camera beside the fence. Open sesame. We pulled up to a mock villa McMansion: columns, three-story entryway, spiral shrubs, the whole nine.
A bodybuilder type—young, maybe about 280 pounds—opened the door. He had a baby face and dimples and wore a wife-beater and a white Cleveland Indians baseball cap set at a rakish angle. He gave Walker one of those bro-style handshakes where you clasp fists and pound each other’s back. He gave me the hairy eyeball, at least until Walker said, “It’s cool, Squeak, I vouch.” Then the dimples were back in full effect as Squeak walked us inside.
I guess I, like many people, carry around a lot of preconceived notions about whorehouses. I’d pictured a Victorian mansion in New Orleans, an elegant, still-beautiful older madam, a lot of lace.
But the more I thought about it, the more this made sense: a four-thousand-square-foot white box of a house, unfurnished except for black leather couches and a sixty-inch plasma TV. I’d assumed there’d be a bar to hang out at, or maybe some kind of strip club setup where I could keep my eye on Walker without doing anything that would make me hate myself too much. This was VIP style, however, and there was nowhere to hide. Reluctantly, I
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