And by good, I mean bad. Nasty. The kind of stuff these guys commission because the internet ran out of imagination before they reached the end of their particular kink.
“Nah. He’s vanilla.”
A machine works through the safe combinations, using the vibrations to tell when the correct number is reached. I open it with a flourish that’s wasted on Caylon, whose eyes are always glued to a screen.
Stocks, deeds, papers to record every momentous event in this guy’s tragic little life. A roll of negatives that show him on all fours, muzzled and chained. Honestly. It’s like they can’t afford an imagination.
“Here we go.” I pull out an old phone and waggle it in the air.
That finally gets Caylon’s attention, and he whistles happily, digging into his case of party tricks until he finds a set of tiny screwdrivers. “Pass it here.”
I throw it to him, not worried if he drops it. Those early oughties phones are indestructible.
He pries off the back and hooks up some wires to bypass the long-dead battery. The screen lights up with pleasure and I let him search through, soon striking gold.
“A voicemail,” he says. “Get your record button ready.”
He plays it. An old-white-man voice talks in old-white-man language about some old-timey deal. I don’t pretend to understand because it’s not necessary.
The only person who needs to know what it means is Mark Ingot. Stefan possessing it will do the rest.
I take three different voice recordings, sending each to a variety of cloud accounts to ensure we don’t have to come back again. When we’re done, I replace everything the way I found it, even taking care to line the chair’s legs back with their old grooves.
Meanwhile, Caylon’s been busy cloning passwords and logins in case Stefan needs anything more. As much as I hate these old guys, I love how predictable they are. Hiding all their dirt in the same places.
I don’t hide mine. I display it as a badge of honour.
We exit the building the same way we came in, swapping the access card at the unmanned reception counter while staying in the blind spot of the cameras blinking red eye.
Not a single trace left to suggest anything happened. Unless someone tracks use of the swipe card, but we haven’t given them a reason to do that.
Now officially off work, Caylon and I head to one of Stefan’s clubs. Members only, and the booze is free once they let you through the door. I wave hello to the bartender, ordering a tray of shots. Tonight, I want to get wasted.
The dance floor is half-full, no surprise given it’s a weeknight, and once I down three shots I drift onto it, letting the beat find me as I wait for the drinks to have an effect. A woman with platinum blonde hair that I bet doesn’t match to her drapes (if she has any) sidles close to me. I lean into her as a slower song starts, grabbing her arse and thrusting my pelvis forward. The friction feels so good.
“You want to go out back?” she asks after the second dance.
Her hand strays down the front of my pants, cupping me as she raises an eyebrow at the question. She’s drunker than me, older than me, hornier than me. It would feel so good to sink into her warm wetness, knowing I can finish and go without anyone raising a scene. No pleas to stay, to shower her with affection.
No pouting. No strings. No commitment.
I plunge my hands into her fake, fake hair and cover her mouth with mine. Her tongue thrusts forward, teasing mine into following. She tastes of cigarettes and chewing gum, vodka and a promise.
Then I pull back, scanning the floor for Caylon. He’s standing with a small group of men near the entrance, showing them something to do with his phone. Damn geek.
The blonde’s hand rubs harder, drawing my attention back to her, but the impulse to fuck her in a back room fades along with my erection. Maybe if she was a few drinks farther in, less grabby, it’d be worth my time, but I can already feel the dissatisfaction that will follow—what I’m left with when others get an afterglow.
I pull back, shake my head, “Not this time,” and walk back to my table to down another shot. The alcohol is relaxing my body, but revving up my mind.
Scenes from a night I don’t want to remember keep flashing. On and off. A strobe of blood and gore that I can’t turn off.
I pull my phone out, reading the string of increasingly hysterical texts from Em. She’s probably waiting in bed, hoping there’s still time for me to join her. She’ll be wearing those pink, see-through undies I like with the matching bra. The ones that hide nothing. Especially not the sparkly plug in her arse.
Speaking of phones, I have one for Lilac. She’ll need it for her next assignment, but it also makes a pretty nice gift; I try to imagine how she’ll react when I hand it to her.
Then I think of how her expression will change when I tell her what it’s for and my cock hardens again. Shots or no shots.
My eyes move to Caylon again and I walk towards him before my brain’s entirely caught up to the idea. “Hey,” I say, waiting for the others to fall away so I can talk to him in private. “Can you help me with something?”
