“Your best strategy is always to befriend the mistress,” Grace said over and over. “Find out what she likes and where she spends her time. Find a way to connect with her. Get her to trust you and confide in you. Then convince her to end the affair.”
“But what if it’s not that easy?”
“Then we have other strategies. We can have the mistress transferred to another job, preferably out of state. We can pay her off. We can threaten to expose the affair publicly, although that can be damaging to the wife and children. Discretion is paramount,” she finished, “no matter how we do it.”
On Thursday Grace brought in her personal stylist, who revamped my wardrobe from comfortable bartender to casual girl-next-door who came from a shitload of money.
“You want to look like you can identify with anyone. That you’re at ease around old money but you know what it’s like to struggle. You’ll cross paths with women from all kinds of backgrounds. You want everyone to instantly trust you.” She brushed a piece of lint from my new cashmere sweater and stood back, looking at my strategically ripped jeans, Gucci boots and gold hoop earrings. “Yes,” she finally said. “That’ll do.” She handed me a black credit card. “This is for your expenses. Whatever you need for the job, you purchase. Clothes, drinks at happy hour, membership to a gym...anything.”
“Wow.” The card felt hot in my hand, and I prayed I wouldn’t lose it the first week. “Thanks.”
She handed me a stack of documents to sign, nondisclosure agreements and confidentiality statements and a direct deposit form to my bank account. The pen was slippery in my hand, and twice I almost dropped it.
Please don’t let me screw this up.
Finally, papers collected and my training complete, Grace clapped her hands and gave me the only smile I’d seen all week. “I think you’re ready, Victoria. I’ll send you intel this weekend on your first assignment.”
And like that, she was gone. I stood in the penthouse, looking out over the Potomac River with a knot in my stomach. I was doing this. I was really doing this.
Or I was going to fuck it up entirely. I guessed next week’s assignment would tell.
“Hey!”Charlie looked up with a grin when I walked into the bar Friday afternoon. “How’s the mistress destroyer business?”
I tied my apron around my waist, relishing in my no-name jeans, bar t-shirt and sneakers. “I’m a dispeller, not a destroyer.”
He grinned. “Same thing.”
I flexed one arm in a weak attempt to make a muscle. “Maybe I’m the mistress terminator? Or mistress eradicator?” I inspected my tiny biceps. Not much to see there. “I can’t say much about the business yet, but the training kicked my ass.”
“Really?” He was washing glasses, soaping and rinsing and hanging them to dry in a practiced motion we’d both done a hundred times.
I filled him in, glossing over the details of the affairs I’d read about. Powerful senators and twenty-year-olds from the Midwest. Pregnant wives who found a second, secret cell phone. Payoffs, arranged abortions...the list went on and on.
“Sounds kind of shitty,” Charlie said. “I mean, you’re gonna be around people who are cheating all day, every day.”
“Yeah.” I’d thought a lot about that this week. Still, those cheaters were about to make me a lot of money, so I just needed to keep my eyes on the prize. It was a job, nothing more. If I hated it, I’d work just long enough to pay off my student loans and put a little into savings. Then I’d find myself a real job. Right now I was just glad for the familiar routine of tending bar.
I scanned the crowd. Fridays at Tunes & ‘Tudes were karaoke night, which meant the bar would fill up early and stay that way until after midnight. The serious crooners always showed up before seven to claim their tables and put in their song requests. I ordered chicken fingers and a small salad, the latter to appease Charlie, and watched the regulars arrive. We’d privately nicknamed some of them, and I ticked them off inside my head as they showed up. There was Sandal Man, Farrah Fawcett 2.0, Country Boy, and –
Whoa.
Hang on.
Newbie alert.
I almost dropped the beer I was pouring. I’d never seen this guy in Tunes & ‘Tudes before. He stood a few inches over six feet and had arms like small tree trunks. A tightly trimmed beard, black eyes, black cowboy boots, a shaved head, and an expression that looked like he either wanted to blow up the place or grab the karaoke mic and take control. He wore a long-sleeved black t-shirt and jeans. And every muscle in his body rippled.
As he walked toward the bar, the crowd parted and my breath hitched.Oh, good Lord. Oh, sweet baby Jesus.Now I wished I’d worn something fancier than jeans and a T-shirt. Hell, I wished I’d worn makeup, spent ten minutes making that smoky eye that Grace’s stylist had taught me.
The stranger walked up to the bar and placed both giant hands on the back of a stool. “Victoria Dare?” His voice was a growl.
I froze. I didn’t know this man. I one hundred percent would’ve remembered meeting him.
“Yes?” My voice was a squeak.
“I’m Rafael Ramirez. Rafe for short. Grace hired me.” He flashed an ID.
It took me a long few seconds to put the pieces together, mostly because I was trying not to stare at his pecs. Or his square jaw. Only at the mention of Grace’s name did I finally get it.
