“Same account,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than I remember. “Same amount.”
I nod and pull out the deposit slip, my hands still shaky from everything—the hangover, Jasper’s call, this whole nightmare of a morning. “Of course, Mr…?”
I pause, pen hovering over the paper, waiting for today’s fake name.
“Volkov,” he says after a long pause. “V-O-L-K-O-V.”
That’s a new one. Usually, his fake names are boring and American. This one sounds… foreign. Russian, maybe?
I write it down and open the briefcase. Same neat stacks of hundreds, same perfect organization. $47,832.19, just like always. But something feels different today. His energy is off, like he’s wound too tight.
I start counting, muscle memory taking over while my brain tries to process everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. The bills feel crisp and new, like they always do, but there’s something about the way he’s watching me count that makes my skin crawl.
I pause for half a second.
Where does this kind of money even come from?
I’ve never asked—not officially, anyway. It’s not my job to ask. I just record it, deposit it, keep my mouth shut, and my hands clean. But still… forty-seven thousand dollars in cash? On a Tuesday? Every month?
My stomach twists.
If I had this kind of money, I could pay off Grandma’s medical debt. I could replace the cracked window in her kitchen. Maybe even take her to that beach town she always talks about but never dares to plan for. I wouldn’t be splitting my grocery bill across two credit cards or pretending my car’s “check engine” light is just decorative.
I glance up at him.
Same black coat. Same unreadable expression. Same presence that makes every cell in my body straighten like it’s been called to attention.
No one wanted to serve him when he first came in a few months ago. Not with the way he looked—like trouble dressed in designer wool. Too intense. Too silent. The kind of man who made your instincts whisper,Danger.So, of course, it became my job. The unofficial “difficult client whisperer.” The Mary Special.
And after that first visit, he only ever came to me.
Usually, he just stands there like a statue.
Today, he’s tapping his fingers on my desk, checking his watch, glancing toward the security cameras.
“Everything okay?” I ask without thinking, then immediately regret it. We don’t do small talk. We’ve never done small talk.
He goes completely still, those hidden eyes locked on my face.
“Just process the deposit,” he says, and there’s something sharp in his voice that wasn’t there before.
5
Anton
Itry to ignore the racket: moans, headboard, drywall… all of it.
“Fuck me! Fuck me harder!” The woman’s voice cuts through the thin motel walls, followed by the rhythmic thudding of a headboard against the wall. Room 237. Second time last night. Different woman, same pathetic married businessman getting his rocks off while his wife thinks he’s at a conference.
The sound triggers something unwanted. A memory of softer moans. Real ones. The way she breathed against my neck when her hand found my cock through my jeans.
Stop thinking about her.
“Nngh… Oh, baby… hrrgh…” He’s gasping, struggling to keep up, and I can practically hear his lungs begging for mercy.
It’s been sixteen hours and fourteen minutes.
Since she kissed me like she meant it—drunk and wild, but honest. No performance. No fake screaming. Just pure want.
