Easy Ride. Suzanne Ruby

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      By the time she thought to thank the man, he’d disappeared into the crowd. Just as well. She had work to do.

      After dodging more easygoing cowboys, she finally located the red door.

      The no-turning-back-once-you’re-inside door.

      She positioned her purse so that the miniature camera, disguised as a zipper bauble, pointed forward.

      Moments after punching her valet number into a keypad next to the frame, the door buzzed open and the world changed from honky-tonk to urban lounge.

      The only design thread connecting the two different businesses was the cowhide rug beneath her feet, though this one was black and white. Colorless, like everything else around her. Like the stark white podium with only an iPad on top, the glossy white IKEA-inspired cabinet and the white semitransparent scrim of fabric that separated the entry from a darkened room beyond.

      An antique chandelier overhead added a touch of romance, but the bulbs were much too bright. All of a sudden she felt overexposed. And far too obvious.

      Time to lose the wig. No one would recognize her anyway. Nor would they recognize her name, since she remained eternally stuck behind the scenes at the television station. Shivering in the shadow of Seth Wainwright’s reporter-slash-celebrity ego. But this assignment had the power to change all of that.

      She deep-sixed the wig in a tall black trash can situated in the corner, then unleashed her long brunette hair from the strict confines of the elastic ponytail holder, which she slipped around her wrist.

      Before she had time to retrieve a comb from her purse, a man parted the scrim and approached.

      He looked as though he’d been interrupted in the middle of getting dressed. Or perhaps undressed. The white dress shirt had been unbuttoned to reveal his tan, smooth six-pack. That, along with the gray wool pants, black leather belt and shiny dress shoes, suggested business and pleasure mixed quite beautifully here.

      He wasn’t the man she had booked, based on the minimal facial features revealed in the portal photos. Not to mention, this one had blond, rather than borderline black, hair. Furthermore, he looked much too tame.

      If nothing else, The Deep’s website was an excellent example of male objectification at its finest.

      “You must be Kirby.”

      And just like that, she felt as if she’d been stripped naked.

      “How do you know my name? I thought anonymity was guaranteed.” In fact, she was sure of it.

      The man remained gorgeously stoic as he walked around the desk and typed something into the iPad.

      “You provided that info when you signed up. But don’t worry. I’m the only one who knows. To everyone else, you’re a number.”

      I’ve been a number before.

      “I’ll need your valet ticket,” he continued. “You’ll exit out back when you’re done, and we’ll pull your car around. We find most ladies like the extra privacy.”

      She handed him the sad shrapnel of paper. “Sorry. Turns out the ticket isn’t very good on the dance floor.”

      No response. Not even a smile. He simply turned his attention back to the iPad.

      At this angle, his profile and the depth of his concentration seemed familiar.

      “Have we met before?” she asked.

      Might as well get it out in the open now. Otherwise, her cover could be blown mid-assignment. Better to forfeit the story before it began and cover the oil-and-gas scandal instead, even though this was the story she wanted. Make that needed. On so many levels.

      “Not that I’m aware,” he said without so much as looking up. His fingers continued to glide across the screen.

      A few more moments passed, but the familiarity wouldn’t allow her to drop the subject.

      “What’s your name?” she asked.

      He glanced up from the tablet and evaluated her with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. Now those she definitely didn’t recognize, which was somewhat reassuring.

      “Fabian.”

      Yeah, right.

      While she waited for Fabian, or whoever he was, to finish his task, she imagined what moniker she would have chosen.

      The answer was easy. She’d been compared to Sandra Bullock at least a dozen times. Except, her own eyes were an ever-changing hazel instead of rich, movie-star brown. And her teeth were far from perfect, with both cuspids slightly overlapping their neighboring incisors. She’d shared that quirky trait with her mom. To correct it would mean losing her all over again.

      “First time here, I see,” Fabian said.

      “I guess that makes me a virgin. I don’t mean I’m a virgin virgin, I meant—”

      “You booked Easy Ride to pop your cherry. Excellent choice.”

      She gulped. But the knot of self-consciousness in her throat didn’t budge, and she could barely speak around it.

      “So I’m paying for...sex?”

      This story was going to be easier to wrap up than she had originally thought. She’d barely crafted a lede beyond something like “The Deep, an underground male escort service nestled within the popular country dance hall Deep in the Heart, is allegedly serving up more than longnecks and a shoulder to cry on. It is suspected as a front for prostitution.”

      “We’re not that kind of club.” He punctuated the straightforward defense with a cordial smile.

      “I was kidding. I crack stupid jokes when I’m nervous.”

      She flashed her full-on genuine crooked-tooth smile, and he immediately softened. Yet another reason to avoid orthodontics. For some reason, her smile put people at ease, which was a good thing since her mouth otherwise managed to get her into trouble.

      He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Nothing to be nervous about. Come with me. We’ll locate your friend for the evening.”

      Friend. The casual way he said it rubbed her the wrong way. A real friend couldn’t be bought. Lovers, however, were a different story. Tailor-made for an exposé. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

      Kirby followed Fabian into the main room, where fat white leather-and-chrome Le Corbusier sofas sat empty, except for one in the far, dark corner. A well-dressed woman rested her head on the bare shoulder of a younger, shirtless man, who rubbed her hand as he whispered something to her.

      Another man sat alone in one of two black Barcelona chairs, with an ostrich-skin boot propped on the matching ottoman as he sipped wine from an expensive-looking long-stem glass and pressed a cell phone to his ear.

      Instrumental lounge versions of pop country singles skimmed the surface of her awareness. It was yet another thread that loosely tied the two establishments together.

      Fabian СКАЧАТЬ