Behind Your Back - Cameron Chelsea M. (читать книги полностью без сокращений бесплатно .txt) 📗

Another image of her flashes through my head, of her lying against silky black sheets, her arms tied above her head. I push the image aside as the guys start giving me pointers, even though I’ve done this before. We all have, except for Hardy. Either he’s taken a chastity vow, he isn’t into women, or he doesn’t like to mix business and pleasure. I’ve thought about asking him, but he won’t give me a straight answer anyway. What he does on his own time is his fucking business. Literally.

“She’s going to be at the Hudson Gala this weekend,” Cash says, looking up from the glow of his laptop. Perfect timing. I rub my face, thinking it’s time to get another shave. One of the indulgences I allow myself is the occasional professional shave. I’ll have to get one before the gala so I look perfect.

“Need a wingman?” Cash says and Baz’s eyes light up. Sometimes we work in teams, in case we aren’t sure what the girl might go for. Gotta give her a choice, right?

“No, I think I’ve got this. If I have any problems, then I’ll let you know,” I say, my voice sounding a little possessive. I shake my head to myself. This isn’t any different than any other time. I’ve done this so much I could do it with both my eyes closed. A routine, like brushing your teeth. Simple. Get in, get the money, get out.

I endure some trash talk from the guys and then we all head back to our separate residences.

“Go get her,” Cash says, clapping me on the shoulder. “And if you can’t get it up, call me.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say and he shuts the door in my face.

“Mr. Brand, it’s nice to see you again,” Ken, my barber, says with a smile as he whips the cape around my shoulders and tilts my chair back. He’s an older man, but has one of those faces where he could be fifty, or he could be eighty. I’ve never asked his age. I like him because he doesn’t ask too many personal questions and still gives me a damn good shave.

“How’s business?” he says.

“Booming,” I say and he nods as he swirls the brush over my face to coat it with the shaving cream.

“You got yourself a woman yet?” I laugh good-naturedly.

“Several,” I say and wink at him. He purses his lips and shakes his head.

“Every man needs a good woman. You need yourself a good woman, Mr. Brand.” I close my eyes as he starts scraping the hair from my face with the straight razor. The sound lulls me, and I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks. Funny how having a sharp blade running across your face can do that to you. Or maybe it’s Ken’s demeanor.

I make a non-committal sound and keep my face still. Not a good idea to move your face around when getting shaved.

He doesn’t ask me more questions and instead hums along with the Frank Sinatra track that plays from hidden speakers in the shop. It’s quiet today, the shop relatively empty of customers. Ken finishes me with a hot towel and a bit of aftershave. He slaps my cheeks and then takes the cape off.

“You’re done.”

“Thank you,” I say, handing him a hundred. He takes it and bows.

“No, thank you, Mr. Brand. You come and see me again soon,” hey says. I reply that I will and head out of the shop.

My suit is still in the bag from drycleaners. I had it cleaned a few weeks ago, and it’s time to bring it out again. The rest of our group all has custom suits in their arsenal as well. One of the perks of high-class crime. Pricey toys and pricey suits. The suit is custom-made and fits me like my own skin. I’m not vain by any means, but I know I look good in it. Track said he’d fuck me while I was wearing it, so that has to mean something.

I put my suit on, using the cracked mirror in my bathroom to make sure there aren’t any loose threads before slotting in my cufflinks. They aren’t easy to do by yourself, but I’d learned. Like anything, practice makes perfect.

I double check to make sure none of my tattoos are showing and do a once-over on my dark hair. I’ve gelled it back, but not so much that it looks like a helmet. I want it to look like a woman has recently been running her fingers through it.

My phone buzzes and I know my ride is here. Cash is taking me to a swanky hotel, where the car that will be driving me to the event will pick me up. It would set off too many red flags if I had gotten picked up at my apartment. Not to mention, it would have linked my address with me.

Cash whistles as I get in the front seat.

“You ready, Mr. Brand?” he says, using my current alias.

“Yes,” I say, tugging on my sleeves.

“Are you nervous?” Cash asks as he pulls his car away from my apartment. I still my hands and give him a look.

“No. Why would I be? I’ve done this hundreds of times.” Cash just keeps glancing at me, so I turn on the radio. I have to fight the urge to put my hands on my ears to make it stop. Cash turns down the volume.

“What the fuck is that shit?” I quickly change the station and get static. At least that’s better than the initial auditory assault.

“Music, you asshole. You just don’t know good stuff when you hear it,” he says.

“No, that was not music. That was noise and autotuning.” I change the station again and “Smooth” by Santana comes through the speakers. Thank GOD.

“This is music, Cash.” He opens his mouth to argue, but decides not to. We’ve had this same fight since the day we met five years ago. Neither of us is going to change our minds anytime soon.

Cash gripes about my music the rest of the way to the hotel, but I refuse to listen to his crap.

“I’m wearing the suit. So I get to have the say on musical selections,” I say. He just keeps muttering under his breath. I’ll be really glad to get into the other car because the driver won’t talk to me.

“Go get her,” he says as he drops me off near the hotel. He pats my shoulder, which nearly knocks it out of the socket. Cash sometimes doesn’t know his own strength.

“That’s the plan,” I say. “I’ll call you if anything goes south.” He gives me a little salute.

“Aye, aye Captain!” I just shake my head at him and shut the car door. He’ll be waiting near the event as the getaway driver, just in case. I also have Hardy on call. For a bunch of assholes who don’t like to answer to anyone, the guys work really well together.

Five minutes after I enter the hotel lobby, I get a text message letting me know my car’s here. I check my hair one more time in a mirror above one of the lavish gold tables in the lobby before I head out to the car. Sleek and black, it shines in the moonlight and has an engine that purrs like a panther.

“Good evening, Mr. Brand,” the driver says, holding the door open for me.

“Thank you,” I say, and slide in. Sometimes I enjoy this part of the job. The suits, the champagne, the glitter of it all. But it isn’t real. It’s all an illusion. A trick. Magic. With enough money, you can make someone see whatever you want them to see. Abracadabra.

The drive to the event is short, so I only get to enjoy the comfort of the leather seats in the car for a moment. The event is being held at the home of Bart Hudson, one of the most influential (and wealthy) business tycoons around. In addition to his house just outside the city, he has residences in Dubai, Ibiza, L.A. and numerous other places.

I’ve been here once before at another event, but only to do recon. The house is more of a mansion, and designed with Versailles in mind. Lots of stonework and statues and opulence. It used to make me sick, but I’ve gotten used to it. Riding in a fancy car is one thing. But having ten homes when you need only one is something else.

I arrive late on purpose to avoid the photographers that camp out to get snaps of the various politicians, heirs and heiresses, and glitterati attracted by this kind of thing.