Behind Your Back (3 page)

Once we talk about the money, I move into small talk. The kind of thing we’d chat about on a golf course, or over drinks. I ask him about his family, his wife and finally, his daughter. Nothing too probing, lest I set off any alarms in his mind.

He doesn’t speak much of his daughter, but the second he says her name, his entire demeanor changes. She’s his only child, and from the way the lines around his eyes soften when he speaks of her, she is dear to him.

Perfect. Just what I need. Using her to break him will make this all the sweeter in the end.

Three

“W
hy do you always get to be the one that gets the pussy?” Baz asks at our meeting that week.

“Need I remind you how you nearly fucked us to hell with that damn secretary? And the girl before that? And the one before that?” Baz has a history of pissing off the opposite sex. It’s a wonder one of them haven’t put a bullet between his eyes.

Baz’s face goes a little red, but it might be because of the beer.

“You have no game, fucker,” Cash says, laughing. Baz chucks an empty bottle at him, but Cash catches it easily.

“Don’t throw shit in my house!” he bellows. I watch Baz, waiting to see if I need to break it up before things escalate, but he just shuts his mouth and sits back on the couch.

“Fuck you,” he mutters in Cash’s direction. I decide to get things back on track.

“As I was saying, it’s our classic plan.” My proclamation is met with cheers and raised bottles.

“I wish it was me,” Track says in a wistful voice. “You sure Mr. B isn’t of the gay persuasion?” We’d done research and hadn’t found any hint of gay activity in his life. In addition, I’d watched him as he talked about his wife and there was genuine affection there.

I shake my head.

“Don’t think so, but I’ll do a little more research, just to make sure,” I say and Track rubs his hands together.

We finish talking about business and then Row tries to pitch his idea of starting a garage that doubles as a chop shop. He and Hardy had worked in one before, which is how I’d found them. Not what I want to get into. At least not anymore.

I entertain their ideas, and then put it to a vote. I can’t shut the idea down by myself. I need a majority. The only one who goes for it is Row. He glares at his brother.

“What the fuck?”

Hardy just calmly sips his beer.

“It’s not the right time now. There are two other shops within a ten-mile radius and they have a combined value of about four million.” Hardy lists some more numbers. I would have been surprised if I hadn’t seen him do something like this before. I’m damn glad he’s on my team. He’s worth his weight in pure cocaine.

Row is pissed, but it doesn’t last long. Hardy has a point, which is why he wins nearly every argument he’s ever had.

“So what’s your plan with the daughter?” Cash asks. We have different techniques for a female mark, depending on what kind of girl she is. I have a number of tools at my disposal, including fancy cars, tons of Tiffany jewelry, and bottles of thousand dollar champagne. Money is an aphrodisiac to a lot of women, but I have the feeling Miss Saige Beaumont will be a bit of a challenge, which makes me smile to myself. I fucking love a challenge, and a redheaded one at that.

“I think I’ll show up at one of her events. Wear the Brioni. Be mysterious. Give her just a taste, but leave her wanting more.” Sometimes it’s shockingly easy, and somewhat boring. I hope she’ll at least give me a little resistance before I dominate her.

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.

“M
r. 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.

M
y 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.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been let in. Now I get invitations all the time, and file them away. Once you’re in, you’re in. I give my (fake) name to the fellow at the door who’s part bouncer, part list checker. He just nods and a girl in a skintight gold dress offers me a glass of champagne. Damn, drinks at the door. If there is one thing they take seriously, it’s booze. Always flowing.

I accept a glass from her and head into the foyer. Since it’s nearly summer the doors and windows have been thrown open and sweet breezes drift in from the gardens on either side of the house.

My eyes scan the room, noting the dripping chandeliers brought in from Italy, the paintings on the walls, the Tiffany lamps and the custom marble floors. And then there are the people. I recognize many of the faces. This is the one percent, and it’s a relatively small club. Fortunately, none of my past conquests are here. I’d made sure of that. I run into them occasionally, but I have their hands tied behind their backs, so there’s nothing they can do to me. Not that they haven’t tried. They’re good, but my team is better.