2. Beau

Chapter two

Beau

B eau Taves really is my name. And this woman truly does have a pet crawfish in a giant tank in her kitchen. It takes up at least half the counter.

The house is very farmhouse . It’s probably a nineteen-fifties building, but it could be earlier. Unless someone painted it before they sold it, it was this woman who did the work. She’d gotten the yard mowed immaculately, golf-course-green style. The farmhouse glowed when I pulled up, proudly showing off its white paint. Not a single chip or peeling patch could be spotted. But the roof shingles didn’t look new, and they were broken and falling apart in spots. The barn and shop were dead giveaways as to why this woman does what she does, inviting strangers to share her bed.

She thumps a full mug of steaming hot, smelly chai tea down on one side of a round oak table that has good grain. Real antique grain. She even has matching chairs with black upholstered squares in the middle of the oak frames. But the inside of the house isn’t as fresh as the outside, and it’s not clean.

If I’m one thing, it’s a stickler for neatness.

Alright, the house is clean, but it’s definitely not neat. There’s clutter everywhere, which immediately makes my throat close up. Most people would call it homey. I call it a near abomination. But it doesn’t matter what I feel about the house. I’m here for the long haul.

I’m pretty sure the white and black tiled floor here in her kitchen is original to nineteen ninety, not the original era of the house. It has that look that screams out niche nineties when everyone was doing tile work. The white laminate countertops look like they’d be from the same era. The room is tiny, and around the corner, I can see the living room, which has an antique floral sectional that curves around with wooden spots for end tables in the middle of it. She has a gas stove in here, a pot rack above that, a tidy row of white cupboards, and spotless white sheer curtains at the window beside the sink. There’s another window beside the table with a matching set of curtains. The walls aren’t painted. Instead, they’re wallpapered in the most yellow floral country kitchen color that ever existed.

“Alright, Mr. Contract.” She pulls out a chair and sits down. Then, she stares into her tea instead of at me. “What are you suggesting?”

She doesn’t want to know what I’d like to suggest. Because I’d like to tell her that the sight of her in person has startlingly awakened something inside me that I didn’t think would ever come back to life. That sounds very dramatic, and I guess it is. Or I could just say I’m turned on, and I never get turned on. It’s not very professional, and it’s certainly not helpful to have wild emotions of any kind, so I tend to shut them down.

I’d also like to tell her that I’m highly observant, but she doesn’t need to know that. It might freak her out. I gather information like people collect objects. It’s important, but another thing she doesn’t need to know.

“You’re super creepy when you zone out like that, you know?” she commented.

“I’m sorry.” I know I don’t look sorry, which is fine. On the surface, this isn’t about pretending to be something I’m not, although that’s, of course, what I’m doing. This is about offering her a deal she can’t refuse because I need a legit in. If it makes me seem like a creepy bastard, I can live with that. This isn’t the real me. The real me is a guy who doesn’t want anything or anyone.

The idea is that I’m the typical rich man who is indeed lonely and coming around to the idea that money can’t buy everything. She pegged me correctly, and I’ll let her roll with it.

“So, what are you offering?” she asks, her soft blue eyes narrowing directly. I like that, despite her small size and adorable appearance, she has the balls to stand up to me and then some. She wouldn’t and won’t let me get away with anything. And she’s made zero apologies for who she is and what she wants.

It’s my job to find out if she should be offering up apologies or if the world has given her a really shit hand of cards.

“A series of nights,” I answer.

“Nope.” She shakes her head and flies out of the chair. “That’s not an option. I don’t allow do-overs or repeat clients. It’s right on my profile. I’m more of a one-hit wonder.”

“I didn’t know you made music.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a metaphor, dude.”

“Do not call me dude.”

“Alright, well, just no then.”

I clear my throat. It sounds like a cat trying to cough up a hairball, but that can’t be helped. At my last job, I inhaled a bit of smoke, and ever since then, things have been raspy. But I’m fine. I’ve seen the best doctors, and they told me to stop putting myself in harm’s way, which is not going to happen. Anyway, I’ll probably recover in a few weeks. End of story.

This woman is going to be a delicious challenge, and if there’s anything that shouldn’t be dangled in front of me, it’s that. I can’t help the fact that there’s something inside me that has to rise to the occasion every single time. When you become as rich as I am, the unattainable is extremely thrilling. That might be fucked up, but it’s also the truth. Denial has become utterly enchanting. On top of all that, a job well done is something that’s always going to be the goal I strive for, no matter how rich I am.

“Five thousand for tonight. Ten thousand for a night a week from now. Twenty thousand for a night a week from then and forty thousand for the last night,” I state.

Crossing my arms, I watch her face carefully. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who can be bought by throwing around large, wild numbers, but in a month, she’ll make more cash than she could in a year working at a regular job. I know it has to be tempting. It’s not a test. I think it’s a fair offer. I want to make this happen. I need to make this happen. Everything else depends on my being here and figuring this woman out.

“Cash, so it’s tax-free and untraceable,” I add to sweeten the deal.

“Wow.” She bats her eyelashes dramatically. “You sure know how to charm a girl. Suggesting tax evasion makes me hot. Not . I can pay my taxes like anyone else.”

“Still cash.”

“How would you even transport that kind of money? I’d need a bill counter. No. Wire it.”

My spine finally makes contact with the back of the chair. “Are you not saying no then?”

She looks like she wants to throttle me. But she turns her face instead, and I swear she exchanges a look with her crawfish. Truly. One of those long-suffering— do you see what I have to put up with?— kinds of looks.

“I’m saying yes. Double negatives don’t make any sense,” she replies.

“But you’re the one-off wonder.”

“It’s also a lot of money. You put it out there to make it impossible to refuse, so I’m not going to refuse.”

Holding back a smirk, I tell her, “You could bargain for more.”

“Why would I do that when it’s already more than I need?”

I suck in a breath that is purely refreshing. It doesn’t rattle in my lungs for a change. I’m hoping to get her scent, but instead, I suck in the cinnamon steam from the chai nas- tea in front of me on the table and nearly gag. “I don’t know. Because greed is a thing for most people?”

“Not for me.” Her hands flex at her sides, and she wipes them on her dress.

She’s not like any woman I’ve ever met. For starters, that dress looks like it came from circa eighteen eighty-four or nineteen seventies does circa eighteen eighty-four. It looks new, or maybe it’s been kept in impeccable condition. The light blue dress with the little flowers scattered all over it covers every inch of her body except her bare arms, and it goes all the way down to her ankles. It’s not fitted at the bust, though it’s not loose either. It hugs her body while being loose, and the little lace at the neckline somehow looks delicate on her without screaming granny. She has a white scrunchy at her wrist, and her blonde hair is free to hang down her back and move whenever she moves like it needs to be thrown down a tower for an errant and very likely incredibly horny prince to climb.

No, she’s not like other women.

For one, she does this—hot bedding.

Two, she was indeed expecting a client today, but she didn’t go out of her way to be fancy. She didn’t put on makeup or wear designer clothes, and she didn’t go for tight or skimpy. She offered tea instead of busting out wine or shots. Granted, it’s the middle of the afternoon, but everything about her seems homey and real.

That’s her grab.

She gives these men who have everything the one thing they’re missing.

A sense of real, honest-to-goodness home . Just messy enough but also not a sty. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla, the strange pet, the middle of nowhere, sweet country girl innocence.

She twirls a finger in the air at me. “Go on. Write it up then.” She whirls around and spreads her hands at the sink, staring out the window. Her posture is purposely too relaxed, but I easily note the tension in her straight-as hell-spine. I don’t lower my eyes and take in her ass because I have more control than a horny teenager. I might be here because someone asked me for a favor, but that isn’t about anything physical, either. Nothing in my life for the past decade and then some has been about feelings or cravings, and that’s not going to change.

It doesn’t even appear that she believes my lie about messing up my age, but I’m still here, and I’m still about to write up this contract. The world might be random, but I’m here for a reason. The world is also seriously unjust. Everyone knows that. That’s why people want to believe in magic so badly. It’s why they cling to movies, books, and fantasies. They want to live out a life they’re not currently having to endure.

This might be one injustice I can correct.

That I will correct if she’s guilty.

She might be beautiful, but it won’t save her from doing jail time.

She stands at the counter with her arms crossed, giving the crawfish occasional looks like they’re having a whole conversation. I arrived at four, and we’ve been talking for half an hour already. How many hours between now and bedtime? Do all her clients arrive this early? If yes, what the heck does she do with them?

It’s eerie how she seems to be able to pick my thoughts from my brain, but it’s okay. Let her think I’m lonely and unfulfilled. If she looked me up online, that’s exactly what she’d find. I made a lot of money and got bored and needed a job. I ended up starting my own agency so I could work there. On top of a few other projects. Okay, many other projects and investments. I’m still working, even though I don’t need to. If you don’t have something to do, you get old, and you lose your mind from boredom. It’s as simple as that. I’ve never been an arts and crafts guy or a hobby guy. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to settle down and have a family. I needed to be busy.

“After we’re done with the contract, I have to go out and feed the barn cats. You can come with me if you want. If not, you can sit on the porch. I have cameras there, and I’d appreciate you staying on them if that’s agreeable. I can show you anything out here that you’d like. I also have cameras all over the yard and in the building. They’re all hooked together, so it’s easy for me to switch between them.”

“You don’t have any in here?” I’ve already seen the one hiding in the top right corner behind a potted plant in an ancient macramé holder.

“I do. All over the house, actually,” she says.

“But you’d like me to sit on the porch.”

She doesn’t blush or get flustered. “Yes, please. I’d prefer that.”

Because she wants to guard her privacy or her secrets? There is actually a difference. “I can do that.”

Then, she says, “There are trails on my land. I own fifty acres. The gravel roads are also nice for a walk. Quiet.”

I arch my brow. “So, in addition to the sleeping part, you also provide companionship.”

“Most of my clients arrive in the afternoon. It makes things less awkward than just giving a name and a code word, securing payment, and falling into bed. Who could sleep like that?”

“Do people seriously even fall asleep?” I ask.

“Ahh. A first timer.”

“I think that’s already been established.”

“Has it?”

One light brow wriggles up on her perfect forehead. She has the kind of face where all of it smiles when her lips do. She’s young, but she appears to be in possession of an old soul.

Appearances are often deceiving, and she’s done a lot of it in the past. She won’t get by me.

She trails her hand in front of the tank, giving me her back again, and the crawfish scoots around like he’s chasing it. “I taught him that. He follows my fingers. He’s super happy in there, I hope, but I’m afraid he gets bored no matter how much enrichment I put in.”

The crawfish has a good tank with a whole bunch of rocks, sand, and all sorts of plants that look real. There’s also a huge castle and rocky arch, and then a sunken ship at the very far end.

“I think he’s probably happy that he’s not being eaten,” I point out.

“Yes. I suppose unless I make the drive, I can’t return him to the river. And if I did, what then? I’d worry endlessly that he would be caught and eaten after all my love. Maybe one day. Maybe if he ever starts not being okay in here. He’s a wild animal, I know that. It’s just…”

She appears genuinely fond of this crawfish, although it could just be for the sake of making people believe she has a good heart. Can someone do terrible things to other people and still like animals? Probably. People are complex.

I once took a job guarding the family of a man who manufactured ammunition. He was the client. He was paying our agency to protect his family against potential threats brought on by working in an unsavory industry. The guy should have been a terrible human being, and maybe he was, but he loved his family. Regardless, it’s still a job I wish I hadn’t taken. I worked the job for four months, and then the family relocated overseas, so our services were no longer required. I don’t have much of a heart left, but I did have some serious qualms about that job. I justified it by the fact that his wife and their two young children were innocent.

So…yes. That’s complexity.

I’ve met very few truly kind people, and I was raised by two of them. They aren’t on this earth any longer, and thinking about them makes my stomach swoop down and up in a big, nauseous swell, so I shut that down.

“I sometimes read to my clients.” A slight hitch in her voice tells me she noticed how I just about spilled my emotional cookies all over the table. She thinks I’m uncomfortable. “I could do that if you like. I have a small library in the other room. I make dresses—that’s my real job. Some of them like to watch me sew.”

“Have you ever had a female customer?”

That question doesn’t surprise her. “I’m not opposed. This isn’t sexual, so it doesn’t matter if my clients are male or female. I shouldn’t disclose more than that, though. I like to keep things confidential.”

I nod and say, “I understand.”

“Do you want cookies and milk while you write the contract? I imagine it’s going to take some time.”

I slide my phone out of my suit jacket pocket. “Nope. I have a good program here. Autofill will make it easy, and we can both sign it electronically.” Also, cookies and milk? Am I five?

She’s back to staring me down. I don’t get unnerved, but I’m also not used to people being able to meet my eyes. I have this thing where my face is frightening, or so I’ve been told. Most people just think that because of what I do for a living. And because I’m stoney and stoic. Zero emotion. That’s what gets the job done.

I do notice that her eyes are beautiful. Far more lovely in person. They’re blue, like the sky out there, and different from the sky in the city. A deeper shade, a different tone. Free. Endless. It’s the kind of sky one could think about instead of just existing under and never noticing it’s there.

Her eyes are not the same blue as mine. Hers are very much alive, and if you guessed that mine are not, you have great powers of deduction.

“I can still get you some cookies. They’re homemade. Chocolate chip and oatmeal.”

“My favorite,” I respond.

“Are they?” she asks with some surprise.

“No. I don’t eat cookies.”

“Right,” she says, laughing softly. “Because you’re a lean, mean, scary-ass machine.”

Shit. My lips are doing something that might be considered a smile. Not that it’s illegal to smile, but…I don’t get a lot of sass. I don’t often get people noticing that I’m a human being and not a robot. I’m not the kind who invites smiles and invitations of flirtation, no matter how moneyed I might look.

I open the contract app, which is dry, straight up, and boring. What I need to do is focus on that.

She goes to the pantry on the far side of the kitchen and pulls it open. Then, she takes out a cookie that looks and smells amazing, puts it between her teeth, and slides the bag shut before putting it back and closing the door.

“Mmmm,” she sighs. “Good thing I’m not a lean, mean machine. I’m okay with being just me.”

She most definitely is. She’s the most salt-of-the-earth, honest-to-goodness, okay-with-herself woman I’ve ever met.

It has to be fake. Knowing what I know about her, it doesn’t compute. I’m no engineer, and I certainly don’t possess an engineering brain, but all this has to be for show.

“Do you have a name?” I grunt, forcing myself not to look up. It’s easier to focus on the phone when my face is doing out-of-control things that may or may not be silly and may or may not be giveaways to the feelings I probably don’t have. Probably .

“Yeah, do you?”

“It’s Beau,” I say.

“That’s fake.”

“I need your real name for the contract. And you’ll see that my real name is indeed Beau. I’ll show you my ID so you know the contract is legit. I need to see your driver’s license too, to put the number in as proof of identity.”

She snorts at me from around the cookie. “Goodness. This is a very formal contract.”

“It’s a lot of money. I want to make sure we’re both protected. There will be a clause against cancellation so that we both hold up our end of the deal. If I should cancel, I’ll pay out the contract regardless. And if you should cancel, you’ll pay me three thousand dollars per missed night.”

She still has a full cookie stuffed halfway in her mouth, holding it there with her teeth instead of her hands, and she should look silly when her eyes cross. But no, she doesn’t look silly. Rather, she looks adorable.

Good fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking things like that. She’s not adorable. There’s a ninety-nine percent chance this woman is a criminal.

I continue, “Formal. Legal. You haven’t signed it yet. You can still kick me out and—”

“Finish it.” She waves me off, finally taking the cookie in her hand. It looks downright mouthwatering . I don’t cave on things like cookies or adorable women with pet crawfish, but I want to. I want to ask her for a damn cookie. Badly.

I don’t.

I finish the contract instead.

She leaves for a minute and comes back with a beat-up brown leather bag. It looks handmade. The wear only increases the aesthetic.

When she hands over her license, I read her name. Ignacia Sutherby. Ignacia. That would be beautiful if it were real.

It’s not.

I have enough training to spot a fake ID when I see one. I knew she’d have one. She didn’t just run from her old life and go into hiding with her real name. She was smarter than that. She was smart enough to commit fraud so many times that she could have bugged out somewhere a hell of a lot nicer than here. Why steal money just to live an impoverished-looking life in the country?

Maybe she knew she was being investigated. Maybe she’s just lying low, gathering as much money as she can in order to leave and live the high-end lifestyle she obviously craves.

Part of me grudgingly respects her for the effort she’s put into this. She’s still designing or at least sewing, and she still looks like she’s thriving instead of just surviving. Even if this is a new way to shake people down for money, she’s giving those men something for it. She’s already put a burr in my chest, and that space has remained burr free up until this minute.

It doesn’t bode well for my already surly state. I took this job, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it, and now that feeling has been absolutely confirmed.