Mischief in Miami (Great Exploitations #1)(11)
Author: Nicole Williams

“Please,” I said, giving him another Get a move on wave.

After he’d poured a shot from one of those giant-sized jugs, he dropped it in front of me. I slid a twenty out of my purse and gave it to him. “Thanks for the stellar service.”

He chuckled again, leaned into the counter, and looked like he was about to say something when my phone went off. I’d already destroyed the Client and Target phones, so only one person could be calling me.

I moved the phone to my ear and gave the bartender an expectant look. I waited until he’d moved on to another single girl on the opposite end of the bar before answering.

“No need for an actual verbal congratulations,” I said, wrapping my hand around the shot glass. “Your standard G reply says it all.” I’d texted G and Mrs. Silva the V for victory message a little earlier. Other than her usual G reply to confirm she’d received my text, I never heard from her. I never heard from her unless . . .

“You’ve got another Errand for me,” I stated, about to grimace before catching myself. “Need I remind you I just finished a big, fat Eight about thirty minutes ago? I think that’s earned me a day or, Lord have mercy, a weekend reprieve.” I was pressing my luck with G, but I was exhausted. Physically and mentally. We Eves generally got a few weeks off between each Errand for a reason. We needed time to rest and clear our heads before we walked into another one. After Mr. Silva’s particular breed of swine, I needed a long reprieve.

“This isn’t just another Errand.” G’s voice sounded almost . . . excited. G did excitement about as often as I did. Every other year. We penciled it into our calendars and everything. “This is the Errand.”

My heart stopped. “You convinced my spa girl to let us help?” If G was calling to tell me that, I was getting the Errand.

“Convinced? She didn’t need any convincing after I explained how we worked.”

“I’m getting the Errand?” I felt refreshed and ready to go at the very thought of landing that one. The payout would bolster my bank account enough so that, if I kept at it for another year or so, I could be out. Retired, fully funded, doing what I wanted, and answering to no one.

“From the Client’s description of her husband’s ideal woman, she could have been describing you the day I found you at that mall moping and alone.”

That memory made me flinch, but it passed quickly. “How much? What’s he worth?” I crossed my fingers, legs, and toes.

“It’s our Ten,” she said slowly. “It’s the one we’ve been waiting for.”

The air rushed out of my lungs. Scratch that whole year of work forecast. Successfully completing that Errand meant my personal freedom one second after texting G the V message. I could be in my own personal paradise, soaking up sun and scuba diving, in a month.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, incapable of anything else.

“Well put. So eloquent,” G replied. “Let’s hope you remember your manners and your class when you get to the Greet with Mr. Ten.”

“You tell me when and where, and I’ll be whatever that Ten needs me to be.”

“There’s the Eve I trained.” I could almost hear the hint of a smile in G’s voice. “I hope you don’t have big plans because the Client is about to board a plane as we speak. She was in Miami for another long weekend, but she’s got the file if you think you can make it to Miami International in under an hour.”

“I’ll be there.” I popped off of the stool and grabbed my clutch. “Text me exactly where I’m meeting her, and I’ll be there in forty-five.”

“I will. And good luck.”

My eyebrows came together. Had I heard her right? We Eves didn’t believe in luck; we created it. “I don’t need luck, G.”

G inhaled slowly on the other end. “For this one, you might. Now hurry up. There’s a reason I supply you with a fast car, you know.”

“Hurrying up,” I said, ending the call. I rushed toward the exit before I caught myself. Lunging back to the bar, I grabbed the shot, upended it, fought the cringe-shiver off, then slammed the glass upside-down on the counter. It was a habit I wished I could give up, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t not celebrate a victory with a cheap shot in a cheap bar. Maybe one day, but not this one.

Once I’d hurried out of the bar, I rushed to the 640. This kind of joint didn’t offer valet. I kicked off my heels when I slid into the seat, and the engine had barely turned over before I’d put the pedal to the metal. I flew down Ocean Drive, weaving in and out of cars and dodging pedestrians. When I sped past a familiar building with a long line outside its entrance, I put my arm outside the window and raised my middle finger into the air.

Farewell to The Pleasure Room and Mr. Daniel Silva. Hello, Mr. Ten.

Once I hit the Causeway, I set the 640 loose. Since it was late, traffic wasn’t much of an issue. I left the lights and glitter of South Beach behind me. It was something to miss, a place to mourn, but what I was heading toward made the goodbye easier.

I cruised into MIA twenty minutes later. I whipped into the closest parking spot I could find, and once I’d slid back into my heels and grabbed my clutch, I flat-out ran for the terminal. I still had on the red dress from earlier, and even though it was short, it was so tight it made running impossible. Once I’d jacked it up a few more inches, I could finally sprint. I turned more than a few heads, but now wasn’t the time to be concerned with appearances.

My phone pinged. Fumbling through my clutch, I pulled it out, checking the time first. Thirty minutes down. The women’s restroom just outside of security in the North terminal.

When I realized I was already in the right terminal for the Meet, I almost wondered if luck was shining down on me. I dismissed that idea before it could take root. Luck was a concept created by people too weak or afraid to take control of their lives or circumstances. At least that’s what G had drilled into me. I believed it.

Scanning the terminal, I caught sight of the little blue sign with a woman figure stenciled into it a few hundred feet down. I didn’t sprint the distance, but I power-walked. I wouldn’t get this close only to fail in the eleventh hour.

I took a moment to recompose myself before I shoved through the women’s restroom door. I smoothed my hair and dress before rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin a touch. Confidence just a notch below arrogance. That was how we were instructed to come to the Meet.

The bathroom was quiet and appeared empty. Just before I cursed myself for being too late, a figure walked out of the end stall.

“Fancy seeing you again,” Mrs. Ten said, giving me a quick once-over before pulling a thick folder out of her carry-on. She was the first Client I’d had whose voice wasn’t shaky. “G said you were her best. I hope she’s right.”

Mrs. Ten was a bitch. I hadn’t picked up on that at the spa.

Fine. I’d see her bitch and raise her a raging one. Crossing my arms, I held out my hand as she approached. “I am.”

She dropped the file into my hand and gave me a condescending smile. “There it is. Everything you need to know to nail my husband.” Her smile twisted higher as she studied the folder. “If you need any tips on how to fake orgasm when you’re with him, give me a ring. I’m the expert.”

That reminded me of something. “I’ll mail you a phone just as soon—”

She lifted her hand. “No need. G’s already equipped me, gone over the rules. And gone over the rules again. My lips are sealed, and I will be waiting on the edge of my seat for you to text me that final V.”

I didn’t know how or when G had worked everything out, but I didn’t mind. It saved me having to spend another ten minutes with the bitch queen.

“Now, if we’re done here, I’ve got a flight to catch.”

Nice to be working with you, too, I mouthed once she’d passed me.

“Question,” I said, spinning on my heels. “Why do you want out?” The answer to my question was somewhere in the file in my hands, but I had to know right now.

Her face shaded for a split second.

“He’s a cheating a**hole,” I said, more of a statement than a guess. I knew that look. Hell, I’d lived that looked for a couple of months before G found me.

Mrs. Ten shook her head. “He’s made his billions. I’ve done my time. I want out. And I want my share.” One corner of her mouth twitched up.

I took an automatic step back. That wasn’t how it worked. I’d never heard of an Errand without a good-for-nothing cheater or beater as the Target. It was an unsaid maxim we Eves held to. It made our jobs easier to know we were nailing a bastard who deserved it. From the sound of it, Mr. Ten had committed no greater offense than making a shitload of money and marrying the wrong woman.

“You’ve got a husband to screw, and I’ve got a flight to catch,” she said, shoving through the door. “Good luck.”

There was that word again: luck. I’d disliked hearing it once in reference to an Errand. I positively abhorred hearing it twice.

Backing up into the sink behind me, I contemplated my moral dilemma. I’d just wound up with the largest Errand in the history of the Eves. The payout would set me free. It was the Errand we dreamed of, the one we spent our careers chasing. And I had it in my hands.

In the other corner . . . the Client had commissioned us for no reason other than she was tired of the mister in her life. She didn’t want a divorce because he was screwing half of Texas or because he liked to beat her into next week. She was leaving him because she could and, with the Eves’ help, she could with billions to her name. I had something of a skewed sense of right and wrong, and even I knew that was f**ked up.

What would I do? Could I take this one? Would my conscience allow it?

Those were questions I couldn’t answer. One half of me answered them one way, and the other half answered them the other way. I was at a stand-still.

Before I knew what I was doing, I opened the file and slid the mass of paperwork out. Maybe once I’d read through some of the notes, seen some of the answers, I could make up my mind. I knew if I declined the Errand, G would want to rip my heart from my chest with her own hands. Hell, I’d want to do the same to myself if I turned it down.

I quickly scanned the first few pages. My hands actually shook as I read. Nothing stood out. Nothing gave away that Mr. Ten was a Grade A loser who needed to be brought to his financial knees.

Nothing.

From the list of charities he was involved in, the man seemed as if he would qualify for sainthood when he passed on.

And then I flipped to the next page. My hands went from trembling to shaking. My knees gave out, and had it not been for the sink behind me, I would have crashed to the ground.

I stared at the photo of Mr. Ten. I stared at a familiar face. I stared at the face of the man I’d unwillingly imagined when I’d been with Mr. Silva.

I stared at the face of the man I’d loved. The same man who’d brought me to my own knees and taken every scrap of confidence I’d possessed five years ago.