The End of Me (The Single Lady Spy #1)

I needed to make that bigger than not having an orgasm.

Anal was a huge no for me.

I would kill him, before I let him put his cock in my ass. I had always been a "Me First" sort of girl in that area. I told James, if I could do it to him with a dildo, then he was welcome to do it to me afterward. Needless to say, we never had the conversation much.

I grabbed a linen napkin, a bottle of water, and kicked off my underwear. I picked them up and walked to the back of the jet for a second sponge bath, and a possible mental breakdown. I wondered if you were allowed to smoke on private planes? Or if Roxy had any for when we landed.

I was sitting with my legs pulled in, near fetal position, when Roxy came back with a glass of wine.

I took it, avoiding her eyes.

"He's an asshole sometimes. He's a perve and a total bigot. He doesn’t see you as anything but a means to an end. He sleeps with everyone." She spoke so quietly I could barely make out the words.

I glanced up and her, smiling weakly, "I got that message loud and clear. I’ve known him for a whole day and here we are."

She looked scared, "If you get the chance... run." She left it at that. I nodded and we spoke things with our eyes.

She softened instantly and pointed, "You need to take a seat though. We're in Vegas."

I shuddered again and left the chair in the small change room, to follow her back to my seat.

He glanced up at me and smirked, "So, I want you to do two things for me."

Swallowing my pride, I sat and tried not to notice the constant throb in my hundred dollar panties.

"Kill him fast, otherwise he's going to be expecting something," his voice was calm.

I shot him a look. He laughed, "You know why he's got you coming? The hotel told me he has a standing order, new girl every night."

Coop's words flashed in my mind, "He won't be expecting someone younger?" I asked.

He looked me over, "He won't be disappointed when you show up looking like that." He leaned over to me, "He doesn’t touch what's mine, so I expect your training better be as sharp as it was. You will pay if he touches anything."

I gulped. He was taking the whole caveman, ‘you are mine’ thing too far. It was much further than I expected, even from someone like him. I assumed it was a heat of the moment sort of thing. He would get over it when he saw me watch a chick flick with snot running down my face, and Ben and Jerry keeping me company.

He reached over and ran his hand up my thigh, "I have a suite in the Bellagio. You will meet me there afterward."

I frowned, "Alright look, the sex was nice. It was fun. I feel young and adventurous again. Thank you for that. I’m feeling more alive than I have in years. I owe you for that. I feel like I might have compensated you already for it, but we can argue over that later. But you must need to rest at some point. I personally have been married for the last decade. That means sex once a month, and only really on a day where I drank too much wine and read something hot and naughty. Usually a Saturday or a Sunday. To be honest, we haven’t actually had sex in seven months. Looking back, I’m not sure how I missed that as a bad sign for the five months he wasn’t pretending to be dead. But I can’t be having sex every hour on the hour. I’ll need an ice pack for my hoohoo."

He cocked an eyebrow, "I don’t know what you're talking about. I don’t know what a hoohoo is. Focus. You will come back to the room and I will clean you myself."

Was he goading me again? He had to be kidding. Even David Duchovny didn’t have that much sex in one day. I was going to get a rash if this continued, or at the very least, a bladder infection. Clearly, he hadn’t been reading much Cosmo.

He ignored my protests, "The second thing I need you to do is, take this and write on the mirror in the hotel room." He handed me a tube of lipstick. It was Russian Red. He was setting me up. Why the hell was he setting me up?

I took it and nodded, "What should I write?" My stomach was in my throat. It was panicking and plotting an escape, instead of a murder.

He smirked and tried to dazzle me with his hazel eyes and handsome face, "Whatever you like."

The room would be bugged, the hotel would be bugged, he would be watching my every move. If he had the manager telling him what the fat man was doing about hooker supplies, he was watching the surveillance cameras.

I remembered the phone I had in my clutch, the one that if I dialed 9-1-1, I would get the young man. That would get me Coop. I shoved the lipstick in my clutch and snapped it shut. "How do you want it done?" I asked.

He shrugged, "Make it interesting. Surprise me." His smiled turned devilish, "Thus far, I have to say, I've been very pleasantly surprised by you."

I hated myself in that moment—the me I wanted to be, not the me my country needed me to be.

All I could think was, that the Burrow had better be something so fucking important the president himself would thank me for finding it, and taking a finger in the ass.

Chapter Eight - What happens in Vegas… Shit

I dialed 9-1-1 from the stall of the ladies’ washroom.

The young man was there instantly.

"My, you look spiffy. Where are you going, the CMA awards?"

My hands shook, as I nearly cried with joy, "Bellagio. Bathrooms by the slot machines on the east wall." My old ways were slowly coming back. I could tell directions again and notice things.

"Coop said he'll be there in a second. Hold tight."

I shook my head, "I don’t have seconds. They're watching the doors, halls, and floors."

He winked, "We’ve got this." And the call ended.

He was a cheeky little shit. CMA awards, really?

I heard the door to the bathroom open. I held my breath as footsteps made their way across the shiny floor. I stepped up onto the toilet and waited.

Dark-brown dress shoes stopped outside the door. My heart was almost leaping from my throat, "Do we have a secret knock or just whatever?" His voice was my saving grace. I reached for the lock and turned it. He swung open the door and smiled. His eyes were serious. "You okay?"

I felt the tears coming. I shook my head. I wanted to tell him everything and nothing. I wanted to touch my filthy disgusting face to his soft beautiful face, but I didn’t. I looked down, ashamed.

"Did he hurt you?" his voice was deep and scary.

I parted my gooey lips but nothing came out.

Had he hurt me?

I supposed he had, but he had also made me cum like no man ever had. I closed my lips and shook my head.

Coop’s huge hand cupped my chin and lifted my face, "We all do things we're ashamed of for the job. I worked as a gigolo for three months in Sweden, once." He fought a grin, “It was rough.”

Someone else whispered harshly, "Speak for yourself. I woulda nailed his ass in every crevice of that airplane and never felt a moment of shame. Did you get some for me?"

I laughed when I leaned forward to see Luce. She winked at me.

I sighed and whispered back, "The plane ride isn’t the issue; I have to kill the fat man, and write with the lipstick I'm wearing, on a mirror. He’s setting me up."

Coop processed, "Then what?"

I gulped, "Back to his room upstairs."

His lip twitched as he took it all in. He looked crazed, “His room?”

I nodded, “Hopefully for some sleep.”

He spoke after a minute, “We’ll deal with that later. For now, we need the hit to go smooth and look like an accident. The room is gonna be recorded, you know that right?"

I nodded.

"You have to make it look like an accident—smother him while having sex?" Luce gave me a weak smile.

I scowled, "I've been getting molested the whole way from Boston and could have come up with better plans, than whatever you two have right now. What the fuck were you doing on the plane?"

Luce grinned, "I watched a couple movies."

My face dropped. She laughed, "It was a joke. We have a plan. Just need to sort through the couple variables you’ve added."

I glanced up at Coop, he was still wearing his processing face. He slipped his hand into his pocket and dialed his phone.

"Jack, I need two of those potassium chloride pills." He put a hand up to his head and closed his eyes, "There's a table with flowers on it in the hall outside his room. Put the two pills next to the planter, she can wobble in the shoes she's in and pick them up. Write him a prescript for it all and make it look like he's filled it dozens of times, in the last few years. He's fat. He's probably already on it all." He hung up the phone and smirked at me, "Write something kinky on the mirror, before you kill him."

I nodded. We were still planning the death of a man. He must have seen the look in my eyes. He grabbed my arms, "I wish I could do it for you."

I nodded and let it be enough. It was going to have to be. I walked past him and Luce.

"You look sexy as shit, by the way," he muttered.

I looked back and raised my eyebrows, "So far it's been really fun being the sexy plaything of the arms dealer, who never really killed my fuck-up husband."

His lips curled into a bigger smile, "Don’t piss me off, Evie. It’s a bad idea."

I rolled my eyes and walked out of the bathroom.

I tried to look calm but if the cameras saw me, they would see I was on edge. I made my way to the elevators in the hotel. The shoes were ridiculously comfortable. I had no idea. Two grand for shoes actually paid off.

I stepped into the elevator and inspected myself. I looked like a high-class whore, no doubt. My only saving grace was so did every other girl in Vegas. I blended perfectly. I coifed my hair and walked out of the elevator when I got to the floor. I looked at the wall to see which way the room was. I spotted the table with the flowers and took a deep breath. I could do this. I could be the person they needed. I wobbled and placed my hands on the table. I scooped the pills up and dropped my clutch. I bent to pick it up, flashing my ass for the cameras. Hopefully that’s what they saw. I popped the pills in the clutch as I lifted it. It was fluid, like I had done it a million times. I reached into the clutch again and grabbed the keycard. I swiped the right door and put it back in my purse.