“Huh,” I said. “So, if you can figure out whose fucking him, he’ll give us a deal?”
“Exactly,” Dante said, his voice excited. “But I can’t do it on my own.”
So, now I was checking into the hotel suite as a guest, when really, I was a fucking spy! I loved it. I was excited to be all James Bond and shit. What that entailed, I wasn’t really sure yet. But it would come to me.
The Hotel suite was mostly a wide-open, sunny space. Double doors led to a master bedroom and bath.
I wheeled my suitcase into the bedroom. The bed was hanging from massive steel cables attached to the edges of a skylight that took up most of the ceiling. I could just imagine the starlight that would shine down at night. I was already excited for bed.
Everything in the hotel suite was sleek, yet warm. For instance, while the couches had clean, modern lines, the material was plush gray velvet.
The bed had light gray silk sheets and a darker gray velvet duvet cover.
Thick white fur throws were tossed on both the couches and the bed.
The dining room table was black marble with white leather chairs pulled up to it.
I walked around, touching all the materials. It was as if the hotel suite had been designed with me in mind. I loved the sensuality of how things felt.
No scratchy wool sweaters for me. Soft-as-butter leather pants, silky blouses, velvet blazers? Yes, please.
I stepped out onto the balcony that ran the length of the hotel suite facing the Golden Gate bridge. Spectacular view. But cold.
I came back inside and stripped on my way to the bedroom, throwing my clothes on the floor behind me as I walked.
After a long, hot shower to wash the travel filth off me, I dressed in comfy yoga pants and a tee, poured myself a Bourbon from the mirrored bar, and settled onto the chaise lounge facing the TV. I flicked through the channels and settled on an entertainment show based in Hollywood. I needed light, mindless escapism.
Hearing about the exploits of movie stars was always fun.
This episode was just beginning as I settled in. The host, a gorgeous woman—unfortunately dressed in an ugly, frilly pink chiffon number that only an aged hooker would wear—promised the latest on the duchess (apparently a former maid accused her of racism, which I doubted was true), how Deepfake technology had made it appear that Tom Cruise was eating lollipops on TikTok (it was mind-blowing and terrifying how that video technology could make someone dangerous like Vladimir Putin appear to say things he never said), and how a hot affair had destroyed a storybook marriage between two Oscar-winning movie stars.
I was all in.
Getting caught up in the dramas of celebrities was a fitting escape. My own life had been filled with so much dark, deep shit, that the fluffy crap they had to deal with was comical. I mean, sure, it was still serious, but cry me a river. Boo-hoo, someone is impersonating you on TikTok, Tom. And sorry, Meghan, that you’re accused of shit you didn’t do while you are living in LA hobnobbing with celebs. And what a rough break, that your celebrity marriage ended.
By the time the show was over, I’d made and finished another drink and was feeling no pain. I was also exhausted. I’d fought my jet lag as long as I could so I could try to get back on a normal schedule. The long travel day from Indonesia had finally caught up with me. There hadn’t been any direct flights, so I’m pretty sure I’d lost a day or two in getting back. It was all a big blur. I’d slept on both flights, so I was really disoriented when the pilot finally announced we were on our descent into San Francisco.
All I knew was that if I stayed awake a few more hours I’d have half a shot at getting back on a normal West Coast sleep schedule.
I decided to crawl into bed before I ended up sleeping on the couch.
I woke with a start at three in the morning. Damn. I knew it was late in Sumatra. Might as well not fight it. I guess I was lucky to get the sleep I did. At least if I got up now, there was a good chance I’d be tired at the normal time tonight.
For a second, I wondered what time it was in Southern France.
Where Ryder was.
I’d jumped in bed with him sort of on the rebound after Nico’s death. But what I’d found in him scared me. He got me. Like Nico, he knew I’d killed people. And, also like Nico, so had he. But he got me on some scary-as-fuck profound level. Like he could see right through my soul.
I hated it. And I loved it.
But I ran away from it.
He has his own life in France.
I’d thought I’d never see him again.
But then before leaving Sumatra, I’d called him and asked if he’d ever been to San Francisco. Now he was trying to figure out a way to come out here to visit me…. I couldn’t even think about that yet. I had too much to do here first.
Today would be busy. I had plans to meet with Dante for the board meeting of our company and then later, we’d go to dinner. Somewhere in the next week, I wanted to swing by the Tenderloin neighborhood and talk to Danny.
As soon as I finished my undercover work here at the hotel, I’d have to
