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Only when we’re safely inside the elevator do I realize what had bothered me before. As I look at the bank of buttons waiting to be pushed for the dozens of floors of The Whitney, it dawns on me.
“There is no thirteenth floor.”
Z doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he pulls a fancy pen out of his pocket and inserts it into a round hole next to the bank of buttons. He then enters a long string of numbers into a keypad I’ve never seen a guest use before. Finally, the elevator starts to move upwards.
When the doors open a few seconds later, Z pulls me out of the elevator onto a floor that looks completely different than the rest of The Whitney.
My mind is blown. Hidden floors? Mafia guests? Covering up murders?
So many secrets.
I’ve established Z is a bad man. Z works for Dex. Dex lives with Katja. They are in love. They’re in business together.
My heart lurches as I realize that Katja is going to have her heart broken when she finds out about this dark and hidden side of the man she loves. But there’s no way I can keep this information from her. She has the right to know what kind of a man she’s fallen in love with.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over me as Z pulls me along behind him toward a door at the end of the hall.
All of this is my fault because tonight, I killed a man.
Chapter Four
Z
As we enter my room, I instantly regret not making my bed today. Having a beautiful woman as a guest wasn’t on the schedule. Living in a hotel for most of my life means I’ve never needed to bring someone back to my room. There have always been plenty of hotel rooms to choose from when I needed female companionship.
Purposefully choosing to keep maid service out of my domain means my room is a disaster. Anatomy books are tossed all around. Papers, files, and even some knives and a pistol cover all the surface space. She’s either going to think I’m a bachelor frat boy or a serial killer. I’m not sure which one is worse.
I rush to the bed and pull the comforter up in a quick attempt to hide the disarray. I also grab some medical books that are stacked on the only chair in the room so she’ll at least have a place to sit.
“Sorry for the mess,” I mumble, not liking how awkward I suddenly feel.
“You live here?” she asks as she glances around the room, the door closing behind her. The normal sized hotel room is a far cry from the suite she’s living in.
“It serves me just fine. I don’t need a lot.” I glance over my shoulder at her and decide it’s best to get back to business. Focus on what needs to be done. “We need to get you in the shower before we do anything else.”
She nods as she follows me into the bathroom. Luckily, the bathroom isn’t a pit like the rest of the room, and I do have fresh towels.
I reach into the shower and turn on the water. While it’s getting hot, I turn to face her. “I need to help you get all that blood off of you. With your wounds still being open—”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens to protest.
“Keep your bra and panties on, of course,” I quickly add. “I think it’s best if I help.”
She appears to freeze for several moments, and right as I’m about ready to push the issue some more, she finally nods and walks to the shower. “Okay.” Her voice sounds so fragile and on the verge of shattering, that I’m half-tempted to pull her into my arms to soothe her fears and raging emotions.
She steps out of her clothes and into the shower, allowing the stream of water to begin washing the blood and her nightmare away. There’s no easy way for me to assist her without getting into the shower myself. Seeing how skittish she was when I first mentioned me staying to help, I decide completely stripping all my clothing isn’t a wise idea.
“I’m going to take my shirt and jeans off, if you don’t mind,” I say, waiting for her to give her approval.
She locks eyes with mine and then nods as she reaches for a washcloth to begin washing her face with it.
Trying to not make a big issue over what’s about to occur, I quickly shed my clothes, keeping my briefs on. I notice her eyes are scanning my torso, narrowing in on my tattoos. We are so fucking close now—the walls of the shower suffocating our space—but I try to focus my attention on the job and not the fact that her lace panties and bra are practically transparent with the water running over them. Her nipples are on full display, and I can see the slit of her pussy through the thin fabric of her panties.
