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When we were still kids, and I’d been too young to understand and then when I was old enough to understand, I had so much anger toward the church, I was useless. But now, as a grown woman, I knew exactly how to channel unhealthy emotions into healthy solutions. Including keeping an eagle eye on the pervert suites, watching every move they made.
By any means necessary.
At my desk on the top floor of Emerald Isle, the desert sun brightened up my office and caused a glare on the screen. I was watching a nondescript couple check into one of the Mueller Suites. They’re almost too non-descript, I mused, her ash blonde hair and plain brown eyes, his blend of silver and brown hair, even plainer brown eyes.
They were unremarkable in every way, their khaki shorts giving them the look of middle-aged vacationers and the plain glasses made them look kind. Normal. Forgettable.
If not for the fact they were checking into one of the pervert suites, they’d seem perfectly harmless. And that was why they were so goddamn dangerous. Watching surveillance footage of them walking side by side down the hall reminded me of my daddy’s drunken lessons.
Never trust anybody working too hard to blend in. They’re trying to hide something as sure as the day is long.
Colm Ashby was a drunk motherfucker, but knowing people and reading them, manipulating them, that was his superpower. He could make you think the bad idea that landed you in trouble was your idea and get you to thank him for the tips. I learned at his hip until the day he didn’t come home.
He wasn’t a good man or a decent man, but the lessons I learned—good and bad—shaped me into the woman I was today. Currently, that woman was surveillance stalking the too-plain couple.
I watched them walk hand in hand down to one of the hotel restaurants where they each enjoyed one glass of wine with dinner, steak for him and chicken for her, before retiring to their room for the night.
They’d been in the hotel for two days and hadn’t made any phone calls, no charges to the room, not even a mini bar water. There was nothing to comment on and no real reason to keep watching them. Except that it was the Mueller suites which were suspect enough, even when they were empty.
I kept an eye on the couple, but I had too much work to do to keep playing private dick on the almost certain perverts sent by Mueller, or the Church. Fight Night was just around the corner, and I still had to make sure that everything went off without a hitch, even though it wasn’t my job.
Jasper had too much shit on his plate with the escape of Savannah Rhymer and the possible return of her shithead brother. It was a big deal that Jasper had even lowered himself to admit that he needed help. So, when he called a meeting with me, I couldn’t refuse.
He said, “Kat, I need you to stand in for me at the gym. Be my surrogate. Handle all the shit for fight night.”
Once I realized my ears were working properly and I wasn’t hearing things, I jumped in with both feet, determined to do a damn good job.
And yeah, maybe showing my big brother that he wasn’t the only one who could do the job and do it well, played a small part. I liked my temporary title, Head of Operations, House of Ashby. Yes, that suited me just fine.
I returned to my work, thankful to be the buzz of activity at Emerald Isle after what happened yesterday. There was more security here than at Black Stallion. The Stallion crowd was younger and hipper and a lot less affluent than our clientele. The gym had cameras everywhere. Anyone who meant to harm me or anyone else might succeed, but they would regret it immediately.
Most of all, there was no Terry Manning here, ruining my equilibrium and my ability to think clearly. I’d spent half the day yesterday thinking about how good it felt to be pressed up against his hard chest and the strong muscles in his arms. And the way he smelled, like man and sex and heaven all wrapped up in one delicious package.
He was, to me, a nice bottle of red and a big fat hooter at the end of a long day, but he was also off limits. Way off limits. For entirely too many reasons, which is why I was determined to get my mind off Terry and back on the men and women involved in Fight Night.
I had a shit ton of press to do, for trainers like Emmett, but also for the headlining fighters, especially the ones out of House of Ashby. Hotel rooms were booked and double-checked for special diets and other needs. It was my job to make sure everyone else did what they needed to do so that everyone got paid.
