Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 02

Carroll resumes her work, and I put the sunglasses back on.

--

I received twenty-three calls before the end of my business hours. Mostly car lock outs, but three home lock outs were sprinkled throughout the day. Over a thousand dollars for a single day. I haven't managed that for months. Unfortunately, all I want to do is find a card game right now. I think about calling Dante, but last time I did that the Caesar of the 9^th Legion slammed my face into a steering wheel. Instead, I play it safe and go to the casino.

Even if the phone rings after hours, I don't plan on doing that tonight. I just sit back in jeans and a sweater and watch the numbers get called for Keno. Grandpa loved Keno, and I don't know why. It's bingo for lazy people. I mark my numbers as they roll across the screen, sip a beer, and lean into a comfy armchair next to an old woman with an oxygen tank doing the same. Is that me in sixty years?

My phone rings, and I ignore it.

Only one of my numbers played, so I get new numbers and come back to my chair. I mark my card as the numbers appear on the screen. Two right off the bat.

My phone rings, and I consider looking at it. After a moment of thought, I press the button on the side to silence it, then change the ring setting to vibrate.

Five numbers play, so I take those earnings and pick new numbers with a larger bet.

My phone buzzes, and I finally look at it. Number, not a name. It's nearly eleven, but the recent win has put me in a better mood, so I answer.

"Lady Smith Lock and Key."

"I need a lock drilled, heard you can help with that," a man says.

"Single cylinder is...two hundred, double cylinder is four hundred," I say. I feel like I've been selling myself too cheap. I'm worth it.

"Two hundred? That's not what I was told."

"Drill yourself then," I say, and hang up. He'll call back.

Eight numbers on a pick ten. Fuck it's a good night.

My phone rings.

"Lady Smith Lock and Key."

"Double cylinder."

--

I feel great about myself tonight, so don't even change what I'm wearing. The address is a hotel outside of the city, but still within the county. I pass a sign that says I'm leaving the city. Thirty minutes after I received the call, I pull into the parking lot and start a fast beauty check. I pull down the visor and look at myself in the vanity mirror. I look good even in a sweater tonight. The bruise isn't distracting anymore. I double check the room number I wrote on the back of a Keno sheet before exiting my car.

Only one person is manning the front desk, and I breeze right through the lobby, and press up at the elevator. While I wait, I look into the lobby, and see a woman sitting alone. She has no bags, and doesn't seem to be reading, or doing anything else to pass the time. She tilts her head to me, and slowly turns away from me when she sees I'm looking at her.

Ding.

The elevator opens, and I board. It's a quick ride to the second floor. After initially turning the wrong way, I walk down the correct hallway and find the room toward the center of the hallway. I knock and wait. The man who opens the door is middle aged with a polo tucked into khakis with a brown belt. What completes his look is an extended stomach over the belt buckle and burly arms covered in hair.

"You lost?" he asks, confused, expecting someone else.

"Lady Smith Lock and Key."

"The guy said you dressed up for this." When you call an escort, you don't expect a woman in mom jeans and a sweater.

"If the night goes well, what I wear is kind of irrelevant," I say. He shrugs it off and lets me in. "Did this guy give you my ground rules."

"He did."

"What are they?" I ask, and he pauses to think. "No anal. No kissing..."

"...no condom is extra, I got it," he says, walking toward the bed.

Woman on the first floor, conspicuous as all hell. The room is toward the center of the building, so away from any stairs or fire escapes. He's misinformed or doesn't know my ground rules. I turn and see the room next to this one is adjoining, and the deadbolt is turned open. You motherfucker Deacon.

"Here's the money," he says, and extends cash toward me. "You do blow jobs, right?"

Now he's trying to get me to take money from him, after stating I perform sexual acts in exchange for that money. Where would I put a microphone and camera? I scan the room slowly, walking around as I do.

"You gonna take the money?" he asks.

"No," I say, and keep looking for surveillance equipment. They hid it good, but I know this man has at least a microphone on him.

"I called you for a reason. Let's get started. Take the money, drop the sweater and get to work," he says. Fine line between a sting and entrapment. I walk to the man and lean my face toward his chest.

"Nice try Deacon," I say, and walk out of the hotel room.

While I wait for the elevator to come up, I hear a door open and footsteps approach. Detective Miles Deacon enters the frame and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. Is he annoyed or impressed? That mustache hides his true feelings.

"What gave it away?" Deacon asks.

"Tell the cop in the lobby to bring a bag with her. No one just sits in a hotel lobby after midnight unless they're checking in or leaving early," I reply. The elevator arrives, and the female cop from downstairs is in it.

"I'll remember that next time," she says, having heard me. "Detective Trixie Kirkpatrick. Got a minute Ms. Smith?"

"No, I don't," I say, and enter the elevator. I press the first floor, but she presses the button to keep the doors from closing "Arrest me or fuck off."

"Prostitution a crime Miles?" Trixie asks.

"Sure is. Got you on tape haggling price for services," Deacons says. He leans his body on a door to keep the elevator open.

"I believe I was talking about drilling a double or single-cylinder lock. In a two-party consent state," I say.

"We got a street lawyer here. Active police investigation supersedes that counsel," Trixie says. That might be true, but cops can lie after all.

"Aren't you out of your jurisdiction?" I ask. I strictly remember passing a sign saying leaving city limits.

"Unfortunately for you, the street crimes unit is cross deputized with the county. I'm a deputy sheriff. We're still in Yellowstone, so you're still in our jurisdiction."

I'm smart enough to know unless I'm in handcuffs, this is over when I say it is. And I'm saying it's over.

"It's a cute attempt. Trying to wrap up a locksmith in a prostitution sting. Only problem is that I'm not a prostitute," I say.

"I know the girls prefer the word escort these days. You can call a handicapped person in a wheelchair handicapable, but it doesn't mean they can walk," Trixie says.

"And you can call a locksmith a prostitute, doesn't mean she's not drilling a single cylinder," I retort, and press the button to close the elevator doors. They push against Deacon for a moment and stay shut. "Put me in handcuffs and accuse me of a crime or let me go. Those are your options."

"We have more choices than that," Trixie says.

"No you don't," I say, and they look at each other. "Stop me when I'm wrong. You got me on tape, possible illegally, haggling price for a service in my known profession. I show up in jeans and a sweater. I take no money..."

"...you said you don't do anal..."

"...a woman who doesn't do anal? Stop the fucking presses. You do much anal detective?" I ask, and Trixie blushes a little. Too much by the looks of her. "Stop this door from shutting again, and I file a complaint."

This time I manage to press the button without harassment and exit the elevator on the first floor. The lobby is now empty, and I get to my car. Before I enter, I light a cigarette and lean against the driver's door.

"Close one," I say to myself. Deacon was right when he told me I'm running out of time. Either the law gets me, or the Legion will. I need to get rid of both. First I need enough money. I think about all those cars. Rolls Royce. Benz. BMW. Legion wants them, but they think it might be too risky. I could do all the scoping, for a job that never happens.

Even after walking into a sting, I'm still in a decent mood. Eight on a pick ten will do that to a gambling addict. I can't drag my feet anymore. This needs to be done. This is my only chance to maybe get out. And I know just who to talk to about it.

--

I'm not surprised Ryan Justin isn't asleep at this hour. A guy running girls on the side of a luxury business has to be a night owl. I knock on his back door, and he opens it in less than a minute. His expression suggests he was waiting for me. He invites me in a for a drink.

"Take it you thought about it?" he asks. He uncorks a bottle of whiskey in his kitchen that's bigger than my apartment.

"How does it work?" I ask. "When they get picked up, am I just already in the backseat? Wrapped up naked with a bow on my bush?"

"You're the driver," he says. He pours us both a finger of whiskey and hands me a glass. "On our payroll and everything. We even have dental." I run my tongue along a cavity I can't pay to get filled. "You have a license, right?"

"Never been pulled over, and shockingly no record."

"You'd pass the background check too, good. A lot of clients like to run their own. The economic class we service is often a little cautious. They don't want to get in a car with a felon or a person with DWIs."

"My ground rules are a thing. They don't like it, I'll drop them off on the curb and you can deal with them," I say, making him laugh. "I'm serious."

"I know you are. Use that, sometimes they like the challenge."

"So, when I get a call, I come down to the warehouse, pick up a car, and do what I do?" I ask. He replies with a nod and downs his drink. "Wardrobe requirements?"

"Depends on the customer. Leave in uniform, change in route."

"Anyone a little weird from your experience?"

"I had a girl in Seattle quit because the client was a furry. Wanted to fuck a giraffe."

"All long as he doesn't want to fuck a giraffe in the ass."

Ryan laughs and pours himself another drink. I place my still full glass on the kitchen counter. He takes my glass and pours it into his own cup.

"Stop by tomorrow, we'll handle the paperwork, file the background check, make it legit," he says.

"Tomorrow or this afternoon?" I ask. He looks at his watch, realizing it's after midnight.

"See you in a few hours."

--

I turn on the lights in my shitty apartment, which feels worse than usual after I was in Ryan's kitchen. My equipment is dropped at the door. I sit on my couch and fan open the money I made today. Is there a card game soon? Keno can only hold me off for so long. I shake my head and try to bury the thought. You need this money to be free. Don't piss it away. Don't be dad.

I try to remember some techniques from group, but honestly, I don't really pay attention. Half of the time it feels like a meeting to ask people where the best tables are. Closing my eyes, I think of grandpa. What would he tell me? I realize he'd say, "you made your bed, sleep in it," and tell myself to stop thinking about him. You can't tell yourself to not think about something though.

Grandpa was in the Army, served in Vietnam. He almost never talked about it. A lot of men from his generation didn't. All I know was that he wasn't drafted. He volunteered to serve, and somehow managed to come back physically unscathed. Mentally was something else entirely. He had violent episodes, and eventually left his family because he was worried, he'd hurt them. He told me he regretted that more than anything in his life. Taking me in was some last-ditch way of making up for it, I guess.

My grandpa never played the radio in the car. I remember that. Long, quiet drives between jobs. Sometimes we'd talk, but he mostly sang. He only sang one song.

'Oh, death

Oh, death

Won't you spare me over, til another year.'

I imagined him marching through the Vietnamese jungle singing that song. Begging Death to let him make it home. The average deployment was a year. I envision Death is sitting next to me, just bidding his time. No rush, I'll get there. I sing.

'Well what is this, that I can't see

With ice cold hands takin hold of me'

He sings back.

'Oh I am death, none can excel

I open the doors to heaven or hell'

I open my eyes, and Death isn't next to me. Not yet. Thanks, grandpa, for such uplifting memories. I tuck the money into my couch cushion and stand up to stretch. I walk to my bedroom knowing I'm too tired to sleep. That feeling is a bitch slap. My face goes straight into my pillow regardless.

My phone is stabbing my leg, so I pull it from my pocket. Before I put it on the nightstand, I see there is a message I hadn't noticed yet. I changed my phone to vibrate at the casino and didn't feel the buzz on my leg. The message is only twenty minutes old.

"Let me determine my own level of risk." Number, not a name. Who the fuck?

"Umm, who are you?" is my reply.

"Save my number, I'm the guy who should know better by now." Matt?

"Audit your life before you're bankrupt."

"You're the one who needs an audit. I happen to know an auditor."

I catch myself smiling, then laugh a little. Did I just bite my lower lip? Did I really just do that? That's just what I need right now. Start an affair with a married man going through a divorce. Does that even count at this juncture? Can't deny I could really use the distraction. Plus, decent sex might help me sleep. I completely ignore my early feeling he might be a snitch.

"Taxes are due soon, right? You got thirty minutes before I call H&R Block."

Ten seconds later there is a knock at my door. Are you shitting me?

I leave my bed, and trot to the door, but stop just shy of the living room. I jump back into my room, check myself in the mirror, and sigh. I forgot about the sweater and mom jeans. Fuck it. I doubt that's a deal breaker.

I'm not ready for the Matt who comes through the door. The guy who calls an escort and chickens out. He could have taken horrible advantage of me last night but didn't. I open the door, expecting to see him awkwardly standing there. I'd have to grab him with both hand at his collar and drag him backward into my apartment. That's not what happens.

Matt lunges and breaks my first rule, no kissing. I'm forced to backpedal but manage to reach over his shoulder and slam the door shut. He grabs the bottom of my sweater, and I instinctually extend my arms over my head. It comes off in a swift motion and is dropped in the walkway. He resumes breaking my rule, as I try to steer us to the bedroom. My back hits the frame of the door, and a picture hung on the wall falls to the floor.

When we pause at the door, I start working on his buttons. He leaves my lips and begins to kiss my neck. I swear a feel him nibble a little. The last button is done, and I tug the shirt off his shoulders. He stops to quickly undo his cuffs while I start at his belt. His shirt lands next to my sweater and his belt is undone. The top button of my jeans is loose, and they immediately sag off my hips.

Forward movement resumes. We're a tangled mess of limbs and loose clothing. He leads me to the bed, my legs colliding causing me to topple backwards. He grabs the waist band of my jeans and pulls them clean off. My panties only made it to my knees, but he only pulls them off my right ankle, leaving them dangling on my left. He lifts my legs up and drags me to the edge of the bed, and dives face first into my pussy. I did say I might make an exception for the other pair of lips.

I don't know how long Matt has gone without sex since his marriage fell apart, but he's hungry. His tongue swirls deep inside, then up to my clit, and I twitch when he flicks it. Two fingers are inserted rapidly while his tongue keeps pressure. He knows exactly what he's doing.

I look at my nightstand and start stretching out for the drawer. It's just out of reach. My condoms are in that drawer, and I have a feeling I need to get them before our momentum is stalled. I try to shift my body up to close the distance, but that's when it arrives. One hand on a pillow, the other grabs his hair as I orgasm into his face. He knows it's happening and doesn't stop. He continues until my body is buzzing numb.

Matt stands up and finishes undressing. I scale up the bed, and take off my shirt, then successfully open the drawer. I feel the bed shift from his weight and feel his body between my legs. I hand him a condom and take off my bra while he opens the sliver package.

He's in. I break my first rule this time. He's fast and eager. Too eager, and I feel him tense up less than a minute later.

"Fuck," he says, and plants his face into my pillow next to my face.

"You serious?" I ask. He groans into the pillow, and I laugh. I destroy what remains of his ego and laugh myself silly. "Been awhile I take it?"

"Nearly a year," he mumbles into the pillow.

"I needed that laugh more than the sex," I say, and he rolls off me. He takes in a deep breath and turns toward me. I'm now trying to hold it back, and my restrained expression causing him to chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up."

"You got a good rebound?"

"We'll find out."

While we wait to find out, he starts kissing me again. I don't remember the last time I had this much fun in bed. His mouth suckles my breasts as he slides his hand down to start rubbing and fingering. I grab his manhood, trying to get him in the mood again. He starts getting hard again so I expedite the process by slithering below. I remove the condom and lower my mouth onto him. He groans and helps with my hair.

I feel him trying to spin me, and I understand what he's doing so help. We settle into a mutual position of sixty-nine, and I can barely focus on him. He's good at this, not gonna lie. When I feel a second orgasm, I muzzle myself with his dick.

"I think I'm ready," he says, and pushes me forward. When he starts sitting up I know it's not reverse cowgirl, and prepare myself for doggy. He rubs himself up and down my slit. He's teasing me.

"Hurry up," I say, and he listens. I'm so wet he glides in with ease. He grabs my hips and uses them to control his pace. When he's lasted longer than the first time, I finally notice he broke another rule. I've never had a raw dick before, so I feel the difference. I don't want to stop.

"Pull out," I exhale between thrusts.

After he's satiated himself in that position, we adjust to reverse cowgirl. I squat over him and drop myself down hard. His hands grips by sides, helping lift and lower myself onto him. When he knows I'm tired because I slow down, he spins me around while still on him, then twirls me to my back. Back to basic missionary. I ask for it deep, and he obliges. He keeps my legs and hips lifted by resting them in the crook of his elbows, and dives into me.

He drills me with a hard and consistent speed for several minutes, before announcing he's close.

"Almost there," he grunts, and picks up the speed for a moment.

"Get on your back," I say.

"Almost there..."

"...on your back," I say, pushing him off me. He finally hears me, and rolls to the side. I grab his shaft, and he's squirting as I cusp my mouth over the head. He finishes, and I milk what's left of it.

"Holy shit," he gasps. He's already gone and I'm still sucking. Easiest way to turn a man into putty. "Oh my god."

"Want me to stop?" I ask, coming up for air. The pleasure has left him tongue tied, so I continue. I planned on going until he turned into a noodle, but it just doesn't happen. Five minutes straight and he's still a brick.

"I'm getting another one," I say, and mount him.