Working Girl
Working Girl
by David Michael
When Ange finished pulling the dress, heels, and numerous bits of fuck-me underthings off the unconscious whore, she wrapped the other woman in the bathrobe she had brought for that purpose. Then she visualized and twisted a blue filament to send the woman to a convenient, mostly safe location several blocks from the hotel. Let her make up any story she wanted to explain what had happened.
Alone in the elevator, Ange blinked away the stress of the magic and considered the whore’s clothes with distaste. She wasn’t sure she remembered how some of the more esoteric parts were to be worn. She had no choice, though. The woman’s arrival had certainly been seen on camera. But maybe the low plunge of the neckline and the high rise of hemline meant they hadn’t paid much attention to the woman’s face.
The elevator stopped two floors below the whore’s destination. The doors opened.
Ange used one of her own shoes to prevent the elevator doors closing, then took off her clothes and began re-assembling the whore’s outfit.
When she finished, she felt more embarrassed and exposed than she had when stripped naked. She adjusted the top and pulled on the hemline. She was glad she didn’t have to try conceal her gun. This outfit made it hard to conceal her appendectomy scar. She didn’t have quite the … assets? … of the whore, but the so-called dress was still snug, still short.
Ange visualized another blue filament and used it to send her clothes back to her apartment. This stung her eyes again, bringing tears. The doors, no longer prevented from closing, slid to and the elevator continued its journey. Ange picked up the whore’s purse, pulled out a tissue and dabbed at the tears to prevent them ruining her eyeliner.
The doors opened into a hall where a man in a rumpled business suit leaned against the opposite wall, waiting. He had his right hand inside his jacket.
She stepped out of the elevator, trying to look like she wore six-inch heels all the time. The man kept his hand in his jacket as he looked her over.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
Ange resisted the urge to tug on the hemline. She met the man’s eye. “Guy got on the elevator with me,” she said. “Said he needed my help to get off.”
The man snorted. “Did you blow him?”
“I don’t take American Express.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Prophylactics,” Ange said, opening the whore’s purse and holding it so the man could see in. “That’s condoms,” she added with a slight sneer. “Lubricants. Breath mints. A pack of tissue paper. And cab fare, in case your boss left his wallet in his other pants.”
“Funny girl.” The man took the purse, rifled through it, then handed it back.
Ange brushed the man’s hand with her fingers as she took the purse. “All sorts of fun,” she said.
“This way.” He led her down the corridor, away from the elevators to the door of a suite. He opened the door, and pushed her through it, his hand on her ass. “Wait here,” he said. “Mr. Thomasson will be with you in a few minutes. Have a seat.”
The room she had been pushed into had a black leather couch, a couple of chairs arranged in front of a wide screen TV, with a wet bar in one corner. Two men were in the room, dressed in the same type of business suit as the one who had met her in the hall. One stood at the counter of the wet bar, pouring himself a drink. The other sat in a chair, watching TV. They both looked at her, scanned her body cleavage to crotch, then went back to what they were doing.
Three guards? Or were there more? If she knew, she could get started. But she didn’t know.
The two men regained their interest in her when she walked across the room and sat on the couch. The heels made her walk very different. She almost fell over, but managed to catch herself using the arm of the couch. She sat down, feeling the hem of the dress crawl up her ass until she was sitting directly on the leather, and tried to look unconcerned with the display she put on.
She wished she had been able to keep her gray slacks and jacket, her usual uniform for hits. But getting in as the whore had seemed less messy.
“Want a drink?” the man at the wet bar asked.
Ange took her time turning to look at him. “Yes, please. Vodka tonic.”
The man filled a tumbler with vodka, splashed it with tonic, and brought it over. His eyes met hers for an instant, then landed on her breasts and stayed there as she took the drink, raised it to her lips, and took a sip. When she didn’t say anything further, the man sat down and continued watching TV.
Ange held the glass but didn’t take another drink. Even just the taste of the vodka had made her head swim.
She considered killing the two guards now, but she didn’t know who was in with Mr. Thomasson. The contract was for Thomasson. She didn’t mind killing bodyguards. But other high profile targets should be paid for up front. She had time. She could wait.
Twenty minutes passed before the door to the adjoining room opened. Neil Spencer Thomasson stepped out, still talking to the person who followed him. “Always good to see you again, Paul.”
Thomasson stood a couple inches over six feet, barrel chested with only a hint of fat around his mid-section. He glanced at Ange, gave her a quick smile and a wink, and then turned back to his guest.
The guest was shorter than Thomasson, and not just hinting about his obesity. Ange didn’t recognize him. His looked at her hard, almost glaring. “Who’s this?”
“She’s that working girl you told me about,” Thomasson said. “Dara, right? You gave her such a glowing review, I figured I’d–”
“This ain’t her,” Paul said.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s her. I just called–”
“This ain’t her.”
Ange tried to push herself up to a standing position, but the spike heels folded under her and she stumbled, dropping her drink. Vodka splashed over the carpet.
Paul, whoever he was, might be fat, but he wasn’t slow. He had pulled a gun before the two real guards had finished standing up. Paul fired.
Ange felt the bullet strike her right shoulder. The impact pushed her back onto the couch. The noise of the shot in the enclosed room was almost as painful as the bullet. Almost. She fought to concentrate. The whore’s heels had betrayed her, then saved her life. She was sure Paul missed her heart only because she stumbled.
She watched the guards reach into their jackets. She watched the slide on Paul’s gun crawl backwards, watched the shell casing eject, watched the slide come forward again, chambering another round. She doubted that Paul would miss her heart this time.
She saw the blue filament in her mind, used it to fetch her gun from her apartment. She felt the cold metal of the gun in her right hand, just before it fell to the floor, her fingers, her hand, her arm refusing to respond, still in shock from the bullet.
She saw the muscles of Paul’s finger flex. There was no way to stop him. She pushed herself to the left, hoping to survive just one more shot.
The blast of this shot seemed muted. She felt it hit the leather cushion beside her as she rolled off the couch, the spike heels gouging the carpet as she tried once again to get to her feet.
She wobbled, but she stood. Everyone was behind her. But at least she was standing.
Now she visualized three intertwined green filaments, the effort like hot pokers in her eyes, pulling the filaments together into a great green sword. She spun the filament-sword with her as she turned around. The edge hit the first guard as his hand extended forward with his gun. Arm and hand and gun were cut in half just an instant before the filaments went through his chest, dividing his abdomen.
So much for avoiding a mess.
Unlike real swords, this one didn’t get stuck in bone. Ange pulled back the sword, spun the filaments and cut off the gun hand, with gun, of the second guard. He screamed as the head and chest of the first guard fell backwards and the body stumbled forward.
Paul got off a third shot, hitting her in the right hip, spinning her around, putting her back on the floor. Her filament sword dissipated with her concentration in a wave of pain. She wondered if the shot had broken her hip.
Damn, Paul was good. Ange considered maybe waking him up along with Thomasson.
She tried to roll herself onto her back. Her right arm still didn’t want to work. Her whole right side protested but she managed to leverage herself over with her left arm.
Paul was stepping towards her, coming to stand over her, finish her. His mouth was moving, but Ange couldn’t hear what he was saying. Her ears still rang.
He stood over her then. He pointed the gun at her head.
That was the last thing she saw. The effort to recreate the filament-sword burned in her eyes like acid, burned out her sight. With just her mind, she swung blind.
Paul’s hand, with its gun still clenched in it, landed on her chest, heavy enough to make her grunt. She could hear him yelling now.
She heard more shots, then felt Paul’s bulk land on the floor.
What had happened? For a long minute she was confused, then she remembered the other guard, the one in the hall.
Ange reached out with her awareness. She felt him standing by the door, could sense his confusion, his revulsion. He must’ve misunderstood what had happened, shot Paul.
So much for waking up Paul. Too bad.
Ange impaled the last guard with the filament-sword, ending his confusion.
She cast about with her awareness, but couldn’t find any sign of Thomasson. He might still be in the hotel, but she was in no shape to track him down.
“Shit,” she said aloud, though she could barely hear her own voice.
She had never missed a mark before.
There was nothing else she could do here, though. She managed to pull herself into a sitting position. With her left hand, she felt along her legs to find the straps and pull off the whore’s heels. Then she groped on the carpet until she found her gun.
Standing up took forever. Her right arm refused to work, but her right leg would hold her weight. Not that she was planning to walk out of here.
She formed the loop of blue filament that would teleport her back to her apartment. She hated admitting defeat. She had been paid up front, though, success or failure. Just like a whore. And maybe someday she would even learn to walk in those damn heels.
indeterminacy said,
August 22, 2006 @ 11:16 pm
Wow! This was a gripping read all the way through. I like the way all the future setting is sketched with just a few details.