The shopping trip was fun. It was also a setup.
I met Margaret for coffee at a Starbucks downtown. The super-rich strike me as odd in many ways. One of them is that they’ll drop into a Starbucks (provided it’s in the right part of town) just like the rest of us.
I suppose they think that makes them “normal”—as if there is such a thing.
She already had her drink when I arrived, this time in my normal clothes. Jeans, a snug black t-shirt, and Docs. It was a little chilly out, so I also had on my black leather jacket. My hair was back to its usually messy ponytail.
And normal makeup. Dark. Brooding. Unnecessarily heavy eyeliner that I would have described as “essential.”
The contrast compared to my previous look won me another smile from Margaret.
“I like this better,” she said when I joined her with a simple cup of black coffee. “It’s more you.”
She had a way of saying things so that I couldn’t tell if she was complimenting me or insulting me. Either way, she was right.
“What can I say?” I asked. “I have range.”
Margaret wore what I assumed were designer jeans paired with a silk blouse and a dark blazer. She nodded once. “It’s not just that, though. This is genuine. I think this will be our template. I was impressed to see you take on a different style altogether and maintain the illusion. But there are as many Doc Marten-wearing elites as there are debutants in dresses fresh off of runways.
“The clothes don’t matter. Entering every room like you own it—that’s what matters.”
It was a good tip. And honestly, not that far off what I normally do. Except, I don’t consider that I own the rooms I walk into. I generally think I own the experience that happens in those rooms.
That’s part of the gig. It’s knowing the exits, always having a plan, making note of everyone else in the immediate area, and thinking about the next room and the room after that. If I have to slip away, disappearing into the shadows, how will I pull that off?
Like Simon, I don’t have many friends. Only a couple, and they don’t know much about me. By design. I’m floored that he’s comfortable sharing who and what he is with Margaret, but he’s been at this a lot longer than me. Maybe they have a shared backstory I know nothing about.
My friends, by contrast, think I have a trust fund. They think I’m an adrenaline junkie who likes to travel. If I disappear for a few days, they don’t even ask where I’ve been anymore. I’ll usually drop hints, though. A picture of me on a zipline or a mention of the hassles I faced going through customs in Argentina.
It makes me a curiosity to them, and I think they’re happy to keep the mystery intact.
But, my point. Apart from being awed by my adventurous ways, my friends have told me I’m also intimidating. They can’t put a finger on it. How would they be able to without knowing I kill people for money? But they can sense the predator in me. The way I stalk, even when I’m not on the job. My constant pre-attack vigil.
If I tweaked that just a hair, shifting what I project from owning my escape to owning the room and its occupants, I would come across the same way Margaret and Simon often come across to me. It feels less like a lion on the prowl and more like a queen so accustomed to prey offering itself up that she hardly even registers another’s sacrifice when it’s made.
And here’s the kicker. It’s just a slight shift. I could still be me. Still do my job. Still always know my exit options. I’d just gain the advantage of blending in with rich assholes.
“Noted,” I told Margaret.
We drank our coffee and talked about inane things, like the weather. No matter your income, it rains on us all. Then, we made our way to a few boutiques Margaret was fond of.
I tried on gowns and heels. She made a few selections for me, never bothering to ask what I liked or didn’t like. Which was fine. None of it was anything I’d wear on an average Saturday night. Though I’ll admit, it was fun slipping into outfits that cost more than my car.
After the boutiques, we made our way to NorthPark. It’s a mall, but very much a mall for wealthier people. There, we stocked up on basics, and Margaret insisted that I take the lead.
“Pick out whatever you’d normally buy,” she told me, “but, you know, from my price range.” So I did. All clothes I would absolutely wear after this job.
I could sense the shopping spree was coming to an end. Margaret had handled payment at every store. I had formal wear, businesswear, and street clothes that a rich goth would slunk around in. We’d been at it for the better part of the afternoon, and I was confident she had no intention of having dinner with me.
She insisted that I try on one final pair of jeans. It was odd. I clocked that. She hadn’t offered any opinions on any of my mall selections. So when I was standing in the dressing room in my panties and a t-shirt and heard the door open, I was hardly surprised.
I turned around to find Leslie closing the door behind her.
This dressing room. It was huge. There were two chairs in it. She sat in one and motioned me toward the other. Never one to put too much stock in modesty, I shrugged and sat down without pants on.
Leslie is both stunningly beautiful and completely forgettable in an environment like this. She looks like any other wealthy suburbanite out for an afternoon of retail therapy and cocktails. She wore tight, dark grey slacks that I’m sure hugged her ass like they were tailored for it. Hell, they might have been. She paired that with a simple blouse showing just enough cleavage to draw attention but not enough to seem racy. Her dirty blonde hair was swept back, giving her an easy-going look that probably took 45 minutes to create.
“The cats are cute,” Leslie said with a smirk.
I like cute panties. Sue me.
I’ll also admit that I like Leslie. We’ve had more interactions than I’ve had with Margaret, but I wouldn’t say I know her well. Still, she’s charming, direct, cold-blooded, and smart. What’s not to like? She has this Dommy Mommy vibe going that turns me on a little, if I’m completely candid.
I know she’s dangerous. That’s part of the appeal.
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to let on that I was delighted she even looked at my underwear.
“Let’s talk about the job,” she said.
“Leslie, I’m happy to share a dressing room with you anytime, but you could just text me like a normal person. There’s no reason to go all cloak-and-dagger.”
She pretended to pick lint from her slacks, as if there was any to pick. “You’re smart, Mary. You know all of this is a test.”
“What? See if I’ll jump and scream when someone walks into a room while I’m half naked?”
“You’re not half naked,” she countered.
I rolled my eyes.
“I wanted to see you keep your cool for myself,” she clarified. “It’s one thing to hear Simon, or even Margaret, say you have a level head when things slip sideways on you. It’s another thing to see it for myself.”
“Fair enough,” I admitted. “Did I pass?”
She laughed. “For now. But Mary, the tests never stop.”
Don’t I know it?
“What about the job?” I asked.
“I’d like you to come by my office tomorrow. I’ll have a dossier, suggested timeline, client objective, and some psych reports ready for you. Plus, the contract itself—complete with payment information. Simon won’t be there. He’ll help you with the final schematics and planning, but you’re on your own for this part, kiddo. He wanted it that way.”
“How very thoughtful of him,” I said, laced with sarcasm.
“It really is,” she said. “He rarely trusts anyone.”
I smirked. “I’m not naive enough to take this as a sign of trust. I know how Simon is. One more test.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. “They never stop.”
“What time?” I asked.
“2:00 sharp,” she said. “Bring me a coffee, please.”
“I’m not your assistant,” I said.
“That’s why I said please.”
With that, she stood, pivoted, and left. And I was right about her ass in those slacks. Goddamn.