Free Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) by Brett Battles, Robert Gregory Browne

you?”
    “Not even close. They rejected me outright.”
    He frowned. “Why?”
    She took out one of the butterfly bandages and ripped open the wrapper. “That’s another long and boring part,” she said, the edge creeping back into her voice, “and I’d rather not get into it, if you don’t mind.”
    “We can stop talking altogether, if you prefer.” He gestured to the wound. “You have my life in your hands.”
    She laughed and started applying the first bandage. “Trust me, this little thing isn’t even close to life threatening. You probably won’t even feel it in a day or two. I doubt it’ll leave a scar.”
    He let her work for a moment, then said, “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you go from Legal Studies and Anthropology to working as a…fugitive retrieval specialist?”
    “Simple. I met a guy at a party, we got to talking and hit it off.”
    “A boyfriend?”
    She laughed again. “No. Turned out he’d been doing trace work for a bondsman, but wanted to strike out on his own and needed a partner. With my background and training, he thought I might be a good fit.”
    “I suppose in a profession like that, being a woman has its advantages.”
    “Being a woman always has its advantages.” She finished up and patted his bare chest. “And it looks like my work here is done.”
    Gathering the wrappers, washcloths, and first-aid kit, she got to her feet, but before she could take a step, Gérard grabbed hold of her wrist. It was a gentle enough move, but most men would have regretted making it.
    “There’s no hurry,” he told her. “I’m too wired to sleep. Stay for a while. Talk.”
    She looked around the bedroom. “In here?”
    He gestured to the doorway. “We can go out to the sitting room if you like. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
    He was smiling again. She thought for a moment, then set the washcloths and first-aid kit on the nightstand.
    “No,” she said. “This is fine.”
    Then, in a move that surprised her even more than it did Gérard, she climbed onto the bed and kissed him.
    He didn’t seem to have any trouble kissing her back.

    Now here she was, lying in the dark, still unsure what had possessed her to climb into his bed in the first place.
    Maybe it was simple. Maybe at that moment she had needed to be close to someone. Maybe his charm and drunken attempt at gallantry and her own attempts at playing nursemaid had gotten all the right synapses firing and the rest was inevitable.
    Whatever the case, it was done, and she needed to get the hell out of there. And when Gérard came back for more, assuming he would, she’d explain that everything from here on out was strictly business. She just wanted to make this deal and go home.
    When it came down to it, he probably wanted the same thing.
    After pushing the sheet aside, she carefully extricated herself from the bed and searched the floor for her clothes. She found her jeans and underwear lying on one side of the room, her T-shirt on the other, and didn’t remember removing any of them.
    Jesus, Alex. What are you, an animal?
    She heard Gérard stir and suddenly felt vulnerable standing there in the buff. She got dressed as quickly as possible, scooped up the mugger’s gun from the dresser, and tucked it in her waistband. Tiptoeing over to the nightstand, she kept her gaze on Gérard, then quietly slid open the drawer, and removed a pad and pen, both stamped with the Largo Inn logo.
    She stood hunched over the pad, pen ready, trying to figure out what to write. She got as far as Dear Thomas and stopped, ripped off the sheet and crumpled it in disgust before returning the pad and pen to the drawer.
    After checking to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind, she went to the door and let herself out.

    When Alex was gone, the man who was calling himself Thomas Gérard opened his eyes and reached for his mobile phone on the nightstand. Punching in a speed-dial number, he climbed out of bed and