Ardent Sunlight

There's something to be said for crashing parties.

Not that it wouldn't be nice, of course, to actually be invited to one for once. But it seems the wine is so much sweeter when it was meant for someone else, the caviar more wasteful on her plate than would be for someone intended. Oh, and the rich, married men like hyenas drinking in the sight of her to slake their thirst—so much easier to suffer when she has something to gain from it.

Still, she doesn't get paid enough for this.

The dress Ace picked out is really more of a shirt with delusions of grandeur. The stretched fabric, luckily, does cover her ass before cutting off at an indecent length. Not to mention her breasts look as though they are being prepped for auction. Honestly, who makes dresses like these? Without the singular problem of not being able to breathe in such a creation, Alexis is at a complete loss as to where to hide a weapon. There's simply no room inside the garment for anything but her body.

In fact, she's not sure there's room enough even for that. Maybe it's a size too small?

"How's the dress?" A round of egregious wolf whistles sends the receiver in her ear screeching into overdrive, more painful than nails on a chalkboard. The commotion removes any uncertainty about the deliberateness of Ace's clothing choice.

Men. Figures.

She's half a mind to turn back down these stairs and drive a bullet through her asshole techie's skull. "Well, how kind of you to ask, Ace. Perhaps next time you can buy me a dress and not a fucking singlet. This is a five star hotel, idiot. They're hardly going to let me in if they can see my underwear."

"Then it's a good thing you don't wear any, Bait."

The clack clack clack of her nude stilettos echo through the receiver as she climbs the stairs to the hotel lobby. "Asshole," she mutters—a sentiment met by chuckles.

Long blonde hair tumbles across her shoulders, bouncing in the corner of her vision. Hugh's vision is undeniable, but she hates going blonde, for the looks she gets from all manner of men. Like being pretty means you're stupid, too.

She'll simply have to use the prejudice to her advantage.

The concierge's eyes widen to perhaps three times their natural size when she approaches the front desk. The colour red had always been her weapon of choice, and that was no different now. She tosses her long blonde hair to one side, baring the soft curve of her neck. The boy must be all of eighteen years old and he looks petrified, as though completely unaware of how to speak to beautiful women.

"Mr. Alderman," Ace's voice reminds her.

She smiles sweetly at the boy. "Mr. Alderman sent for me," she told him. "I believe he's in the grand hall. Could you take me there?"

The boy stays frozen for a moment, and then makes a concerted effort to close his mouth before nodding silently. He steps out from behind the desk and motions her to follow him. The boy is stiff-spined and sneaking glances at her beside him as he navigates corridors and stops before an elevator.

"Ten bucks says he comes in his pants," says Ace, laughing into her ear. She fights the smirk rising on her lips when Hugh offers to take that bet.

The elevator dings open before them, and she steps inside, the boy on her heels. "Level four," he says to the bellhop, his voice a low croak. He coughs as if to clear it. "Level four," he tries again, more clearly this time.

As the doors close, she lets her purse fall to the floor, lipstick rolling towards the bellhop's feet. "How clumsy of me," she smiles, a silent laugh to match the ones from her friends listening in. She crouched to the floor, feeling two pairs of eyes on her cleavage as she collects the purse. She coughs politely at the bellhop, who stumbles as he reaches for her lipstick.

"Here you go, madam," he said, passing it to her. She tucks it back into her purse with a wink at the boy beside her.

He seems to visibly shake, but otherwise maintains his composure.

"Pay up, man," Hugh's voice says in her ear. With a grumble, she hears Ace comply.

"He hasn't arrived yet," Ace informs her through the earpiece. "Wait by the bar, we'll let you know when he comes in."

With nothing but a smile and a quick word, she finds herself seated at the bar, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand. Men and women in all their finery mess around her at tables and couches. Mr. Alderman, billionaire gavant, wasted no expense on this fine party. But despite her misleading statements to the help, she was here for someone else entirely.

"Mrs. Keating will not be attending, as Mr. Keating intends to bring his girlfriend instead."

Alexis sipped the wine, sweet and tart at once in her mouth. "And what do we know of Mr. Keating's girlfriend?" She murmured softly into her glass.

"Twenty-two years old. Fake tits, loves his credit card. She's been known to have dalliances of her own, so Hugh's preparing his best suit now. I don't suppose we should remind you not to interact with him when he arrives."

"I'm not a moron, Ace. And we've done this dozens of times before."

"The mistress' name is Paige," she hears Ace saying—clearly directed to someone else. Hugh, probably. "She has blonde hair, and will be wearing a blue dress with black heels."

"They're on their way now?" Alexis guesses softly.

She hears an even, steady breath from Ace. "Pulling up outside the hotel as we speak."

"Divide an conquer?"

"See if you can get Mr. Keating to come to you at the bar, Bait." From the corner of her eye, she can see Hugh, soft brown hair brushing the collar of his crisp shirt. His cool grey eyes fleetingly meet her own before he sweeps into the throng of people on couches. "Otherwise we'll send Hugh in to charm away sweet Paige."

She taps her manicured fingers against the curve of her glass, condensation from the chill wine clinging to her skin. Any second now.

She recognises him immediately from the pictures. Thin, pale yellow hair like straw. Slightly rotund belly. Paleness around his eyes that shows a man in his sixties who should most definitely not be getting a fake tan. But worst of all is that smile—that hideous, horrible smirk. The cat that has the cream. She'd like to tear it from his face with her lethal fingers.

Beside him is a young woman, just as Ace had said. Huge, obviously fake rack. Messy, tangled blonde hair and smeared lipstick, no doubt from the limousine ride over. Her sky blue dress stops just short of her knees, the illusion of modesty almost making her snort into her drink. Keating's right hand was hidden behind her, but the angle she knows so well—from the other side she'd see that small, orange hand squeezing her young, supple ass.

It almost makes her want to vomit, but dammit she is a professional.

She manages to hold down her wine as his beady eyes catch her own and he throws her one of those slimy smiles. She keeps her spine ramrod straight as those beady eyes drink in the sight of her. Short red dress. Soft, pale skin. Slender limbs, implying a weakness that did not belong to her.

She turns back to the bar, feigning disinterest.

"He's on his way to you, Bait."

Alexis placed her now-empty glass on the bar before her, feeling Keating's gaze on her back. "You're a pretty young thing," comes the voice behind her. She tries not to shudder at the leer she knows he's fixing on her.

She turns on her stool, legs crossed. Her left foot taps against his thigh when she turns, and she looks up toward that self-assured gaze. "Excuse me?" She purred at him.

He rests one of those clammy hands on her exposed thigh and leans toward her. "You're a ten," he tells her, as though that remark was one of the biggest compliments Alexis would have heard in her lifetime. "What's your name, beautiful?"

Behind him, she can see Hugh hand in hand with Keating's pretty young thing, as she leads him towards the left side of the hall, into a secluded, private booth.

She fixes her gaze on the rich sycophant before her. The blue contact lenses sting her eyes ever so slightly, but she endures, hoping the sheen in her eyes will be mistaken for something else. "Does it matter?" She murmurs.

There's a twinkle in his eyes that she recognises immediately.

Gotcha.

"I keep a room upstairs," he smirks to her. "I'd like to take you there."

She slid off the stool, her heels affording him the height to meet his eyes. His hand slid up to her waist, and she moved into the movement, keeping that false smile on her lips. She is used to old, rich men treating her body like a commodity that can be bought and used at their pleasure. But it never fails to send a shiver of disgust through her when the hand inevitably slides over her ass.

"Lead the way," she tells him.

With his hand on the small of her back, he leads her away from the bar, her empty glass long removed by the bartender. While they wait by the elevator with his hot breath on her ear, she takes a glance back toward the bar where she had been sitting moments ago.

Dark, tangled hair. Steely blue eyes. A mess of stubble on his strong jaw.

Oh, Alexis thought. Beautiful.

He sat alone, nursing a tumbler of dark, golden liquid. His eyes caught hers as he took a long draught of the drink. He wore a soft woollen coat and a dark dress shirt underneath. For a tense, heavy moment she thought of seeking him out once she had dealt with the man beside her, and then reminded herself of the risk such a dalliance would cause. She can scratch an itch later, elsewhere, if she needs to.

The view of the man at the bar disappears as she steps into the elevator with Keating. She fixes the smile back on her face, ever the mask for the viper within.

When they reach Keating's room, he has his hand on her breast before the door is even unlocked. Alexis fumbles with her purse as they slip through the door into the opulence of his hotel room. She spies the painting of a horse on the far wall from the corner of her eye before the man in front of her starts unbuckling his pants.

With a grin, she pushes him backwards towards the bed, shoving him down on it as she climbs atop him. The very thought of sleeping with him makes her want to gag, but she holds that seductive smile and moves forward to unbutton his crisp white shirt.

"Just beautiful," he smirks at her, so self-assured, so arrogant. His hands slide up and down her sides, along her thighs. She allows herself to revel in the glee of what he has coming, just to wash away the slimy feeling of him touching her. Honestly, she doesn't know how Paige does it, but then, money is often a seductress more powerful than even she.

"Thank you, Ronald," she hisses, seeing the alarm register in his eyes when he realises he never told her his name. Like lightening, she strikes forward, slamming the syringe of ketamine into his neck.

He tries to grab at her as she darts away, but his eyes are already going foggy, and in mere moments, he is deeply asleep on the bed.

Alexis rifles through drawers and cabinets, grabbing a bottle of what looks like scotch. Using cotton from the medicine drawer, she dabs the liquor around his neck and drips some into his open mouth. With a firm, practiced grace she tugs down his pants, laughing at the small dick that flops free.

"Ace, you owe Hugh another ten when he gets back." Ace swears profusely down the line, enquiring about the size. "Nothing to write home about," she laughs back.

She finds a condom in the bedside drawer, and rips it open. The condom she throws straight in the trashcan of the gold-trimmed bathroom, and the wrapper gets discarded on the bed next to the unconscious Keating.

She kneels over his sleeping form, finds the entry point of the syringe on his neck and takes a moment to bite the skin around the bruise forming. She makes no attempt to be gentle, and relishes in the blood pooling just beneath the skin.

When he wakes, he'll be greeted with an excruciating headache, which he'll blame on the booze, and what looks like a hickey on his neck. He'll barely remember a hot blonde in a red dress that he thinks he got lucky with and will be none the wiser.

Her handiwork done, she turns and sweeps around the room looking for the painting—there—and rushes over to it, lifting it and depositing it gently on the floor. Behind it, as Ace had foretold her, was the black door of a safe.

"How much time do I have?" She asked through the receiver. She's broken safes like this before, but heavy duty always meant longer.

"Five minutes," Ace warns her.

Alexis slips on a cream glove from her purse and gets to work on the task before her. "Did you get the code?" Because if not, five minutes won't be enough.

"Five — eight — two — seven."

She swears she could kiss him when he comes through for her yet again. The safe clicks open smoothly, and she takes quick inventory of the contents. The gun she leaves, but the cash she pulls into the hidden lining of her purse. Tucked in the corner of the safe, as advised, is a small black felt bag, filled—if intel is to be believed—with pure diamonds. These she takes as well. A quick glance in the bag reveals maybe a hundred individual diamonds, each around one carat in size.

"How'd we go?"

"One point two. Maybe one point three," Alexis mutters back, glancing furtively at the tiny camera in the corner of the room which Ace had sworn he disabled. One million dollars. Not bad for a few hours work. Ace and Sweet had done all the digging, anyway. Her job was to look pretty and lift the cash.

Fifty percent goes straight to their illustrious benefactor. Another ten percent for costs. The remainder would be split between them—she might get close to a hundred thousand herself.

The safe closes with a soft thud. She returns the painting to its position on the wall and hikes the strap of her purse over her shoulder. With a furtive glance over her shoulder at the still-sleeping Keating, she slips back through the door of the hotel room.

The hallway is empty, silent. She can hear the distant sound of the party downstairs, her mind wandering to that solitary stranger at the bar. Alexis turns her back on the elevator and follows Ace's directions down the hallway—and her way out.

In the morning, perhaps, Keating would realise he had been robbed. But she would be nothing more than the whisper of a memory, her blonde wig in the trashcan of some forgotten alleyway, her bank account a hundred thousand dollars richer.

Okay. So she loved her job.