Gabriel (Legacy Series Book 2) Read online

  “He dresses well, smart, good looking.”

  Cam moved closer to the screens and turned his head so he could try and see the picture. He couldn’t make much out, but if Six said that Brunet Seven was there—or B7 as he shortened it in his head—then he was. The Stafford Royal was an elite boutique hotel, and Six was former Special Forces and in charge of all things security. If he said a target was there and had detailed descriptions and opinions, then that was fact.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “That was me saying he was smart and good looking…for a damn hooker.”

  Cam ignored his friend’s anxiety and focused on the task at hand. “What does your spooky sixth sense tell you?” He waggled his fingers next to his head as he said that.

  Six slapped one of his hands. “Stop that shit,” he groused.

  Micah Carlisle carried the nickname Six with pride, even though he said it held some pretty shit memories that he refused to share with Cam. He had a weird kind of sixth sense that gave him a heads-up in questionable situations.

  “Couldn’t resist,” Cam teased. “So tell me what you think.”

  Six was suspiciously quiet, then he let out another noisy sigh. “He’s focused, intense, not flashy, walks straight all the time, like he has a purpose. There’s just this feeling I have that he’s way more complicated than a hooker should be.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “Yeah, right,” Six muttered with a sniff.

  “How long has the escort been here?”

  Six cursed again. “I could decide not to tell you anything else. Not like you can see where he is anyway.”

  “And there you are using a blind joke,” Cam said with a mock sigh. “Anyway, you know damn well I’d ask reception.”

  “They don’t know where he is; he came straight through. Hookers don’t check in at the front desk—”

  “Tell me.”

  “Fuck.” There was a rush of air in the room, then the noise of something hitting the wall; sounded like a mug, from the crash of china. Hell, Six really wasn’t happy about this, and Cam felt a prickle of guilt; after all, Six was there to look out for him like he had for years now.

  That gave him pause. Was he being insane? Why didn’t he find some other way to get a plus-one? Six was the nearest thing he had to a father-figure, given that he only ever saw his dad on holidays. Six was also Cam’s best friend; the only one he trusted to have his back.

  So why the hell was he doing this? He knew the answer lay somewhere in the middle of not wanting to open himself up to a potential boyfriend, even if he could find one he liked enough in the first place. He was told so many lies he could see through them just from the tone they were delivered in.

  “Cam, please, I want you to think this through properly.”

  “Six. Help me.” Cam pushed enough affection into his voice to say that he acknowledged how Six felt. And that yes, Six was more his father than his own dad was, and yes, he was his best friend. Then he added the killer blow, the single word that had had Six wrapped around Cam’s little finger since Cam was twelve. “Please.”

  Six sat down heavily in the chair, and Cam heard it squeak and shake and roll back a little. He imagined Six’s strings being cut and his legs no longer able to hold him upright.

  “Brunet Seven entered room 1207 at approximately 11:23.” Six’s tone was tight.

  Cam did some quick calculations in his head. “Who’s in that room?”

  “Young guy, works for a tech company, first stay I can find.”

  “Not one of our regulars, then.”

  “Nope.”

  There was a delicate balance in any hotel. The people who stayed on the prestigious upper floors had money, a lot of money, with each room costing eight hundred a night minimum. 1207 was one of the cheaper rooms at nine hundred, but it didn’t matter what people paid for their room, every guest was important at the Stafford Royal. Some businesspeople, the staple of their luxury rooms, brought their family. A couple of regulars had dogs that went everywhere with them. A lot had partners who met them at the hotel. And some hired in escorts for sex. It wasn’t Cam’s job to judge a single person who stayed there.

  But B7 intrigued him and worried him at the same time, and also fit the exact criteria for what he needed.

  There was a healthy exchange of sex in this place, from the twenty-dollar hookers to the upper-class escorts. Somehow B7 seemed more at the upper end than the lower. Of course, Cam would have to rely on Six’s detailed assessment.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Hispanic ancestry, six feet, dark eyes and hair. Immaculate suit, muted color shirt, no tie, wears a chain around his neck and leather bracelets on his wrists. His shoes have a polish you could see your face in.”

  “Wait, you’ve seen his eyes and his shoes? You’ve been that close to him?”

  Six noticed details like shiny shoes—that was what made him so good at his job.

  “Of course I have,” Six said, sounding affronted that Cam would question just how well he knew this hotel. “Up until four weeks ago, he had long hair in one of those man-buns. He chopped it off about a month back. Now it’s short, and he has a tidy beard that isn’t much of a beard at all. It used to be a lot thicker.”

  “Did you get anything on him?” Cam asked, and felt behind himself for the chair, sitting and waiting for more intel.

  “What makes you think I checked him out?”

  “Of course you did. You check them all out.”

  Six sighed. “Okay, so he lives in an apartment owned by one Stefan Milano. Second floor, nice area, so fucking for money must pay for him to rent that. No car registered to his name. I spoke to a couple of neighbors.”

  “You actually went to his place?”

  Six said nothing at first, but Cam could imagine the look he was being given, one of impatience. “He’s a regular here, and you know I follow up any crap in this hotel,” he muttered. “Turns out our boy keeps himself to himself and doesn’t involve himself in the community. Not that it causes a problem. People say he smiles and that they think he works in insurance. They’ve heard some shouting some days, and some banging, but nothing that seemed to be enough to warrant calling the cops.”

  “And anyone he answers to? A staff member? A pimp? Does he work with anyone else?”

  “He shares his place with the owner of the apartment.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What else have you picked up?” This game intrigued him, and he wanted to know more.

  “When he’s at the hotel, he always uses the stairs to the third floor, then uses the elevator from there; post-appointment, he uses the elevator to the second floor and walks the rest of the way. Last week, on impulse, I tried to reach him before he got to the sidewalk, but he’s focused, and it wasn’t a well-thought-out maneuver on my part.”

  Six considered everything to the minutest detail, and would be pissed that this guy had somehow got past him.

  “Do you have a name for him? Something other than Brunet Seven?”

  “I’d prefer to file him as B7 for now.”

  “I need a name for him.”

  “Jesus. Okay. His name is Gabriel. That’s all I got; there wasn’t any mail in his box.”

  “You broke into his box?”

  “What did you think I’d do? Anyway, I can’t find much more without digging a lot deeper.”

  Cam knew that meant Six going to one of his old friends and taking the time to really dig around. That wasn’t necessary, and he’d said so. All Cam needed was to make sure that this Gabriel was for hire and that he knew the rules.

  “You’re sure about this?” Six asked one final time.

  Six never asked Cam more than once when he’d made a decision. In fact, Six was the only person in Cam’s life who didn’t fuss over him. There must be a reason for asking.

  “Why?”

  “This guy worries me, okay? Something about him. He�
�s edgy and cautious, and even though he dresses well, there’s more to him, and I don’t like it.”

  Cam nodded. “I’ll watch out for that.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Six said and Cam sighed inwardly. Six never made a fuss about Cam and his ability—or inability—to do anything, but this was different.

  “Please don’t,” he murmured, and heard the soft exhalation from Six that spoke volumes. Six had been his right-hand man since he was a kid and things had started to go wrong. He’d been a bodyguard hired in by parents who didn’t want the responsibility of a kid who was going blind.

  “Take this,” Six said, and placed a small earpiece in his hand. Cam pushed it into his ear. “I wish you’d let me mic up the elevators.”

  “We discussed this. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Fucking hookers, using our place like a brothel,” Six muttered under his breath, as if there wasn’t a one hundred percent probability of Cam hearing him. Then he muttered something so low that not even Cam could hear it.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “There’s no eyes or ears on the inside of that elevator—”

  “I’m mic’d up, and anyway you’ll be waiting here, and you have the override codes if we need them.”

  “Cam—”

  “I only need him for one evening for a dinner. I think I can handle booking a hooker,” he said with steel in the words.

  They sat in silence until the door to 1207 opened. “We have movement,” Six said, and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Showtime.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gabe waited for the elevator, a nice fifty in his back pocket and the satisfying hum of success in his head. That would be a new client. A potential regular, he thought. Short, tidy, clean, rich, and all he’d wanted was a blowjob. Gabe’s kind of client. The client had booked for the next time he was in Dallas in a couple of months, and Gabe had texted a note to Stefan. What he liked most about the guy was that he didn’t talk too much. His name was Mike, he was there on business, and he’d wanted Gabe on his knees with his hands behind his back, just using his mouth to get Mike off.

  Easy stuff.

  The first time someone went to hold his head post the shitfest a while back, he’d lost rhythm, but tonight there’d been no sign of the tense awareness that he’d carried with him for quite a few clients. Also, his hair wasn’t exactly grippable anymore, if that was even a word. It was short and neat and gave very little for a client to hold on to.

  Stefan had taken him to get it styled properly, looking out for him so he didn’t look as much of an idiot as Stefan said he did. Not having the length around him, or the weight of the bun pulled up, was an odd feeling, but he was slowly getting more used to it.

  The elevator arrived and he walked in, pressing the button for the third floor, and the doors closed. Getting off at the third floor and walking the rest of the way was just a matter of self-preservation. No escort worth his salt was caught too many times on hotel cameras, not if the anonymity the clients paid for was going to stay intact.

  The elevator moved, but to his consternation it began to rise, going from this floor, the twelfth, to the fifteenth, which he knew was the top floor, the executive apartments. Money. He straightened and checked himself in the mirror, seeing only the tidy young urbane, slightly worn man looking back at him. His knees were a little sore, but that wasn’t a new thing; if anything his knees were probably fucked anyway, given the pain he felt in them at times.

  The car stopped and the doors opened, and a man stepped in—short, blond, cute, and dripping with money in his tailored pants and shirt. His hair was styled neatly, his face clean shaven and his scent fresh and not messed up with cologne. He was probably a few years older than Gabe—probably thirty or so—and without a suit jacket, his ass was nicely on show in well-fitted pants.

  Possibly a future client?

  Stefan’s voice rang in his ears. They come to you. You don’t fucking tout for it. Clear?

  Yep, he was clear, but this guy, all preppy and toned? In a fantasy world, he’d be inclined to do him for free.

  The first time, at least.

  Gorgeous Guy slid his finger along the rack of elevator buttons, locating lobby, and pressed, but he didn’t turn to talk to Gabe, who leaned back against the bar that went around the three solid walls of the elevator. He must be rich if he was coming down from the top floors, and Gabe almost handed him a card, then thought better of it when Stefan’s voice rang louder than his own.

  The elevator began to move, a smooth ride, the softness of carpet beneath his feet, soft piped classical music barely noticeable. The interior was mirrored glass, and it was big enough for a man to lie down, if slightly bent like a pretzel. And no, he wasn’t entirely sure where that thought had come from.

  He rolled his neck, heard the crack, and grimaced. He needed a hot shower before his next appointment, but he wasn’t sure he’d have time.

  The elevator lurched and came to a stop around halfway between levels eight and nine, a grinding, abrupt halt.

  “What the fuck?” Gabriel said on a sharp exhalation. He waited for a moment, but the elevator didn’t move and the blond didn’t seem perturbed at all. He didn’t turn to face Gabriel in the socially acceptable way two men in a situation like this might do.

  “You may want to sit down,” the stranger said, his tone soft and his accent less Texas south and more Dallas cultured. Still facing away, he gripped the rail and slid down the wall, making himself comfortable with his back to the polished mirrored interior and his legs outstretched. “This may take some time.”

  He hadn’t even pressed the button to call for help, so Gabriel took it upon himself to do just that. Nothing. No instant connection to reception, or the fire service, or whoever the hell was supposed to come to their rescue.

  Gabe moved closer and pressed other buttons. All the buttons. Including the emergency alarm again.

  Nothing. No response, no movement of the car, no soothing voice saying that emergency services had been dispatched.

  His chest tightened. He hated small spaces, and to be trapped and unable to get out…

  “This happened last week,” his companion said, just loud enough to get through the rising panic that was gripping Gabe. “They fixed it in twenty. Sit down.”

  “Jesus,” Gabriel said, and leaned back against the wall, trying to get comfortable with his ass against the rail, then giving up and sliding down to sit opposite Blondie.

  Hank would lock him away when they were expecting guests, back when he was a kid. Lock him in so he couldn’t run and ruin the party. Lock him in and not let him out for hours…until he was needed

  I can’t do this. Help me. I can’t stay in here.

  The man thrust out his hand. “Cameron,” he offered. “Cam,” he amended.

  Gabriel forced himself to look at his companion, the man’s calm snapping his panic. What the hell was he doing talking to Gabriel?

  No way was he going to talk to a perfect stranger. Stefan wouldn’t be happy if Gabriel went outside the prescribed client list he managed. Also, the two of them were stuck in an elevator, none of the buttons were working, and panic was poking insistently at him.

  So he settled back on the words from Stefan he could use as inspiration.

  Always pull the mask down, Gabe. Never let the real you out. Because they’ll take that from you again.

  Cam’s hand didn’t waver, and finally, with Stefan’s mantra in his head, Gabe shook it. He could do normal—he could be normal.

  “Gabriel.”

  They shook and released, then Cam loosened his tie.

  Gabriel also settled back—no point in sitting and worrying if Cam was right and they were stuck there. He pulled out his cell. There was no reception, but he typed out a quick text to Stefan in the vague hope it would somehow connect—otherwise he was going to be in a whole lot of shit when he got out of here.

  “You need to be somewhere?” Cam asked, and Gabriel saw him
push his dark-lensed glasses back up his nose. From the way he did that, it looked like they had a habit of slipping. Panic rose again, and he had to concentrate on the here and now, try to forget his past and focus on the moron who sat opposite him.

  Why was he wearing sunglasses indoors? Only douchebags of the highest order did that. Added to which, Gabriel liked to look people in the eyes. You only had the real measure of a person if you could see the emotions that were betrayed in their eyes.

  This is good. Focus on the douchebag, not on being trapped with no way out.

  “An appointment,” Gabriel answered, his voice steady and not betraying his panic. Cam was looking right at him and evidently expecting an answer. He couldn’t exactly ignore the man—after all, a potential client was always worth working on if it wasn’t so obviously an undercover cop that it meant you ended up getting arrested.

  Stefan was right; the cops hated people like Gabriel.

  Another one of Stefan’s mantras.

  “In this hotel?” Cam asked, tilting his head a little as he spoke.

  Gabriel pulled himself back from silent contemplation and pasted a polite smile on his face. “Sorry?”

  Cam cleared his throat and laced his fingers together in his lap. “Is your next sex, liaison, booking, or however you describe it, in this hotel or another one?”

  More silence; an absolute stillness as Gabriel’s mind raced with what he’d just been asked. He replayed the question, but there was nothing in that simple sentence that left him in any doubt at all about what Cam was asking.

  Let me out of here. Someone help me.

  He could ignore the question, and any minute now the elevator would start to move and he and Cam would go their separate ways. In fact, that was exactly what he was going to do. He pulled his knees up, wincing internally at the ache in them, not letting any of that show on his face.

  But fuck if Cam didn’t keep talking.

  “We know the hotel is one of your regular venues for hookups,” he said, unlacing his fingers and lacing them again.

  Gabriel was good at reading people. He could tell when a client was going to come, knew if he was the grabbing type, knew the ones who shouted, the ones who silently orgasmed, and some he knew would cry. He read faces and body language because he had to—it kept him alive. And Cam was nervous, maybe unsure of what he was asking.