“Hey, Spike, does it feel like it’s been two fucking months already to you too?” I ask.

“Yeah, bud. Weird, isn't it?” he replies, as he puts down his phone. He shakes his head, eyes scrunched shut as he fights off the strange feeling.

“It feels like it’s been an entire year for me.” says the Mrs, as she tries to smooth out the shirt I gave her. Spike opted not to spend our hard-earned credits on clothes the Mrs. wouldn’t wear anyways. After an hour of us forcing it on her, then forcing her to keep it on, she’s finally relented. It hangs just above her knees, billowing out halfway down her arms. “Could you not give me some pants as well?”

“No can do, ma’am. This is the only pair I have with me.” I say, as I pull up the waist. Black jeans are almost a must in this line of work, able to handle tough stains and grabby fingers. “We were gonna buy you some fresh clothes, but you wanted to be difficult.”

She wrinkles her nose, her eyebrows furrowing together. “Your only pair? How long did you expect to stay here?”

“About a month.” I reply, as I smooth out the wrinkle in my pants.

“That… Is disgusting.” She says, as she tilts her nose up in disgust. A second later, realization dawns on her, and she grabs the hem of the shirt she’s wearing and takes a deep whiff.

After a second sniff test, she lets go of it. “At least you washed this at some point.”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s go with that.” I reply, as I lean back into my chair. Spike looks towards the Mrs, his one eyebrow raised.

“If you think that’s disgusting, you should see the state you left that bathtub in.”

She turns beet-red, as she turns her face away from him, arms crossed once again and nose turned up.

“Spike, this is fun and all, but when’s the client flying down?” I ask, as I pick up the empty box of smokes for the fifth time in a row. I give it a shake to make absolutely sure we’re out.

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Nothing.

With a sigh, I drop it back on the table.

After many hours of debate, some plates being thrown and knives being drawn, we came to the conclusion that the easiest way to sneak her out the country was to just call the client and tell him to pick her up. He can just wave his billionaire dick around and get her out, no questions asked.

I doubt we could do the same, unless they accept smokes as bribes.

Even if they did, we’re all out of smokes.

“He said a few hours, he’ll let us know when he lands.” he replies, as he sighs and leans back. His chair creaks in protest. “Hey, how about you go out and buy us some smokes?”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing the room key and getting up from the chair, “good luck with this one.”

Spike nods, shoots a glare at the Mrs back and goes back to his phone.

I walk to the door and slide the key in. I unlock it and step outside, feeling the warm afternoon heat hit me. I close the door and lock it again, twisting the handle to double check.

Finally, a few minutes of freedom.

I let out a sigh, stretching as I look down the red corridor. Man, it feels like forever since I’ve been out here.

Turning on my heels, I make my way down the stairs, hands in my pockets.

As I walk into the foyer, my blood turns cold.

A policeman is talking to the receptionist.

I take a breath, telling myself to calm down. He could be here for anything. Maybe the receptionist lost something and is filing a report, or maybe they’re friends and he’s just on a coffee break and decided to pop by?

I can’t hear what they’re saying from this distance, and if I stand here too long, I’ll look suspicious.

I take a few easy steps towards them, keeping my shoulders relaxed. I try to look as touristy as possible. As I get closer, the receptionist stops talking mid-sentence and glances at me. The policeman turns to look at me as well, giving me a hard glare.

I nod to him. “Afternoon.” I say, keeping my voice level.

He gives me a nod back, his stare lingering on me for a second longer before he turns back to the receptionist. He asks her something under his breath, and the receptionist answers quietly.

I feel a shiver run down my spine, as I casually walk outside the front door.

That’s not a good sign. Intuition is one of the strongest tools of the trade, and mine is telling me that something’s not right.