Disinherited trust fund baby becomes an escort specializing in helping older women live their wildest romantic fantasies. (MATURE)
CHASTAIN DEVILLIER, 20, is the loose cannon in a wealthy family descended from two very long and very aristocratic B...
"Flashlights?" Cici said, reaching for one of the little gizmos on the bed.
I caught her hand and said, "Whoa—careful." And unscrewed the end of one of them to show her the bullet in it. Twenty-two calibre "one shots," they were. Four of them.
Cici laughed and said, "Oh, my God! They look like those real bright flashlights women keep in their purses sometimes."
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"Precisely. They're mostly only good for scaring someone off, though they can do some damage point blank. But this one..."
"There's more?"
I showed her my double-barreled Ideal Conceal Derringer (.380 rifle round) that looks just like a cell phone. And then the "Lifecard" (.22) that folded to fit in an Altoids box.
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Guy had called them our "Bond guns." We carried at least one at all times--Ma Mere refused, though.
"They'll just snatch it and shoot me with it," was her rationale.
And it was one of the scenarios we'd been prepared for by a trainer who taught us a few last ditch moves for those situations I told you about a long time ago. Guy even had a pill of some sort to bite down on in the face of some awful, inevitable death.
I don't know if he was given them or had them made himself, but I remember the creepy feeling I got as we were going through those training sessions. Made things 'way too real.
"You keep them loaded like that?" she asked, examining the one that looked, for all the world, like an iPhone.
I looked her in the eyes and said, "Not usually."
"You can't shoot cops, Chastain."
"We're going over to that Chucho guy's place. And if we have to cross over—"
"I will cross over. That's what we agreed on."
I held up the Altoids box and said, "And you'll take this one with you. C'mon."
