"I feel like an Italian mobster."¹
Lee glanced at Ross, couldn't help but smirk as he watched the older man fiddle with the black tie around his neck. "Yeah, you look like one."
"And you look like a fucking transporter² or something. You know – a chauffeur."
"Chauffeurs always get to drive around the pretty and rich ladies."
Ross shook his head, straightened the tie. The black suit jacket was almost too tight, the slacks creased unprofessionally down the middle. Ross sighed, his toes stifled within the confines of his leather dress shoes. He eyed Christmas. The Brit laced up the last of his shoes, stood up to admire himself in the mirror. After a few adjustments to the collar and to his tie, the knife specialist nodded his head, turned away from the reflective glass. He caught Ross looking at him, noticed the glare on the older man's face. Lee chuckled.
"What's the matter?" he asked Ross. "Never worn a suit before?"
"Not in a long time." Ross tugged at the collar, winced as the shoulders pinched tight. "I now remembered why I don't like them. They're a prison without bars."
"It's not that bad."
"Fuck off."
Christmas involuntarily flinched. In the past two days, Ross's tone had grown accusatory and angry towards Lee. The older man's remarks had turned snappish, edged with a viciousness that Christmas had rarely heard. Though still sharing with the Brit an occasional joke, Ross had turned to harsh sarcasm and curt, double-meaning words. Positive that the older man hadn't found out about Lee's one-night stand with Erin, the Brit was still nevertheless anxious. Unsure of what Erin had told him and Tool, who had also been visibly disgusted by Christmas's presence the past couple of days, Lee had grown wary. All the unvoiced anger and agitation was really starting to grate on his nerves.
"Talk about monkey suits," Hale quipped as he passed by, shaking his head. "There's a reason why I'm not a waiter anymore!"
"Waiter?" Toll Road turned to the black man. "You were a fucking waiter?"
"Damn right I was," Hale answered. "I was the best fucking waiter ever. I made a shitload of money from tips. Those rich ladies sure are generous when they get an eyeful of me."
"Keep on dreaming," Tool chuckled, clapping Hale hard on the back. "I hear you got a little flirtatious and was kicked down to washing dishes after you tried to plant a big ol' sloppy one on an old lady's forehead."
"You're kidding me!" Toll Road burst into a fit of laughter. "No shit?"
"It wasn't a fucking old lady," Hale defended himself, glared. "It was the richest twenty-year-old blonde I had ever met!"
"Who? Hilary Clinton?"
"Hey, man, I'm only forty-two!"
"Doesn't mean shit, Caesar."
"To hell with you!"
"Oh," Toll Road cooed, "I can't wait to meet you there."
A motorcycle roared into the garage, shaking the very ground the men stood on. Gunner stepped off the bike and approached them, his blonde hair falling over his forehead. A look of amusement and awe danced in his pupils as he spoke to the rest of the team, sans Yang.
"She's on her way," he explained. "She was right behind me."
"I don't hear a motorcycle," Tool pointed out.
"I didn't say she was riding her bike." Gunner smirked. "She's riding high-class tonight, though."
"She didn't rent a fucking limo, did she?" Christmas asked, surprisingly only half-serious.
"Nah. She just 'borrowed'," – Gunner made quotation marks in the air with his fingers – "a Rolls-Royce."
"A Rolls-Royce?" Hale's jaw dropped open. "You're fucking joking! No way in hell she got her hands on a Royce!"
"She knows how to work people over," Gunner stated, shrugging. "I don't know. All I know is that she called up some guy named Memphis³ and asked him if he could 'secure' her with a Royce."
And it rolled right on in. The Rolls-Royce came to a stop inside the garage, flanked on both sides by motorcycles. Chrome shining, the diamond-black color of its body glittering, the Phantom Drophead Coupé was the fashion statement of style. Lee inched forward, hands outstretched towards the revered British vehicle.
"It's been a long time since I've touched one of these babies," he murmured, reaching out to touch the hood; a slender hand slapped his away.
"Don't you dare touch," Erin snapped. "Memphis spent an hour cleaning that beauty for me, 'kay? I don't want anybody fucking up the shine, not even a fucking Brit!"
The men glanced at Erin, who had, somehow, gotten out of the car without any of them noticing. They all gaped.
Clad in a slender, form-fitting gown, Erin didn't look like herself at all. Her hair swept up into a semi-ponytail that let curly locks tumble down her neck and back, the woman didn't need much makeup to make herself presentable. A touch of gloss on her lips, just a teeny-weeny bit of eyeliner, and she was set to go. Her dress hung neatly against her body, conforming to her curves and lines, shaping her with delicate silkiness. It wrapped around Erin's neck and descended from there, the open back plunging low down her spine. Glimmering a silvery gray, the fabric split over her right leg – forming a teasing slit that exposed, occasionally, the small flash of smooth flesh – and sloped down to brush her ankles, settling over the second strap of her three-inch, matching silver high heels.
"Jesus," Erin muttered, laughed. "You boys better be careful. The mosquitoes around here are gonna have swarms in your mouths if you keep them open like that." She sauntered forward, heels hardly making a sound against the concrete. "You all better stop undressing me with your eyes, too."
The Expendables struggled to regain their composure. Tool, however, stepped forward to meet Erin, a silly grin plastered on his face, a leering look in his eyes. He circled Erin slowly, let his eyes travel up and down her body slowly. Erin, sensing the challenge, drew herself up to her full height, followed the tattoo artist with a haughty gaze. He smirked, grabbed her hand, planted a kiss on her skin.
"I am so honored," the man said, "to be graced with the presence of a lady."
"You flatter, Tool, you flatter," Erin replied, smiled. She let her hand follow the curve of her side and down her leg, batted her eyelashes in exaggerated provocation. "I'm glad you like, though." She winked at the tattoo artist, a silly grin splitting across her face; she turned to Ross, approached him slowly. "What do you think?"
"It's…" Ross trailed off, swallowed thickly. "It's beautiful."
"Mmm." Another coy smile played out on Erin's lips. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself." She let her eyes wander on Ross as she inspected his suit. "It definitely suits you. I expect to see you wear more of these."
"Fat chance!" Hale exclaimed, finally finding his voice.
"Oh, quiet, Hale!" Erin flapped a hand at him, bade him into silence. "Ross pulls off a suit better than you ever will."
"Burn!" Toll Road cried, spluttered into laughter. "She got you there, buddy."
"Be careful," Erin warned the short ex-wrestler. "I'll turn on you next."
"Even though I could stand here and watch Erin all night," Tool spoke up, "you three have a party to get to and a job to finalize."
Ross nodded his head, gestured to Erin. "We'd better go."
Christmas glanced up expectantly from the back of the Royce, having spent the last five minutes of conversation admiring the vehicle. He rose out of his half-crouch as Erin and Ross approached him and the car, a bit frustrated that he hadn't been able to get a good look at the Royce's undercarriage.
"Catch." Erin tossed the Royce's key to Christmas.
"You're letting me drive it?" Lee asked, staring at the key in disbelief.
"I figure that a Brit should drive a British car," Erin muttered, opening one of the car doors. She slipped into the back, gestured for Ross to sit in shotgun. "I'll be okay back here," she told him before Lee slid into the front seat.
Excited, Christmas slid the key into the ignition. The car rumbled to life, purred beneath him. Running a hand over the steering wheel delicately, oh-so-gently, the Brit backed the car out of the garage, guided the vehicle out onto the street and towards the Hyatt. The car drove like a dream, responding to each and every touch Lee gave it – not unlike a woman who was in the process of foreplay or making love with the Brit. The hushed conversation between Ross and Erin, exchanged over the front seat, went unheard by Christmas. He focused on the feeling of luxury and freedom, the tantalizing aspect of style and class. Here was a car he could ride for hours in without complaint, without even realizing that hours had gone by. When he pulled into the parking lot of the Hyatt and stepped out so the valet could park the car, he let go of the car reluctantly, almost certain that it would disappear as soon as he left it.
"Come on," Ross barked, snapping the Brit out of his musings. "We've got business to do."
Sighing, Christmas followed Erin and Ross into the building, noting with mild – could it be jealousy? – interest that Erin had looped her arm through Ross's, thus hanging off his elbow…as did all the other women accompanied by men who drifted towards the large ballroom where everything was taking place. A man, dressed prim and proper, standing as though as rod had been shoved up his ass, stood by the door, clipboard in hand.
"Name?" he asked in a bored monotone.
"Barney Ross."
After a few moments of flipping through the list, the man shook his head. "Barney Ross isn't on the list."
"How about Tool?"
"Tool?" The man flipped through the list again. "Ah, here it is. Party of three, I presume?"
"You presumed correctly," Erin answered, offering the blonde-haired man a pretty smile. "We were invited by a good friend of ours. He's about yay tall, has brown hair, brown eyes. He's probably wearing a gray suit." Erin laughed, hardly made an effort to make the sound cute. "He's so peculiar. Could you point us out to him?"
"Far left corner," the man mumbled, a red flush of pleasure creeping up his neck.
"Thank you so much." Erin let her hand touch the man's shoulder as she floated by. "Thank you, thank you."
The ballroom was alive with color, bodies, and noise above all else. A band played center stage, strumming out classic foxtrots and waltzes on cellos, violins, and pianos. Men and woman meandered about, pausing to talk to one another, some with plastered smiles on their faces, others boasting genuine smirks and grins. Ceiling arching high above them, the room had a cavernous look. Although filled to the brim with people and tables and chairs, everything seemed dwarfed in size, as though the room could continue expanding and provide much more space. A few couples danced on the ballroom floor, the clicking of their heels lost in the sounds of clinking glassware and excessive talking. The thick, yet comfortably cool, air stifled Ross, and he glanced over at Christmas. The Brit was frowning, although it seemed more like a nostalgic reflection. Erin glanced around with a smile on her lips, reveling in the atmosphere. A waiter passed by with champagne; Erin snatched a glass deftly off the silver platter and sipped at the bubbly, her smile widening.
"It's not often that I get invited to such…grandeur," she commented, rolling her eyes up to look at Ross. "I hate feeling like a princess, but I sure as hell like attending balls. Shall we? If we take a seat somewhere, the head honcho will find us."
The trio wandered into the corner, settled down into three plush and padded seats. Erin tossed back the rest of her champagne, leaned into her chair, legs crossed at the knee. The slit opened up, fell away over her leg, revealed the light olive skin. Ross's eyes lingered for a moment on her flesh, a shiver coursing through his body as an image of his hand passing over Erin's leg rose in his mind. He shook his head, cleared away the image, chastised himself. He was too old, too scarred, too noncommittal. Such fantasies were frivolous and out of character for him.
But it's about time you got with a woman, he reminded himself inadvertently. He chastised himself again, passed a hand over his weary face.
"How'd you know what to tell the doorman?" Christmas asked, glancing at Erin. "We don't know what the client looks like."
"No, but I gave a rather vague description, didn't I?" Erin cast her eyes about the room, her suddenly piercing stare flitting from one person to the next.
"What about the suit color?"
"Just a wild guess," Erin mumbled, straining to see through the throng of people over in the far left corner. "Tool made him sound high-class. If he's high-class, he has access to a lot of fashion. Most of all, he'll want us to be able to recognize him. Hence the gray suit. If it's a black tie party, what's a gray suit doing here unless he wants to attract attention?"
"Why the hell would he want to attract attention?" Christmas asked. "If we're having a meeting about a job, he'd want to be as discreet as possible."
"Lee." Erin's voice dropped to such a level that Christmas had to lean forward to hear her. "While we're here, please refrain from using vulgar language. We want to blend in, don't we? People here don't use expletives unless they absolutely have to…in which case, that's usually after they've gone through a couple bottles of champagne or wine." Erin tucked a stray hair behind her ear, smiled as a younger man passed by and made eye contact. "Now, because the client wants to meet here, of all places, we can only assume it's because he wants an immediate conclusion to the job, which can only mean that he had a previous engagement here that he couldn't miss. That means one of two things: either he was dragged along by somebody, which I highly doubt, or he is the host himself."
Erin turned her head to find both Lee and Ross staring at her, almost on the verge of gaping. She smirked, and Christmas exclaimed, "How would you know that?"
Erin sighed, glanced away. "The Ravenous," she said, "was a team that picked up the jobs other teams wouldn't. That meant we had to learn how to read the client without having met him first. We taught ourselves to literally read between the lines in a conversation, whether it was on the phone or in person. Certain things that a client said, whether it was the way they worded their sentences or picked specific words, told us a lot about that client. It's just a skill that we groomed ourselves with."
"You were only part of The Ravenous for five years!"
Erin glared at the Brit. "There's a shitload to learn in five years, Christmas. Now, if you'll excuse me…" The woman stood up, the slit falling back over her leg, dragging the fabric with it so that it covered her skin. "I believe that young man is about ready to ask me to waltz."
A blonde young man approached, somewhat cocky, mostly timid and unsure. His voice, almost unnaturally smooth, asked Erin to dance. Erin smiled and accepted, looped her arm through the man's elbow. He smiled broadly, led her out onto the dance floor, his friends twisting in their seats to watch him dance with the woman.
"She can dance?" Ross asked in surprise.
"What can't she do?" Lee rolled his eyes, folded his arms over his chest. "She's a fucking jack-of-all-trades."
As the music started up, so did Erin and her partner. Ross leaned forward in his seat, straining to see over the heads of other people. In a swirl of silvery fabric, the split flaring out in a spectacular display of glittering satin, Erin launched into the waltz. Ross stood to his feet as the sight of brilliant movement on the dance floor drew the crowd's attention. They clustered around the ballroom floor, most unaware of their actions. Lee flanked Ross's side, muttered harsh, yet polite, "Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through." After much struggling to weave through the thick mass of people, Ross and Christmas found themselves at the edge of the dance floor, eyes drawn to the only dancing couple.
Erin seemed to glide. Her partner took long strides, Erin following in tandem, legs extending as far as possible without looking the least bit painful. Together, they twirled and spun, Erin's free arm extending gracefully whenever her partner turned her. Back curved and arched into an elegant position, head turned to the left, the right side of her neck stretching into what seemed to be a never-ending classic pose, Erin was the epitome of elegance, of grace and poise. Her partner's hand inadvertently covered the snarling and howling wolves on her shoulder, the occasional hint of gray peeking out through his long, sinewy fingers. Twinkles, continuity steps, dips, and the occasional developé – in which Erin's leg stretched high into the air before her, the flesh of her inner thigh and calf exposed briefly in a refined kick – sent murmurs of thrill, pleasure, and intrigue through the crowd. Christmas, fighting to keep his composure, glanced at Ross. The older man's eyes flickered as he watched Erin glide over the wooden dance floor, his mouth open in a small gesture of astonishment and awe. Erin's partner paused before the crowd and leaned forward over Erin. The young woman stretched her body out towards the crowd in response, free arm reaching, reaching, reaching in Ross's direction. A smile touched the woman's face, her eyes dancing with childish delight and pleasure. She met Ross's gaze with a fierce intensity, as though willing words into his mind, and folded back into her partner, arm landing delicately on the blonde man's shoulder. The room around them fell into a hush as the song faded away, and Erin's partner twirled her away from him. She spun and spun, dress flaring out in a shimmer of silver, and finally stopped, her arms held out to her sides in a presentation of herself, a pleased grin playing out on her lips. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause.
Relaxing into a position of comfort rather than pain, Erin turned to her partner and gave him a gracious thank you. He smiled, rather flustered from the attention, and returned the thanks, offering a kiss on Erin's hand in return. Again, on crooked elbow, Erin was led off the floor, head held high and proud as the crowd parted to make way for the dancing couple. She sauntered over to the table where Ross and Christmas had been, smirking to herself as she overheard her partner's friends exclaiming to the young blonde man, envious and yet enthralled that their friend had danced with such a lovely woman. Ross and Christmas made their way back to the table, the room's applause still roaring in their ears. They found Erin seated at the table, legs crossed gracefully, if possible, at the knees again. Settling down in the seats on either side of her, the two men slipped into silence, unsure as to how they would phrase their thoughts into coherent sentences. A few women stopped at the table and gushed compliments, awe shining in their eyes and faces. The rest of the women hung back, glaring in envy. The men lined up one by one, gushing compliments even more so than the women. A few bold souls asked Erin for a dance, but she turned them down with a sad shake of her head, smiled prettily at the young men and explained that they would have to wait for a while. A woman had to catch her breath, didn't she? And she certainly couldn't pick from all the men that asked for a dance, could she? Ross and Christmas fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats beside her, each glaring at every man that dared approached the table. Erin placed her hand on Ross's knee, aware of his discomfort, but made no eye contact, her gaze flying out over the crowd instead, searching for the mysterious client. Ross was well aware of the hand, shivered as he felt the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of his pants.
"So much for lying low," Christmas finally muttered.
"Oh, I've made our client very aware of our presence here," Erin retorted, shook her head as another young man approached; the man frowned, drifted away, sullen and disappointed. "We should be seeing him shortly."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Trust me." Erin removed her hand from Ross's knee, stretched languorously, arching with the suppleness of a cat. Christmas saw the vicious panther within her, saw the snarling wolves that ran in tandem with the panther. He shuddered, averted his eyes. "Gray suit," Erin murmured, "ten o'clock."
Endnotes
¹ References Sylvester Stallone's 1991 role in the comedy film Oscar, in which he plays a 1930's Italian mobster trying to go straight.
² References Jason Statham's role in the famous Transporter films.
³ References Nicholas Cage's 1995 role in Gone in 60 Seconds, in which he plays a former car booster who goes back into business to boost 50 cars in one night to save his brother's life.