Her text was… unwelcome. The private had already landed. Her arrival, imminent.
Joel sighed. Thirty fucking years and she’d never been early. For anything. Why tonight?
He returned to his soiled carpet. Removing the blood was easy: some hydrogen peroxide, some elbow grease. This wasn’t his first go-round.
But the other stain was proving problematic. He scrubbed furiously, the sweat dripping. Who the hell demands a chocolate martini? Someone who charges two grand an hour evidently.
Suddenly, the doorbell. Joel stood, his thoughts collecting. The stain? He could excuse that away. The body? That would be a touch more difficult.
The Weekday One Hundred 