Critical Space - Greg Rucka - Hardcover

The ashtray didn't surprise me as much as the quality of the throw behind it. Perhaps when Skye Van Brandt was still in high school, before she was "discovered" and turned into one of People's Fifty Most Beautiful Faces for two years running, before she'd netted two Oscar nominations and one Golden Globe award, maybe she'd pitched softball or even hardball at some point in her youth. Not that her youth was over: the woman on the other side of the hotel room was only twenty-two. At least according to her publicist. Skye was beautiful. Her hair was long and blond, just a shade too dark to be strawberry, and her large eyes were deep and soulful and tailored for close-ups during love scenes. Her lower lip was just a little pudgy and lopsided, and it gave her a perpetual almost-pout that reviewers described with words like "irresistible" and "wanton." Her dental work was perfect. She was one of those people who remain stunningly beautiful no matter what they're doing, be it smiling or screaming. She was screaming at me right now. "God dammit, Atticus! Take my bags!" For the third time, I said, "I can't do that, Miss Van Brandt." Skye dropped the suitcase in question and stormed my way, to where I stood just inside the front door. We were in the sitting room of the Presidential Suite at the El Presidente Hotel in El Paso, Texas, which meant that Skye had a lot of ground to cover, and that I had plenty of time to get out of her way. I didn't bother. To my mind I was doing the job I'd been paid for, doing more than it, in fact. It was now mid-morning of Day Eight on what was supposed to have been a six-day location shoot. I'd been hired to provide Skye's personal protection while on location, two thousand dollars a day, plus a stipend from the studio. I was, for the time being, Skye Van Brandt's bodyguard. Not her valet. The job, like so many other things in my professional life, was bullshit, for show and nothing more. But it was still a job, and I took it seriously, and there was no way I was going to pick up Skye Van Brandt's overpriced Teumi luggage and carry it to the lobby at her command. She stopped three feet from where I was standing, hands on her hips, that wanton lower lip jutting a little more in her fury. For all her grace and beauty and presence on the screen, she was a tiny woman, nearly a full foot shorter than my six feet. "I'm paying you! You do what I tell you!" She jabbed in the direction of her bags with an index finger as if gouging at someone's eye. There were three bags one garment, one small duffel, and one larger duffel with a shoulder strap. All were black leather, all bulging with clothes, scripts, cosmetics, and the witch's brew of new-age elixirs and homeopathic medicines Skye used to keep herself fueled. "Take them downstairs to the car," she ordered. "You know I can't do that," I said. "I have to keep my hands free. Wait until the bellman " "God dammit! What fucking word don't you fucking understand? Pick up my fucking bags!" I waited until she was done and catching her breath. Then I said: "No." Skye Van Brandt raised her right hand and I figured she was going to slap me, but then she spun off and stomped away, swearing louder. The way she swore reminded me of my Army days, and I wondered how People might've altered their rankings if they heard Skye Van Brandt shrieking things like "shit-eating goatfucker" and "fart-bRucka, Greg is the author of 'Critical Space - Greg Rucka - Hardcover' with ISBN 9780553801323 and ISBN 0553801325.