The Hardest Thing

depends how long you’re on the road. And how happy my client is with the service.”
    “I see.” I didn’t see at all—who the hell pays someone thousands of dollars to take their rich-kid male “secretary” out of town? “And when do we leave?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Suppose I say no?”
    Ferrari shrugged. “This city is full of guys like you.
I’m not open to negotiations.”
    “You have a deal.” I put my hand out. Ferrari shook it.
    “Good choice.” He handed me an envelope. “Here’s everything you need to know. You’ll see me again.”
    “I hope so.” How about right now, I thought. “And thanks for the job.”
    “My pleasure, Mr. Stagg.” Ferrari stood up straight, adjusted his waistband—he was firm and flat beneath it—and left.
    I had a brown envelope in one hand and my dick in the other; it wasn’t just the money that interested me about Ferrari. That sharp suit, perfect side parting, smooth-shaven chin, all so neat and groomed—I wanted him.
    I pushed the shorts down to my knees, and my dick sprang out, wet at the end.
    Ferrari had left his scent behind him—something fresh and clean and lemony, with an undercurrent of wood smoke. God, listen to me—I haven’t shot my wad for a couple of days and I’m sounding like a perfume ad.
    Maybe he’d turn back on the landing, having “forgotten” something, and find me with my cock out. He’d drop to his knees, not so fussy now about the dust on the carpet; he’d put those big brown hands on my ass, he’d pull me in as he opened his mouth, he’d look up at me with those big brown eyes, and he’d say…
    Shit.
    I came over the floor where he’d been standing, over the chair where he’d been sitting, shooting as fast and far as a schoolboy.
    I wiped my hands on my T-shirt; I’d clear the rest up later. Business first.

    I lay back on the bed, shorts around my ankles, my softening cock lying along one hairy thigh, and opened the envelope.
    A single sheet of paper, closely printed on both sides, and a small, lightweight key.
    Four bundles of notes. Fifties. Fifty in each.
    Ten-thousand dollars.
    And so, as the July sun blazed through the dirty windows and dried the puddles of jizz, I read my instructions.

    An hour later, showered and shaved, I was fitting the key into the lock of a safe-deposit box in a bank on Seventh Avenue. I took the parcel that it contained, signed the book and came straight home on the subway, like any other regular guy running errands around Manhattan.
    I had a pretty good idea of what the parcel contained, and I wasn’t disappointed: a Glock 19, a nice businesslike weapon, with enough ammunition for a small-scale siege. I’m not one of those guys who drool over guns—I can’t reel off the features of every single make and model, and I don’t have much opinion on different types of bullets—I always thought that kind of stuff was for psychos, or guys who don’t get laid enough. But I liked the look and feel of the Glock—a brand new, box-fresh killing machine.
    Ferrari and his employer were taking no chances. Nothing to connect them to the weapon.
    I sat on the bed, feeling the weight and balance of the weapon in my hand. It was the first time I’d handled a
firearm since my discharge, but it felt as natural to me as a brush feels to an artist.
    Ten-thousand bucks—the first installment of three. A Glock 19 and a lot of rounds. What was this—a protection job, or a private war?
    I re-read the letter that Ferrari had given me. It was as terse and factual as an operational briefing.
    To: Major D Stagg
    Subject: Stirling McMahon
    Objective: Remove subject from present danger in New York City. Subject has been threatened on three occasions and physically attacked by persons unknown. Proceed by road to White Mountains region, New Hampshire, in transport provided. Remain as inconspicuous as possible, report whereabouts daily, await further instructions. Manage and report any hostile activities encountered. Subject’s personal safety is of paramount importance. Use all necessary means to secure objective.
    In other words, if anyone messes with Stirling McMahon, shoot ’em. Shit, I thought, he must have some damn fine typing speeds. Two possible scenarios presented themselves. One: he’s no more of a secretary than I am; he’s a prize piece of ass who some wealthy sugar daddy wants off the scene for a while, for whatever reason. Two: he poses a threat to someone’s business operations,