Celtic Sea Salt

Her gaze slid to the silver briefcase, wondering if she could snatch it, roundhouse kick them both, tie them up, and finish the remainder of the flight in peace.

Created by author with Midjourney

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Another margarita. Christ. Katherine kept her widest, most Margot Robbie smile (Barbie smile, not Suicide Squad smile. Hopefully not Suicide Squad) plastered to her face, making sure her disdain didn’t reach her eyes.

“Of course, sir,” she purred, and strode to the back of the plane. Mr. Margarita let out a low whistle as she walked away.

“What an ass,” he said to the man seated in the white leather recliner opposite him. His buddy must have made some tawdry response because a moment later Mr. Margarita was guffawing and then hiccuping. She forced her distaste for him back down her throat. She should be pleased he found her attractive. That was part of the job. And, what with him getting drunker by the minute all on his own, this could have been her easiest job yet, but for the complication currently staring moodily out the window from his plush leather seat. There wasn’t supposed to be a second man.

Kat fished around for more limes. On a swanky private jet like this, for a man such as Mr. Margarita (true name Emile Freeman), Jose Cuervo and his margarita mixes were most unwelcome. Mr. Margarita demanded fresh lime juice and actual agave nectar. Kat dropped the latest batch of freshly desiccated lime husks, to join their fallen brethren in the trash. No compost either, of course. These fucking people. She ground the tumbler’s wet rim into the Celtic sea salt a little harder than necessary. Celtic sea salt. For his perfectly “authentic” margarita. What a guy. It was probably delicious though, dammit. She couldn’t resist. Before transferring the cocktail from the shaker she took a sip. Yup. Fuck. Delicious. Thanks for the recipe, yummly-dot-com. She finished the pour and turned to find Mr. Complication watching her, the ghost of a smile hovering at the corners of his lips. He’d probably seen her sampling the drink, but so what? They were already airborne. Good luck reporting her to…whatever agency she was supposedly contracted through. She should know that. She reprimanded herself mentally for that lapse. Hopefully it wouldn’t come up. She beamed back at him, Margot Robbie on full-blast, and winked, which seemed to startle him.

She waltzed back to Mr. Margarita, tumbler balanced delicately on her palm. She rolled her hips as she walked, knowing the way the smallness of her waist accentuated the movement. If Mr. Complication were to be a wrench in her plans, at least she could take the opportunity to terrorize him a bit.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something?” she asked in her most dulcet tones, after handing the margarita over to its fate. Mr. Complication gazed at her flatly and pursed his lips.

“I’m sure.”

Kat inclined her head and smiled softly. Dickhead, she thought. She turned to resume her post when a hand caught hers. Mr. Margarita had already drained his new drink (What the fuck, dude, savor it) and was dragging his tongue along the rim, collecting flakes of Celtic sea salt on that wet muscle. He dropped her hand in order to pat his thigh.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asked her breasts.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Kat thought, but said instead -

“I thought you’d never ask.”

- and perched on his leg.

“That’s a girl!” Mr. Margarita exclaimed, bouncing his leg so that she jiggled unceremoniously on his lap. She laughed and tossed her hair, grimacing internally at the way her tight stewardess’ uniform squeezed her bouncing tits.

“Oh, Mr. Freeman, you are too much,” she laughed, swatting his chest playfully.

Mr. Complication watched the proceedings with the same dead expression in his eyes, but his lip curled slightly in what could only be disgust. You and me both, brother, Kat thought. Her gaze slid to the silver briefcase, wondering if she could snatch it, roundhouse kick them both, tie them up, and finish the remainder of the flight in peace. Maybe make one of those deliciously multicultural margaritas for herself. That wouldn’t do, though. Freeman mustn’t suspect anything until he had left the plane, hopefully well on his way to the Hongkonese businessman’s manor, decoy case in hand. Kat’s mind flashed to the decoy stowed in the trashcan beneath a mound of lime rinds. This would all be going swimmingly if the asshole across the aisle hadn’t decided to show up.

Mr. Margarita snaked an arm around her waist and squeezed her against his chest. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. His other hand reached up and held her throat, fingers still cool from the margarita glass. She would rather not perform sex acts on this fool, especially not in front of an audience, but if it meant the success of the mission, she didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like it would be a first. She’d trained for this.