Steel Trap: A Thriller (The My Mira Saga Book 7) by Dustin Stevens

Author:Dustin Stevens [Stevens, Dustin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Most people believe that the best vodkas come from Russia. They flock to brands like Stolichnaya or Mamont, following whatever they’ve seen in movies or on television. Wheat-based alcohols that will certainly do the job if a person’s only goal is to become sloppy drunk.

For someone a bit more discerning like Elsa Teller though, taste is always key.

No matter how damn long a day she’s had.

Stepping through the front door of her condo, Teller slides out of her three-inch heels. Leaving them piled by the door, she drops her purse to the floor beside them. Her keys go on the narrow table pressed tight to the wall along the entryway.

Flipping the lights on overhead, she pads barefoot across hardwood floors to the kitchen. Her blazer slides from her shoulders as she passes through the open concept that forms the bulk of her place. Tossing it onto the back of the leather sofa parsing the living area from the adjoining kitchen, she goes straight for the refrigerator and tugs open the freezer drawer.

In it is a mere five items. Exactly one handful of things that a woman with her schedule and lifestyle is always sure to keep on hand.

A bag of ice. A pint of Breyer’s ice cream. A frosted mug. A chilled martini glass.

And a bottle of Belvedere.

Grabbing up the last two items in either hand, she swings the door shut and pivots to the counter. A solid wooden slab painted and sanded to look like it has been left out along a shore somewhere, years of exposure to the elements aging it just so.

Some sort of nouveau architectural style the realtor prattled on about when she first saw the place. Endless patter that she hadn’t listened to, deciding within moments of arriving she was taking it.

Pulling the top from the vodka, for just an instant the urge to go straight at it hits her. The desire to upend the bottom and take it down in gulps, going until her throat can handle no more of the icy beverage.

Until her stomach aches from the sudden frigid intrusion, her fingers threatening to freeze to the side of the bottle.

Just as fast, the mood passes, dismissed as out of hand as those other Russian vodkas that the plebeians seem so fond of.

Filling the martini glass just shy of the rim, Teller raises it to her lips. Allowing only a single swallow, she lets the Polish concoction rest across her tongue.

Her eyes slide shut as she savors the rye-base, the flavor profile a clear departure from most others on the market.

Just what she needs after a day like this one.

Taking in a second gulp, Teller turns her back to the counter. Resting her hips against it, she stares across the room at the bank of windows comprising her western wall. The reason she decided on the place within an instant of seeing it, tucked away behind the glass panes is the Pacific Ocean.

In the wake of last night’s storm, this evening it is no doubt choppy as hell, waves arriving in an uneven cadence.

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