Behind her, the suite was a disaster zone of modern production. Cables snaked across the Persian rugs like vipers. Light stands formed a skeletal forest around a velvet chaise lounge, and a half-eaten tray of artisanal cheeses sat neglected near a stack of hard drives.
Teal stood up, brushing dust from her knees. She looked at the cameras—three of them pointed right at her, their red recording lights blinking like angry eyes. She smiled, but this time, it wasn't the PR smile. It was the smile of the woman on the posters, the one who actually knew how to pick a lock. teal conrad xxx
"Smile for the camera, boys," Teal whispered. Behind her, the suite was a disaster zone