by Kade, Teagan
It’s happened before, though it wasn’t an ex. Poor bastard arrived mid-coitus while I was balls deep in his wife. Suffice to say, a fistfight is kind of awkward when you’re naked, your dick still semi-hard and wet.
“No,” I reply. “Nothing like that, but it’s useful information regardless, thanks.”
He picks up the papers. “You can leaf through them if you like, see if I missed anything.”
“Bart,” I tell him, “you don’t miss anything.”
*
I settle myself into my recliner with a glass, the morning sun causing wisps of steam to rise from the water outside.
So my suspicions have been confirmed, but the larger question remains. Who is she here on behalf of, and how did they know what I’m hiding here, or was?
Oh, I know what they’re looking for alright, and it’s sure as hell not this floating Hilton.
I run the whiskey from one side of my mouth to the other, taking in its licorice undertones before it goes down the gullet.
It’s certainly making things interesting. I’ll play along, sure, but I don’t know how far it can be stretched out before something has to give. Powerful people don’t like to wait.
I spot a taxi pulling up around the back of the Gas & Tackle, two long legs stepping out followed by a wrap-around dress that turns see-through in the sun… and what I see is heaven itself.
Speak of the devil.
I get up and make my way to the doorway of the houseboat, leaning against it, one arm pinned against the top of the frame. I’ve done this pose a thousand times before, but never have I been so excited to see what’s coming.
She pauses on the gang plank, smiling, eyes hidden behind giant black sunglasses like something from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “You going to invite me aboard or stand there looking like James Dean all day?”
I step aside. “Please.”
I can’t help letting my eyes fall down to her backside as she passes, those tight, tight buns begging for a good spanking.
Maybe more.
She takes a seat in my recliner, legs folding themselves over one another. She takes the tumbler I was just holding and downs what was left of the whiskey. She taps her chest. “Good stuff. You ready to get down to business?” she asks.
I close the door. “Oh, I’m always ready for business.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GISELE
Bobby’s on his third whiskey, I’m on my second, but as far as progress is concerned, we’ve got a long way to go.
I’ve laid out the figures, which by all accounts are more than generous considering the state of this place. I’ve even taken the advice of my employer and attempted to sweeten the deal with things money can’t buy—cars, holidays, leaving out the women, because it seems like Bobby Silver here’s fine on that front.
Hell, I even confess I’m here on behalf of someone else, though I’m sure he’s worked that out by now.
None of it’s working.
He’s standing, pacing in front of me while I sit. “What you do,” he says, breaking the current line of conversation, “why is it important to you?”
This takes me by surprise, but I do my best not to let it show, taking a sip of the whiskey. Soon, like Bobby, I’ll be drinking it like water. No point hiding the truth. “To be frank?” I reply. “I do it for the money.”
His hand gesticulates as he talks. “So you’re building a nest egg of sorts, security?”
I ease. “I suppose you could say that.”
He sits back in the other recliner, legs wide and the definite bulge of something straining against the denim. I thought I’d quashed that teenage curiosity, but the flicker of sensation between my thighs says otherwise.
“Your family struggled growing up, didn’t they?”
“I don’t really see what that has to d—”
He cuts me off. “That’s why you’re so determined to fill up your bank account. It’s all starting to make sense, this dogged determination.”
“I hardly think I—”
“And this strange competitiveness you’ve got going on. Oh, I see that too.” He wags his finger for emphasis. “You can out-fish me, Ms. Cole.”
“Gisele,” I correct.
“But you can’t out-fox me.” He reaches down and pats the floor, will probably need either a good scrubbing or a tetanus shot. “Not when it comes to Roxanne.”
I actually huff from frustration, leaning forward with the tumbler between my hands, caught for a moment by the way the light bounces around inside the glass. “I’m not trying to out-fox or out-fun or out-anything you, Bobby. See the sense in this and take. The. Damn. Money.”
He clicks his fingers, shaking his head. “Nah-uh. Not until you come clean. Tell me why this guy wants it so badly and, sure, I’ll happily hand over the keys.”
“I don’t know. That’s the honest-to-God truth of it.”
Bobby stands. “Well, until you find out, you know where I am.”
I extend my hand. “Wait.” It sounds more desperate that it should.
The shadow of a smile playing on Bobby’s lips tells me he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I offer, “off the record. No business, I promise.”
Slowly, he seats himself again, legs spreading a little slower this time. “Alright. Fire away.”
I struggle to find a suitable subject, anything we’ve got in common apart from fishing. “Tell me more about your father.”
“You first.”
I collect my thoughts, placing the tumbler down on the floor. “There’s not much to tell. He was your typical dad—BBQ on the weekend, watching sports in the den and doing his best to dodge any kind of chore around the house. I mean, he was a great father, and we struggled, you’re right. We were poor, but I don’t think we were unhappy.”
“He had you playing sports?” Bobby asks.
“Sure, just about every damn one of them—softball, soccer, hockey… You name it, he made me play it, at least for a season. I was terrible, completely unnatural when it came to any kind of coordination, but at the end of the season my parents would get me these trophies that said ‘Winner!’ or ‘Best in Team!’ They had them made themselves, and I fucking hated it. It was so embarrassing, so condescending. It was the same with school. I was never a particularly good student.”
I pause for a moment, surprised at how emotional and open I’m becoming in front of Deuce Bigalow here. “He never showed it, but I think it really broke him knowing I’d never be good at anything, the best. He died just before senior year. I think that was the trigger.”
“Of your competiveness?” questions Bobby, filling it in.
“Yes. I never wanted another one of those consolation trophies in life. I wanted to be the best, to have it all, but on my own terms,” I stab into my chest, “by my own doing.”
I relax back into the chair sure I’ve said too much. I don’t really know why I’m rambling at all. It’s completely not me.
There’s no smart-ass comment from Bobby. He rocks forward, locking those sultry eyes onto me. “Trophies? Real trophies? I had plenty of those. Shit, you could have stacked them to the roof. But my Dad? Nothing was ever good enough. He’d drink—that Captain Morgan crap—and ask why I scored only three touchdowns and not four, why I hadn’t been picked up by a scout yet. I fucking hated him for that, but being quarterback? That was fucking great.”
I let him take a moment.
He sits back, his posture relaxing. “After everything went down, though, after the accident… Well, I knew I had to get the hell out of here. I enlisted a week later, never thought I’d actually come back to this shithole, but bam, here I am.”
He wipes something from his eye, sniffing and standing. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Holy shit, I think. You’ve done it. You’ve broken him. You’ve broken the big bad Bobby Silver.
He moves away to the bedroom at the back of the houseboat.
I
wait a minute, two, but he doesn’t return.
“Bobby?” I call, starting to move out of my chair. “Everything okay?”
When he doesn’t reply, I start to creep down towards the bedroom.
I’m about to poke my head in when he suddenly emerges from the doorway. We almost collide, my hand automatically going to his chest and god damn if it isn’t like granite.
I don’t know why, but I leave it there, his heart beating strong and firm against it.
I lift my eyes and find his, glassy but filled with an intensity I haven’t noticed before until now.
The world stills outside.
To my complete and utter astonishment, I make the first move, lifting up onto my toes and leaning into the kiss.
His hand runs up the side of my cheek and it’s fucking glorious.
There’s the hint of whiskey there on his lips as they come against mine, the light brush of his stubble against my skin.
He deepens the kiss and my legs start to fold underneath me. But he’s holding my face with both hands now, moving us back into the living room, his tongue darting forward to meet mine in the heat and urgency of my mouth.
I’ve been kissed before, but never like this, like it’s my last.
Tentatively, I find his hips and slide my hands down to his buttocks, equally surprised to find they’re as firm as his chest and the obvious erection growing between us.
There’s the briefest hint of warning, of alarm from my head, but I close the door on that shit real fast, because fuck the rules, I want more. I don’t care who he is or what he’s done only that I need his lips on mine, need all of him.
Now.
I let my hand start to come around his waist, reaching for his package, when there’s a shrill announcement from the front of the boat. “I thought I had your one o’clock?”
We both turn, caught like teenagers making out on Mom’s favorite sofa.
Bobby lets me go, standing to the side. “Reanne?”
This girl has to be in her early twenties, dressed up like she’s Britney circa Hit Me Baby One More time complete with schoolgirl get-up. She crosses her arms. She doesn’t stamp her foot, but I’m waiting for it. “I had a booking, Bobby, got all dressed up…”
Nope. This is way too awkward.
I start to make my way to the front of the boat. “I’ll just leave you guys to it.”
I can still taste Bobby on my lips, feel him where he was pressed against me.
“Gisele, wait?” he says, voice high, but he remains where he’s standing red and embarrassed and probably wishing he could abandon ship right about now.
I’m outside, fast-stepping it up to the Gas & Tackle and already dialing for a taxi.
I hear his voice again. “Gisele?”
But I keep on moving.
Even when my body’s telling me to turn back.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BOBBY
It’s been less than an hour and I can’t stop thinking about Gisele. If my brain was a motel, she’d have booked out every room.
Is she my type? A witty city slicker that’s clearly ground down some serious balls with those pumps of hers? She’s not my typical go-to, no, not another air-headed bimbo who’s been watching too much Brazzers, and maybe that’s the attraction.
And there is attraction. I think about her and five seconds later I’ve got a hard-on you could break rocks with. She knows it. I know it. The question is, when is one of us actually going to do something about it?
The kiss, I recall. God, I could have let that go on forever.
I tip back the last of my drink and thank Dani.
She leans against the bar beside me so close I’m basically breathing in her breasts. “She’s trouble, you know.”
“Who?”
She pushes off the bar and saunters away. “You know damn well.”
I put that down to jealousy but I’m pretty sure there’s a thread of truth to it as well.
I’m about to head off when my cell goes. I pull it out of my pocket.
“Bart, old buddy old pal, what’s new?”
But none of the usual banter follows. “Listen up and listen up good. You’ve got company.”
“You mean Gisele? At the boat?”
“I mean a couple of boys sniffing around your place and I’m not talking Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. These guys are pros, at least semi.”
“Army?”
“No, private, B&E squad. Well-equipped by the looks of it.”
So someone’s trying to break into Roxanne. That trouble’s looking a hell of a lot closer now.
“You want me to call the Sheriff?” asks Bart.
I’m already at my truck, opening the door and swinging inside. “Fuck no. I’ll handle this myself.”
Bart laughs. “I thought as much. Poor bastards don’t know what’s coming do, do they?”
I start the truck. “No, they sure as fuck don’t. You stay down, you hear?”
“It’s your party, partner.”
*
I cut the lights and pull up beside the Gas & Tackle, tucking the truck into a shadowy alcove. I passed a dark SUV about a half mile back hidden in the scrub, which means these boys have legged it all this way.
I get out of the truck, staying low and moving around the perimeter of the Gas & Tackle. It’s dead quiet save for the steady thrum of the swamp-life and the neon sign buzzing away in tandem.
I open an old cooler box beside the Gas & Tackle, reaching down until I find the false floor I installed, pulling it free and removing the go bag I’ve had hidden here since I arrived. I place it down beside me and check over the contents—flashbangs, grenades, a pistol, and M16 rifle, enough rounds to take out a small army and certainly enough for a pack of pretty boys like this.
The rifle loads easily. I sling the bag around my back and bring the M16 up, scanning the area as I make my way towards Roxanne. There’s activity in there alright, thin flashlight beams cutting through the windows.
I reach into the go bag and take out a set of night-vision goggles, switching them on and smiling as the four individuals in question light up. There’ll all inside, which is going to make this very easy indeed.
It’s been a long time since I saw action, but you never forget the basics. They drum it into you from day one, hard-wire it into your brain. For the first time in days Gisele is gone and only firm fucking focus remains.
I regulate my breathing and move fast, bringing myself up beside the front door, hunkering there beside it and fishing for a flashbang from the bag.
I can hear the pricks.
“Anything?” one of them whispers.
“I got shit,” another replies. “They didn’t give any clue where this fucking thing might be?”
“Keep searching.”
One of them is right on the other side of the door. I can smell him, that defined pong of sweat and tactical canvas.
Wake up time, assholes.
I toss in the flashbang and cover my ears.
There’s a chorus of surprise as it goes off, the explosion of light and sound turning the inside of my eyelids a vibrant pink.
I count two seconds and bring the M16 up, shooting the first guy in the leg and the second in the shoulder before he has time to get his weapon out. I reach down and take away the first guy’s gun, kicking the second’s out of his hand on the way through.
I move in swiftly to the back of the boat where the other two are looking around blindly. I clobber the first in the head with the butt of the rifle. He goes down just as the last of them seems to recover, pulling his pistol up. I swat it away and kick him square in the chest, hard enough to slam him up against the bedroom wall. He exhales like a broken accordion and slumps to the floor.
I kneel and remove his weapon from a fancy side holster. “And thank you,” I tell him, flipping him over and cable-tying his hands behind his back with a practiced pull. I do the same with the guy next to him who’s still out cold from the butt to the head, find a bra
nd-new Glock stashed down the back of his pants.
The third guy in the front’s trying to crawl towards the weapon I kicked away. I pin him down with my foot. “Don’t even think about it, princess.” He winces as I wrench his arms behind his back, tying them off with another cable tie.
The final guy’s groaning aloud holding his leg. He doesn’t seem too concerned about retribution. “You shot me in the fucking leg, man!” he shouts, gritting his teeth against the pain.
I get down low beside him. “You’re lucky it wasn’t your fucking head.”
Four assholes neutralized, I head back outside where Bart is approaching slowly from the Gas & Tackle. I don’t think I’ve seen him run in my entire life. It’s a strange look.
“You good?” he asks, stopping before me, out of breath.
I lower the rifle, pretending to check my arms, legs… crotch. “Still in one piece as far as I can tell.”
He looks past me. “What about your dinner guests?”
I smile. “Don’t think they’ll be hanging around for dessert.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GISELE
I’m going over old files when there’s a knock at the door. Thinking it’s Bobby, I race to open it, composing myself before pulling the door wide.
But it’s not Bobby. It’s the police or, given his badge, the sheriff, more likely.
He tips his cap at me. “A Miss Cole?”
I hold the door, shielding myself behind it. “Yes.”
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”
Police interference is unusual. It’s not like what I do is illegal, even if the lines do get blurry from time to time. “Can I ask what this is regarding?”
“Bobby Silver. I believe you two have been spending some time together. You were interested in buying his houseboat, right?”
“Yes,” I answer carefully.
“May I?” the sheriff gestures.
I open the door wide to let him past. He walks into the center of the room holding his gun belt, eyes constantly on the move.
I close my laptop as I pass to stand on the other side of the room.