Long Schlong Silver

by Kade, Teagan

  “Cozy,” he smiles.

  “Is Bobby in some kind of trouble?” I ask, drawing his eyes.

  “There was a break-in, at the houseboat. Couple of outside boys, real Sylvester Stallone types, you know. Not local.”

  Shit. I should have taken the threat more seriously. The client went behind my back, went and fucked everything up, but my greater concern is Bobby. “Is Bobby okay?”

  The sheriff belly-laughs, shaking his head. “Yes, ma’am. Bobby’s just fine. The others? Not so good, owing to Bobby protecting his property and all, which he is well within his rights to do here in this fine state of Missouri.”

  Relief washes over me, but I’m still confused. “Sheriff, I’m not sure what I have to do with this or how, indeed, I can help.”

  “Mmmm,” he says, lips rolling over themselves. “Just seems a bit suspicious, is all, you showing up out of the blue in your fancy threads looking to buy a shitty houseboat that, by the good lord’s hand, hasn’t sunk to the bottom of the river yet. And then these guys show up, also strangers, also suspicious… Got me thinking if there’s, what do they call it, some kind of connection,” he smiles, enunciating each syllable.

  This isn’t good. Why did this client lose his patience, call in outside help?

  He’s too powerful, my head answers, too used to getting what he wants as soon as he wants it.

  “Perhaps you know what these men were looking for, Ms. Cole?”

  I snap back to the situation at hand. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I have no idea.”

  “They’re not friends of yours, from the Big Smoke?”

  “Of course not.”

  He takes a step closer, asserting himself. “Maybe you want to tell me why that boat’s so damn special?”

  “I’m afraid that’s between myself and Bobby Silver.”

  The Sheriff’s smile widens. “I bet it is. Anything else you want to tell me… While the telling’s good and all.”

  “No, sir, but if I think of anything—”

  “You’ll give me a call,” he finishes, taking a business card from his pocket and placing it on the bed. “You do that, Ms. Cole. You do that.” He fingers the brim of his cap once more before seeing himself out. “You have a good night now.”

  I close the door behind him and allow myself to breathe. I hammer a closed fist against the doorframe. “Fuck!” I grunt. “Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck fuck.”

  I try to collect my thoughts, but they’re swirling out of control.

  I jump back when there’s another knock on the door, pulling it open about to launch into a tirade. “I’ve already tol—”

  I stop when I realize it’s Bobby.

  He puts his hands up. “Well now, not exactly the kind of warm welcome I was looking for.”

  I come out of the doorway looking for the Sheriff, but he seems to have evaporated into thin air.

  “The Sheriff?” says Bobby, pointing down the motel corridor. “He’s shacked up down there in Room Twenty-Four. Been there for the last two months ever since his wife kicked him out.”

  Great, I think.

  Bobby points past me into the room. “You mind? It’s cold out.”

  I let him past. “Sorry. I’m just a bit flustered, is all.”

  I take a seat on the bed, smoothing out my skirt while Bobby leans up against the TV stand. “The Sheriff said there was some trouble at the houseboat, a break-in?”

  “Indeed,” Bobby nods, “but I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that now, would you?”

  “You can’t be serious, can you?”

  “I’m just saying, I think it’s time we’re straight with each other, don’t you? I know an organized outfit when I see one, and while I don’t think you did have anything to do with tonight, I’m pretty sure you know who’s pulling the strings.”

  This is new, dangerous territory, but the client went too far this time. They broke protocol and now all bets are off. I’m convinced Bobby knows why I’m here and why this client wants his boat. Maybe the best way forward is to reveal my true intentions, show him my hand and see how the cards fall.

  “Alright,” I tell him, standing up and walking slowly towards him, “I’ll tell you everything, but this is a two-way road, understood?”

  He places his hand on his heart. “Shoot.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BOBBY

  I’m pacing around the motel room. I used to meet girls here once upon a time, thought it’d be easier that way until I got sick of the shitty water pressure and scratchy sheets. Far better for them to come to me, meet me on my terms.

  I stop. “One, why does your client want my boat? What’s so special about it?”

  Gisele’s arms are folded together, her brow furrowed. “I don’t think it’s the boat. I think there’s something on the boat he needs.”

  I play along, pacing from one side of the room to the one, awfully fucking tempted to raid the minibar. “On my houseboat? You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” she nods.

  I stop, a finger on my chin. “Could be the three-million dollars in cold, hard cash hidden under the floor, I suppose.”

  “This is no time for gam—” but she stops when she sees my expression. “Jesus, you’re not joking, are you?”

  She looks gorgeous in that slip, more of her thighs on show than I think she realizes. A gust of wind, a breeze, and I’m sure I’d be getting a show worthy of the West End. I take a seat back on the bed, the springs groaning, probably worn out by Yours Truly. “No, ma’am.”

  “It’s just lying under there, in cash?”

  “It was in a briefcase,” I reply, “my father’s. Seems my grandfather made some wise investments back in the fifties. He never spent the money, never invested it. Dad told me about it on his death bed, said he didn’t trust his lawyer to tell me about it. I guess he was fucking right about that, because it looks like that lawyer decided to blab away to your boy instead, break that good ol’ lawyer-client confidentiality.”

  My head’s whirling. “How can you be so sure?”

  “He’s the only person that knew. Dad made that clear.”

  I can see she’s reeling from this information. It’s turning me on seeing her untangle like this, her perfect composure cracking. “So, you think your father’s crooked lawyer told my client where he left this money, without telling you?”

  I smack my lips. “Yup, sounds about right given the lawyer in question told me diddly squat about it.”

  She’s trying so hard to unpack it all, taking up the pacing and giving me a prime view of that compact, perfect ass. “How did you get the houseboat?”

  “Told you. Dad passed it onto me, but regardless, I have good money from the Army. Pretty hard to spend it when you’re surrounded by sand.”

  She stops, wagging her finger in the air. “Alright, so the money is still there, under the floor?”

  “Fuck no,” I laugh. “I moved it the day after Dad told me.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “You’re not going to tell me where?”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t given, you know, you’re professional inclination to screw me over here.”

  She breathes out with her hands on her hips, looks exhausted for once, far from her usual pampered presentation. I prefer her like this, though. She looks almost innocent, like an actual human being and not the ball-stomping badass she makes out to be. “Alright, point taken. The client crossed the line here, yes, which means I’m well within my contractual rights to break our agreement, but until I know exactly what’s going on here you might still be in danger. These people don’t stop.”

  “I kind of got that impression given recent events. What do you suggest I do?”

  That stumps her. She stands there mute, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and boy is she out of water. She simply doesn’t know it yet. “I want to make this right. That’s all.”

  “With who?”

  “I can’t bel
ieve I’m about to say this, but you seem like a decent guy. If what you’re saying is true, I can’t in good conscience go through with this.”

  “You have a conscience?” I laugh.

  She ignores that, looking around the room. “How certain are you this place is safe?”

  “The motel? It’s not Fort Knox if that’s what you’re asking. Why?”

  The paranoia’s starting to bite. I can see it in her hurried movements, the dilation of her eyes. “You trust the management?”

  “I don’t really see what this has to do with…”

  She pulls the curtains closed, searching for something under the bed and coming up with a laptop in hand, opening it up on the bed and starting to type.

  “Dare I ask what you’re doing?”

  “What was the lawyer’s name?”

  I shrug. “Hell if I know—D, G-something?”

  She looks up at me like I’m stupid. “Are there any records, any correspondence between you?”

  “Back at the boat, sure.”

  She stands, hurrying over to a suitcase in the corner and looking for clothes. “Let’s go then.”

  “Just like that?”

  She turns. “You got somewhere better to be?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GISELE

  I watch Bobby make his way over to the kitchen counter and pour himself two fingers of whiskey, downing it with surprising speed. It occurs to me in that moment how much I’ve seen him drinking.

  We’re back at Roxanne, away from the thin walls of the motel. Bobby managed to find the name of the lawyer, but an initial search hasn’t brought up any immediate connection or indication who my client might be.

  Bobby pours another and slumps into his favorite recliner. “So, you think the money’s what your boy’s after?”

  I laugh internally at the powerful man I’m working for being called a ‘boy,’ but then all men seem infantile in some way. “It’s the most logical conclusion, though I have to admit, three million seems a little on the small side.”

  Bobby almost chokes on his whiskey, reaching for his throat. “On the small side? Who is this guy? Warren Buffet?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Bobby seems confused. “You don’t know who you’re working for, who’s paying the bill?”

  “A shell company pays the bill, an LLC of an LLC tied away so deep you’d never be able to unravel who’s actually behind it, but no, I don’t have any direct contact with the clients themselves. Their anonymity is important to them.”

  Bobby shakes his head, looking through the tumbler at me. “Well, my life is important to me. I’m pretty damn sure those goons would have happily blown me away to get what they want.”

  The appearance of the B&E team was unusual. It’s sure going to raise some questions with the client if and when the time comes.

  “Not to mention your life,” adds Bobby. “You think your so-called client really had your best interests at heart when he sent that team? Knowing you were here in town, possibly on the boat?”

  I shift on the chair. “I don’t think he knows I’m...”

  “Sleeping with the enemy?” trills Bobby.

  I ignore the sexual implication. “I don’t think he sees you as the enemy.”

  Bobby stands pacing. “No, just an obstacle—a guy standing in the way of the rich getting richer.”

  But the three million is nagging at me. It doesn’t seem worth it.

  I can’t help my eyebrows dipping inquisitively. “There was just three million in the suitcase, no more?”

  Bobby shrugs. “Three million, clumped in cash, a couple of papers…”

  I put my hand up. “Papers?”

  “Certificates, bonds of some sort?”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “What kind of certificates?”

  Infuriatingly, Bobby doesn’t seem to have paid much attention. “Something about land… I think. Didn’t seem very interesting.”

  The pieces are falling into place. I’m almost one hundred percent sure this has nothing to do with the three million and all to do with those papers.

  I stand and pace myself, thinking it over. “What did you say your grandfather invested in?”

  Bobby places his tumbler down. “Real estate, I think Dad said?”

  Bingo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BOBBY

  It’s freezing out on the water, but Gisele’s wearing an old Army jacket of mine, looks damn adorable with her hair flapping behind her as we cross the river.

  It’s a short trip. I cut the motor and bring us up to the shore, jumping out and extending a hand. “Watch your step.”

  Her hand is warm in mine. I suddenly wonder what her fingers would feel like wrapped around my cock, softly stroking it while I eat her out, taste her. It’s quite the vivid picture.

  Gisele stands on the shore pulling the jacket tight around herself. Across the river the houseboat sits, a single light in the bedroom making it glow like a Chinese lantern. She turns and looks ahead. “Can I ask why you brought me across the river to what’s looking awfully like a bunch of nasty scrub? If you’re looking to do away with me and dump the body, just be warned I’ll put up a hell of a fight, and I’ll be going for that infamous dick of yours first, might even rip it right off.”

  I put my hands up. “Okay, Wonder Woman, calm the farm. This is actually for your benefit. Follow me.”

  I lead her through a gap in the scrub up a short goat trail that runs deeper into the mangroves. “This is basically an island over here,” I tell her, “Dad’s land. Got it for a song, he told me.”

  I swat away a branch. “He always said he was going to build a big ol’ mansion over here, but he only got this tiny shed built in the end.” I point ahead to where a ramshackle wooden shed sits overgrown, more part of the mangrove itself than a manmade structure.

  Gisele whistles. “And I suppose this is where I meet Swamp Thing?”

  I spin around and glance down between my legs. “Well, it’s been called many names, but Swamp Thing’s a first.”

  She punches me in the arm as she passes. “You going to tell me what the hell we’re doing here or what?”

  I snake around her and lever the shed door open with my shoulder, reaching to the short desk against the wall and lighting a gas lamp there. Slowly, the interior of the shed is lit up a tawny yellow.

  Gisele enters behind me, her perfume following. “Yep, real shithole.”

  There’s junk everywhere—rods, paddles, trinkets from Dad’s trips abroad, trips I now know were funded by Grandad’s money, but the box I’m looking for is at the bottom of a shelf in a corner. I retrieve it, blowing a thick layer of dust off the top.

  “This where you keep your Fleshlight?” Gisele asks, smile playing on her lips.

  I reply by opening the box and fishing out the papers inside.

  There’s a moment of hesitation as I hold them in my hand. I’m placing an awful lot of trust in this woman, someone I technically barely know at all.

  But I feel something between us, a connection I’ve never felt with anyone else. I don’t know why, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s going to come back to bite me in the ass, but I want to trust her.

  “I believe these are what you’re looking for?” I tell her, handing the papers across.

  She shuffles through them, looking up at me in disbelief. “Jesus. You’re keeping these here?” Her voice raises. “In a god-damn tackle box?”

  I shrug. “Safest place I could think of.”

  She shakes her head, coming closer to the lamp to read the papers. “My property law is a bit rusty, but from the looks of it these are land titles… and I’m talking some seriously big land titles at that. Old, too, much, much older than the fifties.”

  “I thought about contacting a lawyer, seeing what these were, sure, but then I thought, why bother? It’s not like I need more land.”

  I see something in her eyes by the lamplight, but I can’t tell if it’s surp
rise or greed or something somewhere between the two, something unidentifiable.

  Doubt creeps in, but I usher it away.

  “Well?” I suggest.

  She looks up at me. “Well?” she laughs. “Well, we have to get these somewhere safe, first of all. You can’t leave these here where any ol’ kid could wonder by and toss them into the river. I mean, Jesus, these could be worth millions, tens, even hundreds of millions if the area listed here is anything to go by.”

  “You think these are what your client is after?”

  She nods, looking down at the papers. “Without question.”

  “They stay here,” I tell her. “They’ll be a hell of a lot safer here than in a bank where some nosy, green-eyed go-getter type decides to tell their friend about them, who tells another idiot and so on and so on until they’re gone. I don’t want that.”

  “You can’t be serious! Listen to yourself.” She waves the papers at me. “These are gold, pure fucking gold, and you’re leaving them to rot! They’re not even stored correctly.”

  I carefully take them from her hands and place them back into the box, kicking it under the shelf. “They’ll be fine. Will you?”

  I expect her to fight, but she seems oddly content with it all, as if a sudden change of mood has swept over her. “Fine,” she says, stepping up to me and reaching for my face. “That’s one mystery solved.”

  My hand runs down her side, her warmth. “And the other?”

  She looks down between us and I know.

  I know I have to get us the fuck back to Roxanne, pronto.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  GISELE

  He barely has time to close the front door.

  I taste the whiskey on his lips, warm and smooth. His tongue presses deeper into my mouth. It’s forceful, an attempt to dominate, but I press back.

  His hands slide under my skirt. He takes my buttocks and lifts me against him, biceps hard and firm. I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles against the top of his belt, grinding into his chest.

  Being out on the river, having the truth finally laid out, has uncorked my inhibitions. The whiskey is helping, too. My head swims light-headed and easy, blood pumping hot and free to my extremities, sensation creating a fiery pool at my crotch.