“He's gone,” said Jackson, not even having to look. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
A haunted expression remained on her face. She looked sickly white.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Langhorne...”
“We're on it.”
“Where is he?”
“Not here.”
And then Mira started looking around for something, patting the ground around her. “His laptop. Get the laptop. For evidence.” She was starting to sound frantic. “What about the deal? We've gotta—”
Jackson grabbed on to her, quieting her down and halting her search. He could feel Mira's heart racing against his, her chest heaving as she started crying again. “Mira, trust me,” he said, holding her tightly. “It's over.”
23
Mira
Mira dropped the airport paperback and rolled onto her side, her feet slipping off the blanket and burrowing luxuriously into the hot sand. Without looking, she reached behind her back and grabbed a hotel towel from the wicker beach basket. She tried rolling it up with one hand, but someone snatched it away. The towel returned a few seconds later in the form of a plump pillow sliding gently under the side of her face. It was warm from the sun and she nuzzled into it while thinking of the three pages she'd just read, deciding that it was more than enough work for the day.
She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of waves and seagulls finish the job her book had already started. There were other sounds, too, like the thudding of a volleyball, samba music from a crackling radio, and then another kind of music, her favorite.
“Make sure you don't burn on your first day.”
She felt his hand on her leg, caressing up past her knee.
“That would be a real shame,” he said.
And then the crack of a sunscreen bottle. The smell of cocoa butter.
Jackson's hand was back on her leg, running smooth with lotion from her ankle to her knee, and then back down again, gently massaging her muscles on the way. Mira rolled onto her stomach as he worked her calves. She let her legs fall open slightly, inviting his hand to come up a little higher.
“I never knew your hands could feel so smooth,” she said, thinking of all his hard-earned calluses hiding behind the lotion. “You should start moisturizing yourself.”
“Maybe if it didn’t smell like... like whatever this is.”
“Cocoa butter?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t hear the end of it at work.”
“So? I'd make it up to you.”
“Here's a better idea,” he said. “Why don't I just keep flying us out to Brazil?”
Mira giggled. “Okay. You win.”
His hands were now up on her thigh. “You're damn right I win.” He was massaging her, squeezing her ass. “Mmm,” he groaned. “Damn, you look good in this bikini.”
“Hey,” Mira laughed. “Keep it movin'. You've got some more real estate to cover.”
“All right, all right,” Jackson said as he applied more lotion to her back.
“Thanks. I don't think my butt will get a sunburn ever again.”
“Oh. That wasn't my intention,” said Jackson, his hands rounding her shoulders. “I had a better idea for that.”
“I'm sure. You've got an idea for everything.”
“Well?” he said, rubbing her arms now. “Haven’t they always worked out?”
They had. From Annica, who wrote a great story while keeping her name private, to the systematic dismantling and prosecution of Langhorne and his cronies. Yes, his ideas worked. Mira wouldn’t have been laying on the beach with him otherwise. She wouldn’t have been alive. But she didn’t say that. The sun was warm and she wanted to just enjoy the moment.
“I'm excited for this next idea,” said Jackson.
“What? Surfing?”
“No,” he said. “You. As my partner.”
Her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“In life, or at work?”
“Both.”
Mira chuckled. “I'm actually still on the fence about that.”
“What?” He stopped rubbing the lotion.
She laughed outright now. “About the work partnership, at least.”
“No, no, we need you at DARC Ops. After seeing what you can do? Jesus...” He joined in with her chuckle. “I mean, I'll pay you to stay home if you want to. I just can't have you working for my competitors. You're that dangerous.”
“I thought you were going to say valuable.”
“Same thing in my world.”
Mira tried not to think about her work situation. But this vacation would only last so long. Returning to her post at the Hart Senate Building would be impossible, even with Langhorne and Chuck gone. And doing that kind of work anywhere else seemed similarly impossible now. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to. How could she work in that environment again, without wondering what was going on behind closed doors?
“Well,” she said. “If they’d give you a rough time about cocoa butter, what would they say about me?”
“Nothing. They like you.”
“Yeah, but as your... partner?”
“Sure. I already told them about it.” Jackson finished up with the lotion, pulling his hands away.
“What?” asked Mira, trying to comprehend what he'd just said.
“Yeah, you're all set. Now who's gonna spread lotion on me? I guess I'll just do myself now? All by myself.” He laughed, squeezing the bottle until it made a loud splat. “Stop worrying, Mira. We’re on vacation.”
“Okay,” she said, turning her head to watch Jackson lubing up his chest with the lotion. He winked when he caught her looking. And then he bounced his pecs for her with a laugh.
Silly man. He was fun in and out of the bedroom. How they'd work together, professionally, was still anyone's guess. But maybe she could just trust him on that one.
He was definitely right about his ideas working out—especially the Rio de Janeiro getaway. After playing nurse for her father's week-long recovery, Mira's own recovery was long overdue. A psychological recovery. Jackson called it decompression. She called it chocolate strawberries with champagne for breakfast, multiple orgasms before noon, and Jackson working all the bad memories away until she was sore. Until the only sensible option was the beach.
Tanning. Teasing. Not reading her book.
It hardly mattered. Nor did it matter what she did for the rest of the day—just as long as it ended, like all her days thereafter, with Jackson.
Thank you so much for reading Mira and Jackson’s story. Keep reading for a sneak peek of Tansy and Carly’s story in Dark Web - DARC Ops #2.
Looking for a new author to try? Check out Samantha A. Cole’s Leather & Lace: Trident Security Book 1.
Kristen Anders is starting her life over again after divorcing her cheating husband. An author of several 'vanilla' romance novels, she spiced up her latest one involving BDSM and it became a best-seller. Now she's researching the subject for her follow-up book and manages to get a tour of the elite, private sex club, The Covenant, and runs into the one person she never expected to see there.
Devon "Devil Dog" Sawyer is intrigued by a cute brunette he meets at a friend's Irish pub and does something he hasn't done in over twelve years. He asks her out on a date. While it might seem strange to most, Devon's only relationships since he was twenty-four have started and ended in the same place–a BDSM club.
What was supposed to be a single weekend of mutual pleasure and dirty sex, turns into something more. But while they fight their growing connection, a killer has Devon in his sights and Kristen may end up as collateral damage. Will they survive with their lives and hearts intact?
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Dark Web
1
Carly
They rolled into town around 6 p.m., barely on time for their sound check at Changez Niteclub—Salt Lake City’s festering, beer-stank hovel of live punk music. In that way it was really no
different than the rest. Just another night, another dive bar, another stop in The Dotties’ I-80 tour of the western states. And like usual, they were greeted by cranky, hungover staff. First was the guy who opened the rear alley-facing door, who had a faint trace of white powder in his mustache, and who pretended like he didn’t know anything and was too busy and annoyed to bother. He was most likely the owner. Next was the girl sitting atop the bar, pouring cheap vodka into premium bottles through a large plastic funnel. Between pours, she pointed to the stage, mumbling something about hurrying up and setting up already. And to not prop open the rear door when bringing in their gear. Too many flies.
While providing a break from the monotony of the interstate, places like Changez also gave Carly an opportunity to regret that she’d let herself become a musician. She contemplated this while untangling a ball of patch cords. It always happened like that—the careful untangling of her guitar cords pre-show with a solemn promise to store them properly in the future. And then the future comes half drunk and chaotic, their show ending in a big, sloppy hurry to pile all their shit in their van as fast as possible.
Carly thought about that, too, already growing envious of her future self’s ability to escape the current rattrap of a gig. Maybe by then she’d figure out a more permanent escape, something beyond a vanload of instruments, gear, and illicit drugs.
“Okay girls, when you’re ready. . . .”
The sound check at Changez served more as a formality than function, the guy behind the sound board listening for a whole 30 seconds before lazily waving his hand in a “cut it” sign. He hadn’t once touched the dials. Nor had he even looked at them. Instead, and with a face marked with a certain dull hatred, he rotated his head ever so slightly to glance at someone behind the bar. Yup, speakers still work.
Carly leaned her Fender bass into its stand and stepped off the stage—rather, stepped down a single carpeted step posing as a stage. The next challenge was to somehow navigate an exit through last night’s unswept shards of beer bottles. She walked carefully, her head down so she’d spot any larger shards before they pierced the bottom of her boot. It was always a little unnerving to see unfiltered sunlight on the black floor of a nightclub, its golden beams reflecting majestically off the candied spackle of beer and glass. Everywhere else, aside from the stage and bar, was pitch dark. And she was thankful for that.
“Hey, you can’t use that door,” called a voice from the darkness. “Go out back.”
She ignored it.
Outside, in the cool late-day shade of the alley, Carly braced herself for the phone calls she’d been trying to avoid for over four hundred miles of interstate. Four hundred miles of extra weight on top of everything else in an already overloaded van, including a slew of maxed-out credit cards. It was now time, right there amid the deep-fried-grease stench of a downtown Salt Lake City alley, to finally start addressing things one by one.
First, an offer that sounded too good to be true.
“I got your message,” Carly spoke into her cell phone. “All six of them.”
“Well, this guy’s been hounding me,” came the voice of an old internet friend and one-time business contact. Back in the good ol’ days, he’d supplied her with a long set of lucrative contracts—with a slight commission, of course. “He’s got something big lined up, Carly. And I know you need the money.”
“You didn’t tell him that I’m retired?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I figured it was worth coming out of retirement for. He’s saying fifty grand.”
“And yet, I’m still saying no.”
“He said he can negotiate higher, if that’s what it takes.”
“You mean you’re gonna lower your cut?” Carly watched a nature scene unfold before her in the alley—a pigeon hobbling across the closed lid of a recycle bin.
“Yeah,” he said, “sliding to you.”
“No thanks.”
“What?”
“Tell him thanks,” she said, “but no thanks.”
“You sure?”
Carly watched the pigeon as it pecked at something in a crumbled-up fast-food wrapper—maybe some old bread. The poor thing was taking whatever it could get. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said. “And can you do me a favor? Can you stop calling me about this kind of stuff?”
There was a sigh on the other end of the line.
“I thought I told you about that,” she said. The pigeon was looking straight at her.
“Alright, Carly. So you’re still in retirement. Alright.”
“Until I say otherwise,” she said. “That means it comes from me to you. Not the other way around.”
“Alright,” he said, finally sounding defeated. “You doing okay out there? How’s everything going otherwise?”
“It’s going great,” she lied. “And you can call anytime if you just want to chat and catch up, you know, like friends do.”
She heard laughter on the other end. And then he told her to take care. And then a cold little goodbye.
Their work relationship went way back, but it was really nothing to get sentimental about. These days that voice offered nothing but trouble, and was maybe even deserving of its number getting permanently blocked.
Standing in that alley and watching an injured bird try to eek out its own existence, Carly began to wonder how difficult it would be to break away for good, if she could live with that last phone call being the final contact between her and her old life. The bird suddenly fluttered and then took off, flying away. Yes. She could.
Now alone in the alley, Carly took a deep breath in preparation for the next call. It was to her current employer.
Maybe he had some good news?
She could really use some good news. . . .
“Hey, Dom,” she said, fighting back a creeping shakiness in her voice. “We just got off the road. We’re in Salt Lake City.”
“Oh . . . cool,” said Dom, sounding decidedly nonplussed about the news. “How’s, uh . . . how’s it all going?”
A net loss so far. A renewed distrust in humanity. An exploration of American pastoral tedium. Through the truck stop shithole towns of Wyoming, they’d barely made gas money.
All in all, it was going about how she’d expected, so she spared him the details.
Dom sounded relieved, moving on to more important matters, like, “We had another meeting, so it’s a good thing you called today,” and, “I think they’ve made their decision. And I think you know what that is.”
Yes, she had an idea. They’d left a few hints before she set out on tour, furtive glances in an elevator back in Fort Collins, everything sad and suggestive.
“I’m sorry, Carly.”
They were sorry. So sorry. But they’d have to let her go.
“I’m sorry,” he said again into the void of Carly’s silence. “I could get into the rationale, the numbers, if you’d like. But the main takeaway is that it’s no one’s fault and we hate doing this, Carly. We really do.”
He didn’t need to get into the numbers.
Carly reckoned they were heading for a nationwide depression, regardless of what the talking heads on TV were allowed to report. She knew the abysmal figures of her marketing firm’s first quarter, and how it mirrored that of their competitors. And how that mirrored every other industry.
Marketing budgets would be the first to go, if senior management around the country still expected to see their bonuses. Dom said as much, referring ever so quietly to their own company’s management. Carly could hear the fear in his voice. He’d be next.
Yes, the rocker chick had a job. Had a job, a normal 9–5er, building websites for an internet marketing agency back in Colorado. The music thing, an all-girl punk-rock trio, was supposed to be a hobby. And trips like these were supposed to at least pay for themselves.
“Guess what?” said a voice behind her. “It looks like they’re not doing the flat rate anymore. Just cover.”
“
Smart move,” said Carly, sighing as she slid her phone into the tight front pocket of her black, knee-holed jeans. She turned to face the lead guitarist and singer for The Dotties, Megan, a cute little butch girl she’d known since high school. Someone who grew up to be a professional dog groomer—and who was still currently employed.
“So how do we look for door count?” asked Megan. “You did Twitter and Facebook and everything?” It was her usual assumption that Carly, who wrote code for marketers, was an expert marketer herself.
“Yeah,” said Carly. “I sent out some stuff.”
Megan stared at her for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Carly sighed. Why was it always up to her? “Well, wouldn’t it make sense for the social-media addict to handle the social media?”
“Okay. So let’s put up a pic on Instagram,” said Megan, brushing dog hair off her black tank top. “Wanna take one of me? We can do it right now.”
Carly looked around at her bleak surroundings. “Sure. What dumpster do you wanna—?”
“Not in the fucking alley. Come on, let’s go out front.”
She had just lost her job. She wasn’t in the mood to go out front.
“Come on,” Megan urged. “We gotta do something.”
She did do something. She Facebooked. . . . She tweeted. . . . Right?
Or was that yesterday for Rock Springs?
Was she really just fired?
“Alright,” said Carly with mock optimism. “Let’s do something.”
They walked along the graffitied rear wall of the nightclub, avoiding puddles of trash water on their way. As she passed one of the large metal dumpsters, Carly heard a scuffling sound emanating from within. She held absolutely no desire to find the source.
Megan didn’t seem to notice any of it. “Maybe I can stand in front of their sign or something.”
DARC Ops: The Complete Series Page 19