Mr. Prime Minister

by Jessica Ashe

  For the time being, I need to stay discreet. I haven’t seen my brother in five years—I want nothing more than to head straight to Daron’s house and show my face. I almost crack a smile as I imagine how surprised he’ll be to see me. A bit like seeing a ghost, I imagine.

  I’ll visit him soon. I have a mission to accomplish first. Once that’s done, I can show my face again. It shouldn’t take long. A week, tops. Then he’ll be dead and I can go back to living a normal life.

  What is a normal life? I’ve spent the last five years in Iraq, and the three years before that in the Navy SEALs. When you add in my time serving in the Navy as a regular recruit then it’s safe to say I haven’t lived a normal life for a decade.

  Judging by my few weeks back in the US, normal life these days consists of staring constantly at a phone and doing everything possible to avoid human interaction. That last bit I can get on board with. I never was much of a people person, and with everything that’s happened these last few years, my faith in humanity is not exactly at an all-time high.

  The phone thing, though… I could do without that. I have a burner tucked away in my pocket. It doesn’t do much more than make phone calls and send text messages, but at least it doesn’t track my every movement. Given what I have planned for the next week, it’s probably best to avoid leaving an electronic trail. If the police do catch me, I’m going to at least make them work for a conviction. No point making it easy.

  The bag on my back holds every possession I have in the world, except for the gun that I’m carrying in a large case in my right hand. The bag didn’t feel heavy two hours ago, but it’s starting to weigh me down now. Carrying a heavy pack used to be routine training. Back when I was a SEAL, I had to run with a heavy bag for hours before even eating breakfast. Now it has me exhausted. In my defense, I’ve been in an Iraqi prison for the last five years. That’s bound to affect my fitness a touch.

  I’m enjoying the bitterly-cold wind blowing directly into my face when a petite woman walks straight into me, her hands brushing against the front of my pants as if she’s trying to pickpocket me. If she is a pickpocket, then she’s not subtle about it. After walking into me, she bounces off, only just able to stay on her feet. She packs a surprising punch for someone so tiny.

  “Jackass,” she mutters.

  The wind almost carries the sound away from me, but there’s no mistaking the insult on her lips. She’s tinier than the women I’m unusually into, but I can’t deny that she’s sexy as hell. The yoga pants let me see every curve of her ass—not that there are many—and up top she’s wearing a thin sweater that clings to her tiny body. It’s one of those sweaters with the holes in the sleeves that you can slide your thumbs through. Those things are everywhere these days, but it’s nowhere near thick enough for such a cold evening.

  “Hey sweet cheeks, you walked into me,” I reply, when she’s almost out of range.

  “Don’t call me ‘sweet cheeks,’” she snaps, stopping and turning back to look at me. “And no, I didn’t walk into you. You weren’t looking where you were going.”

  “Yeah, you tell yourself that, sweet cheeks.”

  “Are you always a creep around women? Or is it just my lucky night?”

  “It can be your lucky night if you want it to be. You already had a feel of my crotch. Did you like what you felt? I’ve got a few too many layers on up top, but as I’m sure you noticed, I’m going commando under these jeans.”

  She sighs and walks away, giving me a quick middle finger as she does so.

  “Apology accepted, sweet cheeks,” I yell after her.

  This part of Chicago doesn’t have a great reputation. You’re more likely to bump into someone wearing gang colors than yoga pants. Turns out some things have changed for the better in the last five years, if that tidy piece of ass is anything to go by.

  I arrive at my new apartment and find my landlord waiting just inside the lobby as promised. I hand over a month’s rent in cash. It hadn’t been difficult to find a landlord willing to avoid a paper trail and deal in cash. Some things in this neighborhood haven’t changed.

  “Where’s your stuff?” the landlord asks gruffly.

  “You’re looking at it,” I reply, motioning to the bag on my back, and hopefully distracting his attention from the gun case in my other hand. It looks innocuous enough; most people probably assume it’s a musical instrument. “There’s a sleeping bag in here, and a few essentials.” Plus, thousands of dollars in cash. Probably best not to mention that, or I might find the landlord lets himself in for a rummage around while I’m out.

  “I can provide a mattress for another $200. In cash.”

  I grab a couple of fifties from my pocket and hand them over. “I’ll give you the other hundred on delivery.”

  “I’ll bring it over in a couple of hours.”

  The landlord hands me the keys, but doesn’t bother giving me a tour. There’s not much to look at. The apartment consists of a modest-sized living area, with a tiny, open kitchen, a bedroom, and the bathroom. I throw my bag down on the floor and allow myself a smile.

  The landlord thinks he’s renting me a shithole. This place was on the market for months before I negotiated a cash discount with the landlord. To most people, this is a dive, devoid of any modern conveniences. To me, it might as well be a palace. Compared to where I’ve been living recently… let’s just say as long as the toilet flushes and the landlord doesn’t torture me twice a day, it’s an improvement.

  Unpacking takes barely five minutes, so I soon find myself perched on the window ledge, looking out at the people that I now call my neighbors. This all seems so surreal. I didn’t think I’d ever get back to the US; now that I am, I keep expecting everyone to notice me as an outsider or a fraud. Instead, everyone just carries on with their business.

  Eventually, the landlord shows up in his truck with my mattress. I watch him drag it along the path, clearly not giving a shit about it getting dirty in the process. I head downstairs to meet him and give him the second hundred dollars. Apparently, $200 gets me a mattress, but it doesn’t get me any help carrying it up to my apartment.

  The elevators are big, and there’s a chance the mattress will squeeze inside. I hit the call button and decide to give it a shot before trying to drag the mattress up the stairs. This is why I prefer managing with just a sleeping bag and a pad. It’s so much easier to carry around.

  The main building doors open, letting in the cold night air, along with something else rather cold.

  “Hello again, sweet cheeks,” I say, with a grin so wide even I’m surprised by it. “Looks like tonight actually is your lucky night.”

  “Oh God,” she sighs. “Well, it’s not your lucky night. For one thing, the elevators don’t work. You’re going to have to carry that up the stairs.”

  “Want to give me a hand?”

  “No, I’m good. I live right here.” She motions to a door on the ground floor.

  I picture the layout of the floor above where I’m living. “I’m directly above you. I guess that makes us neighbors, kind of.”

  “Wow, the good news just keeps on coming.”

  “I’m Alec, by the way, since it doesn’t look like you’re going to ask.”

  “Piper,” she replies reluctantly, as if her name is a secret she doesn’t want to confide in me. “So… which floor is your apartment on?”

  “Second. Just above yours. Speaking of which, don’t be surprised if you hear, uh, noises at night.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “You know, creaking of floorboards, lots of moaning and groaning. General energetic movement. Things tend to get a little rowdy up there.”

  She rolls her eyes and turns her nose up in disgust. “I guess I’ll be investing in earplugs.”

  “You’re more than welcome to come up and join in if you like. There’s no point lying in bed awake when you could be having fun with me upstairs.”

  “What makes you think I don’t have fun of my
own at night?”

  “I can tell. You haven’t had fun at night for a while, I reckon.”

  How I would love to change that. She’s tense and in need of a good fuck. That’s not always a good thing. The tense ones can be stiff in bed, as well as out. Not her, though. I’d bet all the cash in my bag on it.

  “Thanks for the generous offer,” she replies, dryly. “But I’m going to pass.”

  “All right, but it gets cold at night. I could keep you warm.”

  “I have a heater.”

  Clearly, this one’s going to take some effort. I only have a week, and that might not be long enough. Women like her have defenses against guys like me. Her body wants me, but her mind is warning her to be wary of me. It’s probably an evolutionary thing. She thinks I’m a predator, and I suppose she’s right. Given what I have planned in the next week, I can hardly pretend to be a saint.

  “I guess I’ll see you around then,” I say, as she enters her apartment.

  “Hopefully not,” she mutters, shortly before the door slams shut.

  Yep, that one is definitely going to take longer than a week to get naked. That makes a change. In my first two weeks back in the US, I fucked at least one different girl every night, and often more. I had little patience for any woman who required more than one drink and a smile to spread her legs for me.

  I’ve got that out of my system now. Or at least, I thought I had. That cute little piece of ass has my cock throbbing like it’s still been five years without pussy.

  Piper. Pretty name.

  I shake my head to try and clear her from my mind, as I heave the mattress up the stairs.

  I can’t get hung up on a woman right now, no matter how hot she is. I need to keep my mind on my mission. The second I’m back in my apartment, I drop to the floor and start doing press ups, my hard cock touching the floor each time I dip down.

  She’s too much effort. In the time it would take me to get in her panties, I could fuck probably ten different women. And she’s too small for me. Her thin, petite frame doesn’t look like it could handle what I have to give. Her pussy’s bound to be tight as well; that has advantages and disadvantages. We’re not a good match. I’ll have to content myself with picturing her perfect firm titties and imagining her tight pussy contracting around my cock as I jack off.

  The exercise doesn’t take my mind off Piper, so I try to focus on my mission instead. I pull the long box out of the closet and open it up. My sniper rifle is still there, ready and waiting to be fired. I dismantled it and cleaned it a few days ago, but I find the whole process therapeutic and do it again from scratch.

  You can never be too careful. I have a mission to fulfill, and this rifle has a crucial part to play.

  Chapter Two

  Piper

  Why don’t you give yoga a try? It will help you deal with your stress.

  Nice try, Mom, but it’s going to take more than a bit of yoga to get me out of this funk. I’ve tried everything; running, cycling, and even lifting weights. None of that worked, and now I can add yoga to the list. ‘Downward facing dog’ isn’t going to cut it right now. ‘Doggy style’ is closer to what I need.

  No need to guess why doggy style popped into my mind. While I was supposed to be taking deep breaths and clearing my mind at yoga, all I could think about was the wall of muscle I walked into on the way there. I did walk into him. I don’t know why I insisted it was the other way around. I was embarrassed, I guess. I went bouncing off him, and it was a miracle I didn’t land on my ass.

  I shouldn’t have blamed him, but it didn’t excuse him acting like a complete tool. He accused me of walking into him on purpose, just so I could feel his cock. Who thinks like that? If someone walks into me, my first thought is that they weren’t looking where they were going. I don’t immediately accuse them of trying to feel me up.

  I didn’t grab his cock or anything like that, but I did feel it press against my hip for half a second. That doesn’t count though. All I know is that he’s above average size. It’s not like I gave it a squeeze and tickled his balls.

  He wouldn’t complain if I had. The man is clearly a bit of a slut.

  Don’t be surprised if you hear, uh, noises at night.

  Real subtle. I know I’m not exactly sweet and innocent, but I don’t go around bragging about all the noise coming from my apartment. Not that there’s been much of that lately. Not unless you count the buzzing noise. Even that isn’t much use these days. I can’t switch off my brain, and that means I can’t relax enough to get in the mood for my battery-powered friend.

  It’s stupid. Police officers are supposed to be brave and strong-minded. They aren’t supposed to go to bed at night nervous about what the next day might bring. I don’t even do particularly dangerous work. I walk the streets occasionally, but other than dealing with aggressive drunks, my job is not that bad. That doesn’t stop me from worrying about what might happen. You hear stories all the time. Officers respond to what sounds like a routine call only to end up on the receiving end of a gunshot.

  A loud bang outside my apartment makes my eyes shoot open when I’d been close to falling asleep on the sofa. Probably just a firework.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that Piper.

  In this neighborhood, loud bangs are usually not fireworks.

  This isn’t the greatest neighborhood for a single woman, but it’s the only one I can afford. The lack of choice is somewhat comforting. It means I’m not making a mistake living here—if you don’t have a choice, it’s not really a mistake.

  The apartment building is run-down, but that’s hardly a surprise for the amount I’m paying. It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t on the ground floor. Every loud voice outside makes me nervous, and let’s not even get started on the mice I occasionally find in the kitchen. It’s one of the hazards of living near the trash cans.

  I shiver and check the heating. It’s on, but it does jack shit most of the time. If I sit right next to one of the vents, then that side of my body stays warm, and that’s about as good as it gets. I’ll eventually buy a portable heater. I’ve always had an obsession with keeping warm. It’s driven more than one ex-boyfriend crazy. I like my apartment to be nice and toasty, but I refuse to use thick covers on the bed to keep warm. That’s probably one of the many reasons why I’m single.

  I keep dozing on and off, but it’s eleven o’clock before I finally force my ass into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I get undressed and slip on a pair of cotton shorts and a tight T-shirt that I got at a Backstreet Boys concert many years ago. There’s something reassuring about sleeping with pictures of my five favorite men on my chest.

  I’m seconds from falling asleep when the building shakes with a violent earthquake.

  Wait, earthquakes in Chicago are pretty rare.

  I sit up in bed and place my hand on the wall. It’s definitely shaking, and the ceiling sounds like it’s about to come down.

  Alec.

  What the fuck is he doing up there?

  Who the fuck is he doing up there?

  I’d assumed his talk of the room shaking was an exaggeration, but apparently not. Jesus, what is he doing to that woman up there? There’s a pattern to the noise, but it shows no sign of slowing down. If I listen carefully, I think I can hear grunting.

  At least someone’s enjoying himself.

  I can’t deny it, he’s definitely the type of man you want to surrender yourself to for the night and then never hear from again. If we met in a bar and I’d had a few drinks, I’d have been more than happy to bring him home for some no-strings entertainment. Instead, I introduced myself to him by calling him a jackass, and for the second meeting I was sweaty and smelly after yoga. He probably wouldn’t have fucked me even if I’d begged him.

  Who’s the lucky girl? Maybe there’s more than one? There’s a lot of him to go around and I don’t doubt for a second that he’s capable of keeping two women satisfied at once.

  Why am I ev
en thinking about this?

  I close my eyes and try to get some sleep. I’m exhausted; it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes for me to drift off into a deep sleep, no matter what’s going on upstairs.

  “Oh my God,” I yell loudly to myself. I look at the time on my phone. He’s been at it for an hour now. An hour—that’s ridiculous. The longest fuck I’ve ever had was about thirty minutes and that’s only because the guy was drunk and couldn’t cum. That made two of us. My guy didn’t go at it with this much energy either.

  Maybe Alec’s a porn star. He has the body for it. Ugh. I can’t listen to pornos being filmed every night while I try to sleep.

  There’s a loud masculine groan from upstairs and the loud thuds get slightly farther apart. Has he finished? God, I hope so.

  Nope.

  After five minutes, the noise starts up again, and this time I swear it’s louder than ever. My phone falls off the bedside table because it’s shaking so much.

  This is ridiculous. I need my fucking sleep.

  I jump out of bed, and before I know it I’m heading up the stairs to his apartment. The noise doesn’t seem so loud from outside his door. It’s almost like he’s channeling it all down towards my apartment.

  I hammer loudly on his door with my tiny fist, not even stopping for a second to realize that I’m interrupting two people having sex. I might be interrupting the flow, but it’s hard to sympathize; it’s not like I’ve had sex much recently. At least this woman’s getting some.

  After banging three more times, the noise inside his apartment stops and a few seconds later I hear heavy footsteps come towards the door. Alec opens a chain, then another one, and then a third. Christ, is he keeping her prisoner in there?

  The door finally swings open and I’m greeted by the sight of a very sweaty and almost completely naked Alec. He’s wearing a pair of shorts, but they’re stretched so tightly around his large thighs that they don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Above, he’s shirtless and glistening with the results of the enthusiastic sex session I interrupted.