I didn't have long to wait before finding out. The car made several quick turns (to lose the cops, maybe?) and then stopped, and with a surreptitious peek through my improvised spy hole, I recognized my mailbox. Dan, who had been apparently been awaiting my arrival on the front steps, came down to open the car door and help me out. After the car left, he pulled my blouse back down.
"I'll take the cuffs off, if you promise to stay calm and come inside with me," he said quietly. "Where we can talk. There are lot of things you don't—"
"Go fuck yourself," I replied, very calmly, under the circumstances. Once we were inside, though, and the cuffs were off, I got less calm, kicked him in the shins as hard as I could, and hurled the nearest thing I could reach—a brass bookend of Abraham Lincoln's head. I had been aiming at Dan's handsome head, but Honest Abe made a direct hit on the intended target's left shoulder, and then, to my delight, made a dull thump as it landed hard on the intended target's foot. He swore loudly and hopped around for a moment or two, while I grabbed the opportunity—possibly my last—to make a run for the front door. When he moved to block my way, I changed strategy and tried for the stairs.
I had gotten as far as the third step when I felt his hand grip my ankle.
Chapter 7
What happened next was one of those "good thing, bad thing" situations you're always hearing about. The good thing was that I didn't get shot, strangled or otherwise eliminated by the man who might be a hired killer, but with whom I was almost certainly in love. The bad thing was that very same man dragged me across his knee, yanked down my underwear, and gave me a spanking I'm sure I'll still be remembering in agonizing detail when I'm a very, very old woman. Yes, you heard me correctly. Right there, on the third step of the staircase, in my shabby little rented house, Pauline Marie and I got the mother of all bare-assed spankings. (Not to be a martyr or anything, but I'm pretty sure I got the worst of it.)
Before I go into the more explicit details of what happened next—details I'm sure you're all anticipating with a lot of smug, "I told you soes," and gleeful cries of, "Boy, did she have that coming, the little idiot," I should explain something about myself. I had somehow managed, against all the odds and human logic, to reach the age of thirty-three without ever being spanked. Yes, as difficult as it may be for you to imagine, dear readers, I had avoided ever being physically punished for anything, thanks to having been blessed with the kindest and most indulgent set of parents you can imagine—parents who truly believed that reason and forbearance would keep their only adored only child from turning into a willful brat, inclined to dangerous and sometimes lunatic behaviors. This benign belief on their part persisted throughout my childhood, despite all the evidence I gave them to prove that theory misguided.
So, when I found myself across Dan's knee, with my pants down and my heart racing, I was still under the comfortable misapprehension that the frolicsome poolside episode with the wooden lemonade spoon had been a "real" spanking and that the one I was about to experience would be similar.
I was wrong. Something that only began to dawn on me when he rolled up his shirtsleeves and explained, firmly and in some detail, what was about to happen, and why it was going to happen again, whenever I did something as manifestly stupid and self-destructive as what I had done that day. Once I was sprawled across his lap and cautioned to remain where I was or face the consequences for rebellion, he pushed my skirt up to my waist and tucked it there, then hooked his thumbs on either side of my panties and peeled them down over my quivering buttocks to a spot just below my knees. (I have to confess that during this final step, as I felt my undies being lowered, I felt my stomach doing a few flip-flops, not out of fear, but of lust. It occurred to me, at that point, this spanking business might not be so bad, after all.
And once again, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Until that moment, you see, I had regarded the wooden spoon incident as fairly serious, "pain-wise." After the first couple of swats there on the stairway, though, it began to dawn on me that, once again, I had been sorely mistaken. This spanking was accomplished without the aid of an implement of any kind—no paddle, no hairbrush, not even a wooden spoon—just a firm, hard, male hand applied with grim determination and astonishing accuracy to the most exquisitely sensitive areas of my naked, squirming behind.
I don't know how many blows were delivered. I stopped counting almost immediately and began howling, sobbing, and making plaintive pleas and promises, hoping he would stop. Which he didn't, I might add, and when I became frustrated enough to try to bite his lower leg, he retaliated by spreading my legs apart and placing several scalding swats to the inside of my thighs. I was learning the hard way that, despite the obvious erotic possibilities, being really spanked hurts like hell.
When he finally pulled my panties back up, my skirt back down, and let me up, every square inch of my ass and the backs of my thighs felt like I'd sat down on a hot stove. My nose was running, my cheeks were inflamed and hot, and I can only imagine what my hair looked like.
He didn't say anything, but got up from the stairs and went into the kitchen—for a drink of water, presumably, after all that physical exertion.
My behind felt like it would burst into flames at any moment, so, feeling like a fool, I lifted my skirt and pulled down my pants to do a quick check for damage. The area was still throbbing, and a few pinkish, vaguely hand-shaped splotches were visible but beginning to fade— annoying, since it would have been nice to confront him with the physical evidence of his unjust and inappropriate assault on a very personal part of my person. I yanked my underwear back up and stormed down to the living room in high dudgeon. (I have no idea what "high dudgeon" is, by the way, but I've always liked the sound of it.) When I saw Dan standing there, though, sipping a glass of water and looking as handsome as ever, my resolve began to crumble. (The idea that he might be one of Bugosi's henchmen had diminished somewhat, by the way, since I suspected there weren't a lot of paid assassins who took the time to spank their intended victims before doing away with them.
Besides, there are some things a woman can't do without sacrificing her dignity, and exposing her reddened, pulsating buttocks to a man she's in love with is right at the top of that list—especially when she barely knows him, and when he has sapphire-blue eyes.
What I was ready for, though, was a fight.
So, instead of dropping my unmentionables for a quick show and tell, I began screaming obscenities—something I have a certain flair for—or so I've been told.
Dan wasn't impressed.
"Are you done?" he asked calmly, when I was forced to stop screaming long enough to catch my breath.
I wasn't done, as a matter of fact, and while I was still a long way from running out of obscenities, I was perilously close to running out of oxygen.
"Because when you're done calling me names," he continued in the same, mild tone. "I need to straighten you out about a couple of things."
"You can go to hell, you crazy sonofabitch!" I screeched. "Just get out of my fucking house! And if you try to lay another hand on me, I swear to God, I'll call the cops and have you arrested!"
He sighed. "That's what I wanted to talk about," he said. "The cops. The thing is, I am—"
At this point, he lifted his arm slightly to reach inside his jacket, and I caught a momentary but horrifying glimpse of something that made me wish I'd left well enough alone and never tried to seduce him. Dan was wearing a concealed shoulder holster—with a big black handgun in it.
Before he could finish what he was trying to say, I turned and bolted frantically up the stairs, losing one shoe in the process, tripping on the top step and falling flat on my face in the hallway. Ignoring my scraped elbows, I crawled on my hands and knees into the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, and shoved the clothes hamper and a broken, three-legged chair against the door. Not much of a barricade, but the best I could do, when the chipped, claw-footed bathtub wouldn't budge from the wall, no matter how hard I tu
gged at it.
There was a big round hole in the bathroom door where the lock should have been—another of the projects I had put on the "Honey Do" list. Just my luck to have hired a handyman who moonlighted as a gangland killer—or vice versa.
He was apparently in no hurry, though. Like a cat playing with a mouse, I thought grimly—savoring every moment of the mouse's futile attempts to save its puny life.
With my flimsy defensive measures in place, I grabbed the only weapon I could find—a long handled wooden bath-brush missing most of its bristles—and waited.
"Would you please just listen to me for a minute?" he asked from the other side of the door. "I want to explain what—"
"Fuck off!" I shouted. "I have a .57 Magnum, in here, and I know how to use it! " (I wouldn't have known a .57 Magnum from a ripe avocado, and his second soft chuckle made it embarrassingly obvious that he knew that.)
A moment later, I saw what looked like a rolled-up business card being pushed through the hole in the door. I've seen enough cop movies to know that I could be shot through the hole—or through the damned door, for that matter—so I edged cautiously to one side before reaching for the card, which read:
Daniel J. Crawford
Federal Marshall
United States Department of Justice
Washington DC.
Next, a shiny gold badge appeared at the hole, bearing what appeared to be some sort of official seal and a number.
"Am I supposed to be impressed by that piece of crap?" I scoffed. "I could buy a more convincing badge at any party shop in the damned country. And if you try to kick down this door, the way you did the one downstairs, you'll regret it!"
Another chuckle. "If you're planning to whack me over the head with that decrepit bath brush I saw in there, you might want to rethink the plan. A wooden bath brush like that can be a double-edged sword, if you get my meaning. Why don't we both just lay down our weapons, and I'll do my best to explain everything—Pandora."
"So, you know my real name," I shouted through the door. "Big deal. I'm sure you know everything else about me, too, compliments of your sleazy boss!"
A sigh, this time. "My boss's name is Margaret Bennett, and she's the Director of Field Agents for the Western Region. A very nice woman, with a husband who's an accountant, two pre-teen twin girls with braces, and a big old house in Sacramento she's remodeling. I'm one of the agents she assigned to keep you out of trouble and to keep Frank Bugosi from finding you. What you did today was stupid and dangerous, so if you're expecting an apology for that spanking you just got, you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm not the least bit sorry, and I'm not going to lie and say I am. You deserved every swat and probably a lot more. By ignoring just about every protocol in the book, you came close to blowing your cover and mine and caused some very good people a lot of trouble. Now, open the door, or I'll break it down, bend you over your quaint bathtub, and paddle your stubborn butt, again, with your damned bath-brush, this time."
The truth was I had begun to believe his story, well before the bath brush threat, so why risk a second spanking in the same day, right? I could still feel the sting of that earlier "paddling." Besides, if he had to spank me twice in one day, he might begin to think of me as difficult. I removed the hamper and the chair but hid the bath brush in the hamper, under a bunch of wet towels—just in case.
Chapter 8
By the time Dan and I sat down in the living room to negotiate a truce, we were both exhausted, and I was too sore to sit on anything that didn't have three inches of memory foam. After swearing me to secrecy—and threatening me with 'World Class Spanking Number Two,' if I broke that promise—he told me the whole story.
"The name of the woman you met on the bus is Elena Hofritz. She works for Bugosi, and she's every bit as dangerous as the Iceman, himself—maybe even more dangerous, because she can put on a very convincing act, when she needs to—the way she did with you. We knew she'd come out here looking for you—on a tip, probably— but until you made yourself a local celebrity, she wasn't having much luck. She's had people monitoring every bus and train station in the area, and by trying to run the way you did, you made her job a hell of a lot easier."
"I'm sorry,” I moaned. "And I know I screwed everything up. I just wish you'd told me all this before."
He shook his head. "We're not allowed to do that. The rules say I'm not supposed to be telling you, even now, but I figured it was time—before you did something even more dangerous."
"And more stupid, right?"
"Let's just call it misguided. Everyone makes mistakes. I made my own, by getting emotionally involved with a client."
"A client?" I repeated softly. "Is that what I am to you, just another client?"
"Well," he replied, smiling. "You're sure as hell not the usual client. For one thing, you're the first one I've had to wallop while I was trying to protect her. Which, I guess, just goes to show that there really is a first time for everything."
I shot him a suspicious look. "Does that mean I'm the only woman you've ever spanked?"
"Scout's honor," he replied solemnly, raising his right hand. "I once punched a female client in the nose, though."
"So, why isn't that police brutality?"
"Try reading your contract. It's in the fine print. Agents have the right to do whatever is necessary to protect a client, including the use of physical force—in moderation."
"I hate to tell you this, Agent Crawford, "I grumbled." But there was nothing moderate about what you did to this client."
"Every case is different. That's why we're trained to be innovative—and to improvise."
Since I was beginning to feel very warm with this particular discussion—whether from being aroused or because of the remaining sting in my backside, it seemed like an excellent time to change the subject.
"What happened to Elena?" I inquired. "She seemed nice. Friendly, even. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe she didn't know who I really was?"
Dan frowned. "She was carrying a loaded revolver in that picnic cooler, with orders to put two bullets in the back of your head," he said quietly. "If that tells you anything about how friendly she is."
"I guess I'm not good at picking friends," I observed, watching his face for a reaction. "Male or female."
When he didn't take the bait on my remark, I let it drop. We were sitting no more than three feet apart, but I had already begun to sense a distinct chill developing in the air between us. And I had no one to blame but myself.
"So, the two 'Chili Dog Guys' are yours, too?" I asked, trying to redirect the conversation, again.
Dan gave me a puzzled look. "The what?
"The two men in suits at the bus station, eating chili dogs. I thought they were a couple of Bugosi's thugs, following me."
He chuckled. "If you mean the two men at the lunch counter, we checked them out."
"So, who are they?"
"Two sales clerks on their lunch break from Harrison's Department Store—from the men's wear section, as it happens. The report says they both ordered hot dogs and orange soda. Whoever filed the report missed that detail about chili and onions. Very observant. You might want to try your hand at being a private detective."
"Remembering details is what got me into this mess," I grumbled. I glanced at my watch. "If this briefing is over, I'm going to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. Shit, what a day!"
Dan shook his head. "Sorry, but there's no time for that. We need to get you to somewhere safe."
"Tonight?" I groaned.
"As soon as you can get packed. Just a few things, for now. We'll pack up the rest and send it along, later."
"Send it where?"
He shook his head again. "I can't tell you that."
"You don't trust me?"
"Not my call, but if someone from the department should ask, I'd tell them that my guess—gained from inside information—is that you won't be tempted to do anything stupid, again—for a while, anywa
y," he said, grinning. "Am I right?"
I rubbed the lingering ache in my behind. "Yes, Officer Crawford, sir."
"By the way," he added. "Do you really want me to call you Pandora?"
I shook my head. "No, thank you. Only my mother is allowed to call me that. She teaches Ancient History at Rutgers and uses it as an excuse for naming me after the woman who let all the woes of mankind out of the box. My middle name, as I'm sure you know, is Elizabeth—thanks to my father, who thought a name like Pandora was a bit much for a little baby to carry around. My friends call me Beth."
"That's more like it," he said, pulling a small black phone from his pocket.
The call he made lasted maybe five seconds, and in less than three minutes, another—or maybe the same—black van pulled up in the driveway. Carrying my hastily packed suitcase of rumpled clothes in one hand and a black handgun in the other, Dan pushed me into car, joined me in the back seat, and signaled the man in front to drive—presumably to a prearranged location to which I wasn't privy, a conclusion I arrived at when Dan blindfolded me.
I can't say that I was exactly sorry to leave the grungy little house, but I was sure as hell going to miss the pool. I had made a lot of very nice plans for moonlight skinny dips and a few apres swim activities with the pool guy.
The temporary safe house turned out to be a really swank hotel at the airport—swank by my standards, anyway, which are admittedly low. Generally speaking, my idea of a luxurious accommodation is any place where they provide little plastic bottles of shampoo. The bathroom in this place was only slightly smaller than my studio apartment in Newark and came equipped with a basket filled to the brim with petite bottles of expensive shampoo, conditioner, and mouthwash, along with a selection of lotions from moisturizers to sample vials of designer perfumes. I came to bed wearing most of them, and yes, Dan and I were sharing a room—excuse me, a suite. If you've ever wondered where your tax dollars are going, I can give you a hint.
Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Page 84