Spy Candy

by Gina Robinson

  Old Pussy had a family of dust bunnies living under her bed. Maria evidently didn’t consider sweeping under beds part of her job description.

  I tossed the panties under. Take that! Just you try wearing that skintight stuff now, Miss Pussy.

  As I started to stand up, the bedspread caught on my head. Lovely. Still kneeling, I shook it off and, in doing so, noticed a bulge between the mattress and box springs. Curious, I reached in between them and pulled out …

  A handgun!

  I dropped it onto the floor with a clatter, shaking so hard I was in a complete panic. I stifled a scream, finally gaining enough control to bend over to look at it, thanking my good fortune that the gun hadn’t gone off.

  I knew only two things about guns—this was one and Bond’s favored handgun is the Walther PPK or the P99 (more recent, more firepower), depending on the movie. He sleeps with it under his pillow. Shudder. The gun under the pillow was quite possibly the only downside to sleeping with Bond. Evidently even Pussy was more cautious, preferring to keep it under the mattress. Not as accessible, but I wasn’t arguing with her choice. I had no idea if the gun on the floor in front of me was a Walther anything. Guns scare me spitless—a definite detriment to becoming a real card-carrying spy.

  The sight of the gun fueled my vivid imagination. What in the world was Pussy doing with a gun here? How did she sneak it in? Was it for protection? Was she afraid of someone? Lots of lottery winners developed phobias, thinking that someone was out to get them for their money. That could be her problem.

  Hopefully her problem wasn’t that she was planning on going postal. But Pussy hadn’t displayed any violent tendencies that I could see. Her only predatory actions appeared to be sexual.

  I wondered briefly whether I should tell Rockford. Then I thought better of it. Surely Pussy wasn’t smart enough to sneak a gun in without the staff’s knowledge? And I wasn’t a squealer. Instead, I made a note to keep my eye on Pussy. If she acted suspicious at all, then I’d talk.

  I was running out of time. Finally, holding the gun by two fingers as if it were a dead rodent, I carefully put it back where I’d found it, all the while praying I didn’t accidentally shoot myself in the process.

  I rearranged the bedspread, convincing myself no one could tell I’d messed with it, and skedaddled out of there, nodding to Maria as I ran back to class. “I’m late,” I explained.

  By the time I’d reached the classroom, I was breathing hard and I’d convinced myself that Pussy probably had a concealed-weapon permit and a perfect right to carry the gun. Why she had it stuffed under her mattress was her business.

  Evasive driving followed Fry’s class. He led us directly to the course, where we met up with the other squad.

  Waiting for the other four CTs in my group to do their bugging had given me plenty of time to think. There was only one smart course of action—keep an eye on Pussy and gain her confidence. Maybe she’d let some clue slip as to why she felt the need to take a gun to camp. Girl like her could have a stalker, I supposed. Or some deranged ex. As distasteful as the thought was, gaining her confidence meant hanging with her and getting to know her. Such was the spy game.

  At the track, Davie Edwards, the senior member of the driving staff, greeted us. I finagled a place between Max and Pussy, having to elbow Bishop out of the way to get next to the ever-popular vamp. From across the group, Emma shot me a surprised and perplexed “what’s up?” look. Hoping she’d learned something in mind reading, I returned her look with one that I hoped communicated “trust me.”

  The guy CTs flocked around Davie like groupies at a rock concert. Sickening, really. So he could drive? So could almost everyone over the age of sixteen. Didn’t impress me much.

  Next to me, girly girl Pussy sighed and looked bored, evidently not happy with a driving instructor stealing the center of attention from her. Thinking to break the frosty atmosphere between us, I turned to her and whispered, “I don’t see what’s so great about NASCAR. All they do is drive around in circles. Go fast. Turn left. So what?”

  “Care to repeat that for the entire class, Domino?” Davie asked, voice booming.

  Looking around the group I realized I’d lost some major brownie points with the boys. They were gawking at me like I’d committed heresy.

  I blushed. “Ummmm … no, really I wouldn’t.”

  Emma grinned at me, clearly on my side.

  “Those cars drive around the ‘circle'"—he punctuated with his fingers—"at two hundred miles per hour, feet, ladies, feet, off each other’s bumpers. Heard the phrase ‘burn rubber'? NASCAR guys burn several sets of rubber just driving the course.”

  Get Davie worked up and he loves to lecture, that’s what I learned. He just kept going on, talking about reaction times and the skill involved in highspeed driving.

  “Still don’t think NASCAR takes skill?” He shook his head disgustedly. “Get over here and get in the vehicle.” He opened the driver’s door and motioned me in.

  “Every goddamn person in America thinks they can drive. Most of them are asleep behind the wheel, accidents waiting to happen.” He focused back on me.

  I’d already buckled my seat belt and adjusted my seat and mirrors. He didn’t scare me. I’m a fantastic driver with a completely clean slate—not even a parking ticket since I got my license at sixteen.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Davie leaned over to inspect my handiwork and shook his head. “You drive with your seat too close. Like most women. Stop suddenly and you’ll break your wrists … or worse.”

  Q, Bishop, Tanner, Ethan, and even Max and John were all smirking smugly like they were God’s gift to driving, mouths lathering in anticipation of getting their turn to show how it’s really done. You can take the boy to the city and civilize him, even metrosexualize him, but put him near a sports car and his machismo comes raging back in all its glory.

  I rolled my eyes and stuck my chin out, determined to win one for the girls. Hey, we could drive, too.

  “If the airbag deploys, you’re gonna risk some serious injury. Stretch your arms out.” Davie reached for the seat adjustment lever and slid my seat into the proper position. Taken by surprise, I let out a startled gasp.

  Around the car, the guys elbowed each other and chuckled.

  I was still shooting them a glare when Davie attacked my mirror positioning—"How the hell are you going to see your blind spots with all your mirrors aimed to see directly behind the car?"—and my 10 and 2 hand positions on the wheel—"Nine and three gives you more control.” Then he broke into a lecture about oversteering and understeering and loose and tight and heaven only knows what else.

  Finally he made driving assignments. There were three instructors and three courses. “Ladies first,” Davie said, assigning me to his vehicle and Emma and Pussy to the other two cars while the guys jockeyed for position to get to drive in the next round.

  Davie hopped into the car with me and handed me a helmet. What was it with this camp and helmets? They were hell-bent on destroying my perfect Bond girl ‘do.

  “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” He handed me the key and I fired up the engine. “Remember—the secret to high-performance driving is smoothness and precision.”

  An incredibly short half an hour later, Davie had me pull over and he drove the final lap, cruising the straightaway at over two hundred mph! Then my turn was over. I got out of the car on a complete speed high. My thrill-seeker gene was at full throttle.

  Emma and Pussy pulled up about the same time and got out of their cars. The guys all crowded around us like a flock of reporters shooting questions. “How was it?”

  I caught Emma and Pussy’s attention. “Better than sex, boys. Wouldn’t you two girls agree?”

  “Definitely.” Pussy spoke up before Emma and winked at me. Wow, her first acknowledgment of me, and other female life-forms, since camp started.

  “Dinner was excruciating,” Emma complained as soon as we’d tucked ourselves in o
ur rooms to get ready for the evening ahead.

  Emma watched as I made a quick check of the pens in my room to make sure none of them were the “bugged” ones, just in case. I assumed all the other group had swapped was my clock, but a spy needed to be extra cautious. The pens all came up clean. I turned my attention to preparing for the evening.

  Emma grumbled about Pussy sitting with us and her annoying habit of competing for the attention of anything male within a hundred-mile radius. “Why did you ask Pussy at dinner if she was going with us tonight?”

  “Surveillance,” I said, distracted by looking through my new wardrobe for just the right outfit for an information-seducing mission. What did one wear? “Besides, she knew about our outing and was planning on coming anyway.”

  “Surveillance?”

  I turned from my task to find Emma glaring at me with her hands on her hips.

  “The way I figure it, Pussy is the enemy. Well, at least the competition. We need to keep an eye on her.”

  Emma’s unhappy expression didn’t waver. “Why?”

  She had me for a second. I couldn’t very well tell her about the gun. “Because if we don’t, she’ll monopolize all the guys. And then … and then … Well, I don’t know.” I paused. “I just don’t trust her.” Then I grinned. “I bugged her room and did a little snooping. Her great curves are compliments of Spanx.” I launched into my tale of peeking into her drawers. “Wish I would have had my camera.”

  My description of Pussy’s underwear absolutely delighted Emma. “Not-so-perfect miss, is she?”

  “No,” I said, feeling suddenly a little ashamed and guilty for sharing Pussy’s pushed-up and sucked-in undergarment secrets. “She’s trying awfully hard to play this role. I have to wonder why.”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t trust her, either.” Emma grimaced. “She’ll steal the show at the bar tonight.”

  “She’ll distract all the guys, including bar regulars, while we go after our information,” I said, correcting her.

  “Maybe,” Emma said, looking unconvinced as she headed back to her own room to change.

  I finally decided on a tight, short, low-cut pink dress, spray-on hose, and killer pink stiletto heels. The monochromatic look was supposed to be thinning. I wore my hair extensions loose and flowing for that male-enticing, run-your-fingers-through-it look and squirted my pulse points with my brand-new “fuck me” perfume, as Logan called it.

  “The sex it inspires is wild,” she’d warned, wearing a smirk that dared me to ask for details, which I’d pointedly ignored. I’ve never liked picturing my friends naked and romping. “If you’re going to wear it, go sparingly. And you’d better be using some strong protection.”

  Ignoring Logan’s warning, I rubbed another squirt on my wrists. What was the point of a mission if it wasn’t dangerous?

  Just as I leaned into the mirror to apply my Lip Venom, a spicy, tingly gloss guaranteed to plump the lips into full pout mode, Emma strolled back in. We sized each other up like two beauty contestants vying for the crown.

  Damn, she looked good. Without reason, I felt defensive. Why should I let her have all the fun while I ended up as Miss Congeniality? There was a flaw in that reasoning somewhere, but at the moment I didn’t see it.

  She applied her own lip gloss and gave a pucker to check the coverage. “Get your purse and let’s go, yeah?”

  Since Rockford had collected our valuables upon arrival, he’d arranged for the bar to put our drinks on our camp tab, which relegated our purses to cosmetic bags. Mine was stuffed.

  I grabbed my BlackBerry, turned it on, dropped it in my pink evening bag, and followed Emma out. I was halfway down the hall when I remembered I’d left my Lip Venom on the bathroom counter and begged off to go back and get it. “I’ll meet you at the bus. Don’t let them leave without me!”

  Venom retrieved, I was just leaving my room when I heard a door open down the hall toward Pussy’s room. I ducked back into my doorway and peeked out. Sure enough, Pussy’s door was open. To my surprise, horror, and ultimate disappointment, Torq stuck his head out, surveyed the hall, and sneaked out of her room. I carefully slid my door closed and waited for him to clear the hall before heading for the bus myself.

  Damn that Pussy! Had she already had a secret tryst with Torq? The little slut! If not trysting, what was Torq doing in her room?

  When I arrived at the bus, only somewhat calmed but trying hard to be calmer, Fry sat in the driver’s seat, looking majorly hot in a cream linen blazer, sage T-shirt that highlighted his eyes, and jeans. His blond hair was tousled, giving him an endearing, boyish appeal. I suppressed an appreciative sigh and had a momentary fantasy of doing some tousling around with him myself.

  “Hey, don’t you look gorgeous!” He gave a little head shake to emphasize the compliment. “Heard that y’all were the star student in the Grace Under Pressure exercise. Saw the overalls for myself.” His gaze cut to my boobs, which nubbed right up for him. “FYI, Torq’s an expert marksman. He can hit whatever the hell he wants. If it was hit, he was aiming for it.” He winked.

  Emma, who had been waiting for me outside the bus, was right behind me. Before I could respond, she gave me a shove forward. I stumbled and caught myself before I fell off my heels, catching an amused glance from Torq, who must’ve beat a quick path to the bus. He sat well in the back.

  Emma hissed into my ear. “Your mark is in the back. Get going. We just have this one night to find out what we need to know.” Then she turned and smiled seductively at Fry.

  Sure enough, Torq sat in the back of the bus with his back against the window and one foot up on the adjoining seat. Emma slid into the seat behind the driver’s seat and cooed to Fry. From the reflection in the bus window, I saw her give Fry an intimate touch on the shoulder.

  Grumbling to myself, and irritated at Torq for using my breasts for target practice, then having a secret assignation with Pussy, I made my way back.

  I hate the back of the bus. Exhaust fumes. Spit-balls. Pot smoke. Foul language. Those were the associations I’d had with the back of the bus since junior high. With his longish dark hair, earring, black T-shirt, and lean, muscled physique, Torq looked dangerous and right at home there.

  I had the option of either taking the seat behind him or the one in front of him. I chose the seat in front because it put me in the position of power. It’d be damned hard for him to turn around and ignore me if I was the one doing the turning.

  I paused before my seat, striking a pose and counting one thousand one, one thousand two to give my potential mark plenty of time to check me out.

  “Go ahead and sit. No one’s going to bite you.” Torq nodded toward the seat. I swore he wore a sardonic expression.

  I meant to lean over to give him a good look at my cleavage before leading with my hip as I slid in. Only I caught my heel on the metal rung of the bus seat and more like toppled into the seat. Very graceful. I felt myself blush as I composed myself, straightened out my skirt, tugged it down, and brushed a lock of hair out of my face.

  Torq was trying hard not to smile, probably amused by my utter lack of sophistication in the flirtation department.

  The bus seats were the tall, split kind with headrests. I sat in the aisle seat and tipped it back so I had a clear view of Torq in the seat behind me.

  “How’s your trigger finger feeling?” If I couldn’t do flirtatious, I could at least do incensed pretty darn well. No way was I leaving him amused at my shortcomings. He’d see that I was pretty steely myself.

  He gave me a puzzled look. Got him.

  “Sorry. My mistake. I just assumed. I mean, since your aim was off today.” I gave him a look that said I had his number.

  His eyes lit up with amusement, and even admiration, which left me completely puzzled. He was supposed to be embarrassed. I would have been.

  “Where’d you hear that?” he asked.

  “Fry.”

  “Don’t believe everything Fry tells you.�
��

  I shrugged and sat up straight in an attempt to preserve my dignity and look as huffy as possible. “Well, they do say the shot follows the gaze. Maybe your finger wasn’t at fault.”

  Torq laughed and wisely changed the subject. “How’d your high-performance driving lesson go today? Did it scare the shit out of you?” His eyes lit up like he enjoyed that thought.

  I shook my head no. “Why? Should it have?”

  “Your camp application says you’ve got a clean driving record. No speeding tickets. No accidents. I just assumed you’re the cautious kind.”

  “Maybe I’m just good.”

  “Time will tell.” He used that low, sexy voice of his and a tone that said he wasn’t talking about driving anymore. Plus he shot me a grin so full of flirt that it made my toes curl.

  Either Pussy hadn’t been enough woman for him—insert evil grin as I thought about the tummy-control panties—or their meeting had been of another nature. Food for thought. Or … maybe he was like Bond, who perpetually had the libido and stamina of a twenty-year-old.

  “I still haven’t come down off the high from the ride,” I said.

  “That good?”

  I was suddenly nervous. This conversation wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. I wasn’t good at this flirtation stuff, so I just told the truth. “Davie drives smooth. Turns out I love smooth. Smooth moves. Speed. I have a whole new appreciation for NASCAR.”

  “So that explains why so many women love NASCAR,” Torq said, his voice indicating feigned enlightenment, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I’m pretty good on the track myself. Fast. Smooth. And I drive hard.”

  I felt my vagina contract and the rest of me flush at the innuendo in his voice. Fortunately, I was saved from making a reply. Max, Ethan, and Bishop boarded the bus, jostling and joking among themselves. They spotted Torq and me and headed our way, taking the seats surrounding us, leaving me to sort out my confused feelings of attraction for Torq. Other than the Italian thing, he really wasn’t my type. But somehow I had to figure out a way to win his trust and get him talking about camp so he’d divulge something about the upcoming kidnapping.