With a Twist

by Sawyer Bennett

  So, as Lance just instructed me, I am now in charge of getting some new talent.

  Operation Bust Simon's Ass is now in full force. I've got a meeting tomorrow with Mike and the female FBI agent they've brought in to go undercover, so I can fill her in on the details of the case so far. Since I'm in charge of all hires now, it won't be a problem to get her in the door. I just hope the FBI chose someone that could handle the delicate, yet stressful nature of this situation. I wasn't worried about the background alias they would provide for the plant. The FBI is good at that shit.

  I just hope the woman is tough enough for what is about to be thrown her way. She's going to be playing an important role in this operation, and she's going to be in incredible danger. While I will do everything I can to protect her, if we're lucky enough for Simon to target her as an appropriate item of merchandise, she's going to need to be prepared to see it all the way through to the end.

  Chapter 4

  Andrea

  Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I close the file I had been perusing and toss it on the couch beside me. It's probably the fourth time I've read the investigation into Simon Keyes in its entirety, and I feel like I have a good bead on this man. I think I know exactly how to handle him, although I'll have to wait to meet my undercover partner to be sure. His insight will be invaluable.

  I glance at my watch.

  1:23AM.

  It's a cheap Timex I bought at a thrift store a few days ago, where I used some of the cash I was provided by the FBI to extend my wardrobe a bit. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I was immediately deposited into my new home, a hovel of an apartment in the worst area of downtown imaginable. Every night, I could hear other tenants screaming at each other, booming music, and once, even a gunshot.

  All the clothes I brought with me were going to be taken tonight, assuredly stored back in the Raleigh field office, along with my suitcase. Two days ago, I was told to buy a new wardrobe that was more in line with what a down-and-out stripper might wear. That meant tiny Lycra miniskirts, tank tops that were two sizes too small, and slutty red bras to wear underneath said small tank tops. I bought a good chunk of my attire at a thrift store and the rest from Wal-Mart. My new ID was handed to me, which I deposited into a beat-up old wallet I got for two dollars, which was housed in an ugly, brown leather purse with leather fringe along the edge that I got for six. I bought garish makeup, also at Wal-Mart, and hot curlers for my long, blonde hair. However, until such time as I had to step foot in The Platinum Club, I was still Special Agent Andrea Somerville and was dressed accordingly.

  But when the time came, make no doubt, I was ready to display trashy Andrea to the world.

  I mean... trashy Nikki O... my new alias. The "O" stood for Oliver, but I was prepared for it to stand for "Orgasm," which was my even trashier stripper name.

  Nikki O.

  Nikki Orgasm.

  Ugh... I didn't have to deal with something so terribly perverse when I stripped through college. There I was just good ol' Andrea, dancing her way to a higher education. I showed up to work in my faded jeans and UVA t-shirts, and went home dressed in the same with my pockets stuffed full of green, green cash.

  Sliding my gaze to my watch again, I see it's now 1:27 AM, and I let out a tired yawn.

  "He should be here soon," SA Mike Gomez says from his seat at my kitchen table. He's typing away on a laptop, his blue sport coat draped over the back of a ratty recliner that sits perpendicular to my couch and his tie loosened.

  Mike arranged for this meeting with my undercover partner, who I've only been told is a member of a local police department on the east coast of North Carolina and has been undercover at The Platinum Club for just shy of four months now. I don't know much about him other than his real name is Wyatt Banks, but his undercover name is Charles Hawkins, but as with any good criminal alias, his nickname is Raze.

  So much cooler than Nikki O, I have to admit.

  Standing up from my couch, I raise my hands over my head and arch the stiffness out of my back. My vertebrae pop one by one, straight up my spine, and I groan in relief. I'd been on that couch for a good three hours.

  Padding into the kitchen, I open the rusted, avocado-green fridge and snatch out a Diet Coke. "Want one?" I ask Mike, holding up the slightly chilled can because the refrigerator only works sporadically and I don't trust it to keep any actual food in there for safety reasons.

  "Sure," he says as he looks up from his computer.

  I pull another one out and take a chair next to him at the table, popping the top of mine and pushing his can across the table toward him. "Anything else I need to know about Wyatt before he gets here?"

  "Raze," Mike says sternly. "Purge the name Wyatt from your vocabulary."

  "Right... Raze," I mutter, my cheeks turning warm over such a stupid mistake. I had been told from the minute I walked into this craphole apartment that I needed to assume my role completely, which means I should have ditched the FBI suits and started wearing my Lycra.

  I had spent hours and hours over the last four days, going over my backstory. I was Nikki Oliver, age twenty-six, born and raised in a podunk town in western North Carolina. My mom was a drug addict who had OD'd when I was seventeen, and I'd been on my own since then. I didn't graduate high school but had made somewhat of an attempt at an honest living, at least, that is what my fake work records show. Little stints at fast food joints and gas stations. But my criminal record shows an arrest for petty larceny when I was nineteen, and then solicitation when I was twenty. Since then, I've worked at various strip clubs around North Carolina, and even one in Georgia when I supposedly followed my no good, drunk, abusive boyfriend down there when I was twenty-three. Now I was back in my home state, where I had been fired from my last stripping job for selling drugs to the other dancers and shed of my no-good, drunk, abusive boyfriend,

  This spotted history, I was assured, would get me hired on the spot at The Platinum Club.

  That is... Mike told me... if I could do a half-assed job at dancing.

  Luckily, no one in the FBI required me to prove those skills and just accepted my word and my history that I was good enough to hack it.

  "Not much to tell about him," Mike answers my original question about Raze. "He's a cop with the Nags Head Police Department over in the Outer Banks. We needed someone that wasn't local, and he was highly recommended. Had done undercover work before. He's been working for Simon almost four months and was brought into the slave-trade operation just about a week ago. He's been tasked with finding some new girls for Simon to sell. He wants to move one pretty fast... within a few weeks, is what he told Wyatt."

  "Raze," I correct automatically, and Mike shoots me a grin.

  "Good girl," he praises.

  I swallow hard, because I happen to be one of those new girls. "And how is Raze going to ensure that I'm the one that Simon will want to sell?"

  Mike shrugs. "We're just going to have to assume Raze has enough pull. But he knows exactly what Simon is looking for. He's the one that helped to create your new identity, and I'm assuming a key component is that you don't have any family members who would notice you missing. That seems to be the pattern so far. Plus, the fact you had an abusive boyfriend means you'll probably swear off men--aka attachments--for a while."

  "Makes sense," I say and take an idle sip of my soda.

  At a soft knocking at the door, Mike and I exchange looks. He nods, and I go to answer it.

  I open the door, the safety chain still in place, and take a peek. With only a few inch gap within which to spy my visitor, he shouldn't make that big of an impression on me.

  Yet, that tiny glance at Wyatt Banks... I mean, Raze Hawkins... causes my stomach to flip and my pulse to pound. God, he's stunning and so not what I imagined.

  I had thought that anyone being put undercover in a slimy strip club fronting as a slave ring would look... slimy. Short, thin, and balding... with a massively hairy chest. You know, slimy.

  He's tall...
I mean, really tall, and golden from head to toe. It was the briefest of glances but I caught warm, brown hair cut short and spiky on top, lean muscles, and a hard jaw line. He was a brief vision of spectacularity. That's all I need to see before I shut the door, pulling the chain free, and mentally willing myself to chill out.

  When I open it, he is even more gorgeous than what little I had seen. Clear, hazel eyes swirling with green, gold, and a warm earthy tone appraise me. His eyes travel down my body... slowly... in a most calculating way, and his lips... which I notice are very full... flatten out.

  I glance down at myself, taking in the pressed black slacks, French blue shirt with ivory buttons, and low-heeled black loafers. My hand subconsciously comes up to pat at the tight bun I had wound my long hair in that morning, ensuring no stray hairs were falling out.

  "You're my stripper?" he asks slowly, a slight censure in his tone.

  It gets my hackles up, being judged for looking so prudish, which is insane, I know. I hold my hand out to him. "Nikki O at your service. That "O" stands for Orgasm, or Oliver if you go by my newly acquired license. Sorry I couldn't greet you in my stripper gear and all."

  There it is... a lip twitch... and his eyes crinkle slightly at the corner.

  "Wyatt," Mike says from behind me. "Come on in... we got work to do."

  Wyatt's... I mean, Raze's eyes flick over my shoulder, and he gives a head nod to Mike. Gone is the threat of a smile and he ignores my hand, stepping past me into my apartment.

  "Come on in," I mutter under my breath and close the door, sliding the chain back in place.

  By the time I turn around, Raze is sitting at the table with Mike... in the seat that I had just vacated. Sighing, I walk over to the couch, grab the FBI file on Simon Keyes, and head into the kitchen so we can get down to work.

  "Want a soda?" I ask Raze.

  "Sure. Pepsi if you have it," he says, his eyes watching me intently as I walk toward the fridge.

  "Sorry... it's Diet Coke or nothing," I respond, but I'm brought up short just before I reach for the handle.

  "Jesus... you walk like you have a stick up your ass. Please don't tell me that's your sexy strut?" Raze growls.

  "Wyatt," Mike says in a low warning before I can open my mouth to defend myself.

  "No, Mike," Raze says as he holds his hand up to cut him off. "Look at her. She reeks of FBI... probably prior military by the way her spine is ramrod straight. She's going to blow this whole operation out of the water. Simon will spot her for what she is a mile away."

  "Ease up," Mike says with a sigh. "She's got the skills... trust me."

  Raze snorts in skepticism and for a brief, crazy moment, I have the wild urge to start a sexy dance right then and there to prove to him that I can handle this. But the moment fizzles because standing here in my plain black suit with my hair done up tight and not an ounce of makeup on, and with Raze's hard eyes on me, I don't feel an ounce of sexy within me.

  Instead, I decide Raze doesn't deserve one of my lukewarm Diet Coke's and take the chair opposite of him at the kitchen table.

  Clasping my hands together, I force my shoulders to relax a little and give him a focused stare. "Look... you're just going to have to trust the FBI knows what it's doing and that I'm qualified to handle this job. I'm ready for this, and hear me when I say that they will never in a million years guess what I truly do for a living. Now, let's quit wasting time with your doubts and how about you tell me what I need to do."

  Mike gives a little cough behind his hand, and Raze narrows his eyes at me. He holds my gaze, and while I can still appreciate his male perfection as he sits across the table from me, I have decided that I don't like this man very much.

  Raze pops his jaw and then slouches back in his chair. Drumming his fingers on the table, he looks at me intently. "You prepared to go all the way with this?"

  "You mean--am I prepared to let myself get kidnapped and possibly sold into slavery under your nose if things don't go according to your brilliant plan?" I ask calmly. "Because yes... I am."

  His gaze is shrewd. "You're prepared to get up on stage and flash your tits to a bunch of strangers? Have their hands on you... shoving grease-covered dollar bills in your G-string, hoping to cop a feel of your pussy?"

  I flinch hard over his crude words.

  Sitting up quickly, he leans over the table in a menacing gesture and growls at me. "You can't fucking flinch over words like 'tits' and 'pussy'. That's the business you're in now, Special Agent."

  "Okay... that's enough," Mike says in exasperation. "Agent Somerville--"

  "That's Nikki Orgasm," I snap at Mike as I cross my arms over my chest, and I see Raze's lip twitch again.

  Mike shoots me a glare and continues, "Agent Somerville will be fine. Once she's in role, she'll be able to carry herself accordingly. Let's quit dicking around. I need you to instruct her, Raze, on what to expect and how she has to act, and you're just going to have to fucking trust she can do it. Okay?"

  Raze keeps his eyes pinned on me, but he finally acknowledges Mike. "Fine. But one fuck up and months of hard work are down the drain... and a very dangerous man is going to walk free."

  I don't bother acknowledging his threat, just continue to stare at him. With a frustrated grunt, Raze pushes his hands through his hair, scratches the back of his head, and then slouches back down in his chair again.

  "Okay," he says, his voice now sounding a bit more professional. "You're going to come in tomorrow afternoon for an audition before me, Simon Keyes, and his second in command, Lance Portman. I make the hires but the ultimate decision to nix one of my choices is in Simon's hands, so you need to impress him. I'll lay your background out to him ahead of time, and tell him that I've targeted you as one of the marks."

  "What's going to make me so appealing to him?" I ask.

  "Because you're expendable and no one will care. You have no family, no close friends, and no ties. You've been arrested before on drug charges, so he's going to assume you use, which makes you more vulnerable."

  "What's my demeanor supposed to be? Harsh? Meek? Confident?"

  "Be confident when you're on stage," Raze says thoughtfully, "but not when you're off it. You can come across as a bit of a scared rabbit, but mostly, you need to be desperate for this job. Willing to do anything to land it and keep it. He needs to have the feeling of complete power over you right away, that you're not going to be scared away, and that you're in this job for the long haul. He wants to have confidence that you're going to keep coming back for his brand of shit until he's ready to sell you."

  "So I need to give him a bit of my backstory... convince him of my desperation?"

  Raze gives me a short smile, and it's starting to become clear to me... maybe he's testing my mettle. "Sweetheart, the only thing you need to do is give him a lap dance that produces a hard-on. That's all he'll be looking for. He will then look to me to verify that you fit the profile of what he wants."

  I don't flinch this time over his crudity, possibly because it was said with a twinge of humor. But I have had enough of his doubts over my abilities, deciding to show him that I can hang with him and all his undercover debauchery. Leaning across the table, I murmur in my sexiest, southern voice. "Baby... any man within a twenty-foot vicinity of me tomorrow is going to have a raging hard-on when I'm done dancing. I suggest you learn how to discreetly adjust yourself so you don't get embarrassed."

  Mike coughs again behind his hand and shifts in his seat. God, I hope that didn't give him a hard-on, but I don't spare him a glance. I hold Raze's stare, which I'm happy to say is not as smug as it was ten seconds ago, and then he surprises me with a full and genuine laugh.

  Giving me a nod of approval and still smiling with good humor, Raze says, "I've been duly warned. But we have a lot more to discuss. I want to fill you in on every person at the club, and even though you can't trust any of them, there are a few girls that will help to look out for you, and I want you to make friends with them. I want to go
over your cover again and again until I'm satisfied that you know it inside and out and that you don't flinch when you hear the word 'pussy' because you'll hear it several times a night while you're working, and then I want to discuss how we can communicate safely if it becomes necessary."

  I take a shallow breath and blow it out softly. "Okay, then... let's get to work."

  "One other thing," Raze says softly. "I'm going to have to assume you know what to wear tomorrow?"

  "She's got it covered," Mike asserts. "Whole new wardrobe."

  "It's more than that," Raze says, shaking his head. "You need makeup... get some long, fake fingernails... do something sexy with your hair."

  "Okay," I say confidently. "That's not a problem."

  "Wax," Raze says, still holding my gaze firmly.

  "Wax?" I ask, dumbfounded, and I notice Mike shifts in his seat again.

  "You need to get waxed... everywhere. Simon requires it."

  Crap. I hate getting waxed. Hurts like a bitch, but I also know in this line of business, it's the easiest way to maintain a well-groomed crotch line.

  "Fine," I grit out. "Anything else I need to do about my appearance?"

  "Just try to remove that steel pole out of your spine and I think we're good."

  I don't rise to his goading and instead give him a sweet smile. "Consider it removed. Now, let's get to work so we can bring this son of a bitch down."

  Chapter 5

  Wyatt

  Christ, I'm nervous.

  Not once in the past four months have I had an attack of nerves, but fuck if I don't have them now. I take a sip from the can of Pepsi sitting in front of me, and then surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. One of the dancers I had interviewed yesterday is on the stage. A beautiful girl named Amy with mocha-colored skin and small breasts that she more than makes up for by the way she can twerk her hips.

  Club music is thumping, but the lights are all on brightly, not affording them subtle mood setting to go along with their routine. She's spinning on the pole as I watch her with shuttered eyes, my nerves doing a twerk of their own because Andrea Somerville is up next.