Suddenly, I heard a large fart and realized it was my iPhone ringing, and I looked down to see that Alessandra was calling. The three fuckeroos looked around curiously, but I quickly hit the decline button, ever thankful my ringtone was just idiotic enough that it hadn’t alerted the three fuckeroos to my presence. Fuck! Why in the hell had she chosen this exact moment to call me? As I pondered that thought, some movement drew my attention back to Von Träger’s building, and there on the balcony directly across from me was Professor Hot Sauce. She was standing there in a very flattering thin silk robe, and I could see her hard nipples quite clearly. Unfortunately, I could also see that she was staring directly at me and looked decidedly angry. I raised my hand and waved rather meekly, and she pointed at her phone, obviously hinting that she wanted me to answer her call. Sure enough, I looked down and saw she was calling again, so I hit the decline button and decided to text in hopes of getting her to chill the fuck out.
“What the hell do you want?” I wrote.
“What do I want? What the fuck are doing out there spying on me???” she wrote back.
“I’m not spying on you, I’m spying on Wainright and Nate, as they’re here with Hector—the very same asshole who held us up at gunpoint!”
“Nice try, you fucking stalker! Now get the hell out of here!”
“I can’t leave until they leave, so why don’t you get back to your little Lars-bear!”
“Seriously, you need to FUCK OFF!” she wrote, though she accented the last two words by writing them in all caps.
I was getting the feeling the hot Latin fifty percent of her blood was about to boil over, but I texted her back anyway.
“No, you FUCK OFF, because I’m actually working at the moment while you’re just getting a little late night nookie from your billionaire boytoy!”
My last line seemed to work, and she disappeared from the balcony, so I turned my attention back to the three fuckeroos. A second later, I heard my name called out very loudly from a distance and turned around to see something flying through the air. As it neared, I realized it was an orange and was very likely on a collision course with my head. I had to give Hot Sauce some credit. She had a hell of an arm and would have made a pretty damn good pitcher. I ducked at the last minute and the orange sailed over me and impacted the ground and rolled over to the three fuckeroos, who stared at it in disbelief.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Nate asked.
“No idea,” Hector said, looking confused.
The three of them started walking towards the railing, so I slinked down and turned my attention back towards Alessandra and saw that she had just tossed another orange, and it was inbound along a similar trajectory. This orange was really coming in fast, and only now did I realize that her first pitch had only been a warm up. I dropped nearly flat onto the precarious ledge just as the three fuckeroos arrived, and the orange came sailing in a split second later and nailed Hector directly in the balls. It split open on impact and sent bits of juice and pulp flying in every direction as he screamed and buckled over in pain. The three men scattered and quickly ran for the cover of their cars unsure who or what may have launched the attack. Thankfully, they hadn’t looked across at the Von Träger building, so Alessandra and her brutally strong throwing arm were still unknown.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Hector asked, angrily.
“Hell if I know. Let’s get the bloody hell out of here!” Wainright yelled.
“Good idea, I’m going to go give the big guy an update, then we can talk again tomorrow,” Hector said, as he slid behind the wheel of his BMW.
“¡Hasta mañana hombres!” Nate said, as he gunned his engine and raced off.
Everyone left, and suddenly I was all alone on the ledge, thankful to have dodged not one but two well-thrown oranges. I climbed over the barrier and looked back at Alessandra and could now see that she realized I had been telling the truth, as she had seen Nate, Wainright, and Hector when they came to the edge of the building. She reached down and typed something into her phone, and her text appeared a second later.
“Sorry,” she had written.
“Yeah, well I’m heading home now—all alone.”
She stayed on the deck and stared across at me for a long time before finally walking back inside. Was that a sign of guilt or perhaps a display of longing? Hopefully it was both and would make her night with her Lars-bear that much less fulfilling. Just as I was about to leave, I looked down at the street below and saw Hector’s BMW pull up in front of the Von Träger building. He exited his car, and, a moment later, entered the lobby and spoke to the security guard. After a brief exchange, he stepped into the elevator, and a minute later he appeared in the room on the far right corner of the top floor. Apparently, Lars was the big guy hector had mentioned. Holy fucking shit! Lars might have been half German and half Chalupan, but he was definitely a hundred percent full of shit. I knew Lars was lying when he said he didn’t know Hector, but now the question was why and what else was he lying about?
I continued to watch until Hector left the Von Träger building, then I made my way back downstairs and out to Alessandra’s FJ Cruiser, started the engine, and drove back towards the university with a whole lot more to think about than I had on the drive here. If Lars knew more than he was saying, and Alessandra was dating Lars, then did that mean she also knew more than she was saying? And if so, then what did this all have to do with my missing scientists and the new wonder drug Sexstasy? Fuckinzee—with each new fact or lie I uncovered, my investigation got exponentially more complicated, and that meant I needed to call my friend Doug and add a few more names to the list. It would appear that I now had a full-fledged conspiracy as well as a ghost king to add to my troubles.
I reached the University, turned into the parking lot of the guest housing, and found a spot close to the building’s entrance. I killed the motor and was about to step out of the car when I noticed the lights to my room were on. I had turned them off when I left and wasn’t expecting company, least of all Alessandra, who I knew for a fact was back at Lars’s penthouse apartment. That left a number of people, and very few, if any, were welcome at the moment. I exited the FJ and entered the building but paused upon reaching the door to my room. I pulled out my pistol then quietly used the key to unlock the door and silently counted to three before stepping into the room with my gun level and in front of me as I searched for targets. To my relief and utter astonishment, I discovered Fabiana sitting on my couch wearing nothing but some sinfully silky red lingerie that showed off her lovely curves and drew some instant curiosity from my penis. In her hand she was holding a martini, but more importantly was the fact that she had made an entire pitcher and had yet another glass topped off and garnished with a slice of lemon peel just waiting for someone thirsty enough to drink it. Fortunately, I was feeling a bit parched.
“Honey, I’m home,” I said, as I put down my pistol and joined her on the couch.
“About time. I was worried your dinner was going to get warm,” she said, as she handed me my martini.
I clinked my glass to hers then took a sip and relished the soft cool burn on my palate.
“Thank you, this is exactly what I needed after the night I’ve had,” I responded.
“Oh, well, I’m glad I could be of help,” she said, as she leaned over and kissed me.
We exchanged a little delicate tongue action, and it was more than enough to inspire Tag Junior to start into an incredible hulk growth spurt, though he wouldn’t turn green and angry but rather pink and throbbing.
“This night is starting to look a little better after all,” I said, when we parted lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Do Supermodels Dream of Electric Sheets
THERE ARE TIMES in life when things are especially bad or especially good, and I had believed the former would have described this particular evening until about three minutes ago when I spied Fabiana sitting on my couch. Somehow, fate had given me
a reprieve and decided I deserved a respite from the turmoil of my recent situation, though respite was not a grandiose enough word to describe coming home to a scantily clad Fabiana and an ice-cold martini.
As I sat there sipping my drink, I took a moment to think about my beautiful companion. Her situation was certainly a particularly interesting dilemma. She was a supermodel—a woman desired and sought after by countless millions of men, but her breakup was leaving her feeling alone, and her very elite existence was actually a barrier to the comfort she desperately needed at the moment. A normal person would just go out to a bar or nightclub and try and have a one night stand, but a supermodel or celebrity was always at risk in a public setting, and this left him or her particularly isolated and alone. Tonight, I too happened to be feeling a bit isolated and alone, and so I suppose we would try to find solace from this often cruel world in each other’s arms.
We set about slowly finishing off the pitcher, and, over each glass, we talked and got to know each other. Sure, we’d already had some epic sex at our first meeting, but now, however, we had the opportunity to truly bond as people, and I was happy to find out that I liked her even more. I already knew that she was more than just a pretty face, as she was bright and intelligent, but she was also kind and generous and actually used her wealth and celebrity to help those less fortunate. Back in her native Brazil, which had high crime rates and a large amount of the population living in abject poverty, she had set up scholarship and aid programs to help many of her fellow citizens get a shot at a better life. Somehow, her parents had made sweet love and ended up creating a woman that had the looks of Aphrodite and the heart of Mother Theresa. We both finished our cocktails, and then she reached over and refilled our glasses then smiled as she looked into my eyes.
“So, Tag, you know about me, but I know practically nothing about you other than the fact that you’re a private investigator,” she said.
“Well, you know that I’m enough of a doormat that I came all the way to Costa Rica to rescue an ex who is about to get married to another guy.”
She smiled.
“That doesn’t make you a doormat. It makes you the perfect man.”
“Perfectly lonely.”
“Not tonight.”
“True.”
“So, tell me more. How did you become a private investigator?” she asked.
“Long story.”
“We have plenty of time.”
I collected my thoughts and recounted my storied past by starting with college and my time in the military but, of course, left out the whole CIA part, and instead said I worked for the State Department, and, oddly, she interrupted me at that point.
“So, you obviously joined the CIA after Afghanistan, but why did you quit that to become a private investigator? I imagine there must be quite a story if you just up and changed careers so quickly.”
I had to laugh.
“Fuck, you pretty much nailed it, and, while I technically can’t acknowledge that I worked for the CIA, it would be kind of silly to try and lie to you at this point, as you’d know I was full of shit.”
“So, what’s the story?” she asked, looking intrigued.
I went on and recounted my final assignment for the CIA and how it entailed smuggling a brilliant nuclear scientist out of Iran and over to the West. I also told her how I had gotten him safely into Turkey, but it became a minor fiasco when we arrived in Istanbul and Iranian agents tracked us down and tried to take the scientist back. I thwarted their efforts, but I was still ordered to terminate the scientist in order to make sure he didn’t fall back into enemy hands. Needless to say, I didn’t, and instead I faked his death and helped him start a new life then immediately resigned from the Agency and went back home and became a private investigator.
“Wait—so, what happened to the scientist?” she asked.
“He resettled in the United Arab Emirates, and then, about six months ago, I finally brought him over to the West, so he could reconnect with his blond, big breasted soulmate who he’d met during his time at Stanford.”
“See, I told you that you’re not a doormat. You’re a romantic,” she said, as she reached over and took hold of my hand.
It’s funny—we’d kissed, performed oral sex on each other, and humped like a motherfucker, yet her touching my hand was equally exciting. I suspect it was because it was one of those more intimate actions that you usually only did with your significant other, and not with the dude you’d hooked up with in your billionaire dickhead boyfriend’s Jacuzzi. We continued to hold hands, but I realized it was late, and it was time to go to bed—though perhaps not solely for the purpose of sleeping—yet, anyway. We adjourned to the boudoir, stripped, and walked into the bathroom, with neither of us needing to say a word. The evening’s itinerary was clear, and we stepped into the shower, and I grabbed the shampoo and slowly lathered it into her hair before picking up the soap and doing the same to her body. She did the same for me, then we rinsed off and took a minute to just stand there and hold each other. After a time, she looked up into my eyes and kissed me, and, at that moment, nothing in the world mattered beyond us, and all we could focus on was the twisting and entangling of our tongues. It was a slippery exchange that increased our passion, and soon inspired me to set off on a journey from her lips to her neck before moving on to her nipples, which I kissed and teased with torrid tongue action. She writhed and arched her back, and, as her passion ignited, she pressed me against the glass then dropped down and took my manhood into her mouth and brought me to edge of release with a mere twist of her tongue.
“I think we need to adjourn to the bed,” I said.
She smiled.
“Agreed.”
She reached over and turned off the water, and it was time to dry off and move to a more comfortable location. We toweled dry then exited the bathroom, where she lay down on top of the covers while I lit the candle on the bedside table, killed the lights, and officially set the metaphorical mood dial to romantic. Tonight’s special was sex—pure unadulterated sex—served with a healthy side of passion and preceded by a large helping of foreplay. I went over and lay beside her, and she smiled at me.
“So, is there anything special you’d like to do to me?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t have access to supermodels too often, so, if you don’t mind, I’d love to spend some quality time with your entire body.”
“Perfect! Where do you want to start?”
“How about your back?”
“I was hoping you were going to say that, as I’m actually a little sore from earlier today. You pushed me a lot harder than I was expecting.”
“In the pool or the Jacuzzi?”
She smiled.
“Both, and I’m actually kind of hoping that’s going to be a continuing theme,” she said, as she rolled onto her stomach.
Her tan lithe body was enough to make my heart race, and I was already hard as all hell as I straddled her and began massaging her shoulders. I worked all the major muscle groups then slowly moved down the taught muscles of her back to reach her famously pert, round muscular backside. It was quite a piece of real estate, and I imagined it was probably insured by her modeling agency for at least a million, though I personally would have insured it for at least ten times that amount. I dug my fingers into the muscles then worked down to her thighs then went up to her shoulders, so that I could lean down and kiss the back of her neck.
“You have strong hands,” she said.
“It comes from years of chronic masturbation.”
“Oh, so you use both your left and right?”
“Yeah, I’m ambidextrous when it comes to handling my ham.”
I returned to her thighs and had to move back and open her legs in order to slip between them, and it had the added benefit of giving me an excellent view of her lady pocket. Of course, seeing it brought on a great desire to delve in with my manhood, but I abstained and instead worked my hands down to her muscular calves before fi
nally reaching her feet, where I dug my thumbs into the ball of each one and elicited an audible moan of pleasure. Feet were often overlooked as a center of erotic touch and healing, but in Eastern medicine, they believed that nerves in the soles of the feet reached the vital organs and even a person’s vision center. All I knew was that it seemed to be making Fabiana very happy.
The massage was done, and now it was time to transition to a different form of stimulation. I gently ran my fingers up from her toes all the way to her buttocks and finished by leaning down and kissing her lower back. But, there, before my eyes was the butt of butts, and her glorious gluteus maximus, which had enticed many a man with its powerful though precious curves, deserved my attention. To that end, I gave each cheek a gentle bite, because a butt that good deserved to be bitten. Still, I had more woman to cover, and so I journeyed north and ran my lips up her back until stopping at her neck. Coincidentally this brought my member between her legs, where it pressed tenaciously against her femininity.
“Well, hello there,” she said, as she reached back and ran her fingers over my hard manhood.
“Sorry, but I fear that my friend down there might very well cum between us,” I said, inadvertently quoting myself from a previous encounter I’d had with a beautiful woman named Tiffany.
“I’m planning on it,” she said, as she slithered around onto her back and pulled me in for a kiss.
A moment later she came up for air and smiled naughtily as she reached into her purse on the bedside table and pulled out a long red silk scarf.
“Is that for you or me?” I asked.
“Tonight—me, but, if you’re lucky, tomorrow night it’ll be for you,” she said, as her full lips formed into a smile that made my manhood swell with enthusiasm.
She placed her hands together and looked at me with her sultry eyes.
“Well now, how about a little role playing? I’m thinking that since you were a spy, we could pretend I’m an enemy agent and you’re going to need to tie me up and do everything in your power to make me talk.”
The Chalupa Conundrum Page 32