The Kissing Game

by Marie Turner

  A second passes as he looks me over as if deciding whether he’s going to have me or not. The turbulent look in his eyes is both titillating and desperate, as if he’s on the brink of mayhem. In that instant, I contemplate whether he’ll destroy my clothing or take it off gently. I want him to destroy it but know he’ll be delicate because I’m injured. Looking at the bulge in his jeans, I think, Oh god. I’m going to have sex with Robert. Feeling too anxious to wait, I reach out, hook my fingers into his jeans, and yank him toward me. Immediately, his lips are forcible paradise on my own as his hands slide the sweater off my shoulders, the feeling of his bare hands on my shoulders like smooth sex. And then his fingers journey to the front of my jeans while his breathing intensifies as if he’s just run a marathon. My own breathing almost stops as I look down and watch his hands. I wish I could capture this moment on video to forever remember the first time he unzipped me. It’s too unreal, too unfathomable, too exquisite, and just as my jeans lay open and the pink of my underwear is visible—

  DING DONG. An old-fashioned doorbell.

  Someone’s at the door.

  Robert pauses and places a hand on the wall above me. He leans forward, catching his breath, bowing his head, and closing his eyes in frustration. The look on his face is murder, beheading. “Don’t move. Whoever it is will go away,” he whispers.

  DING DONG. Knock, knock, knock.

  I tip my lips up and kiss the side of his cheek while seizing the hook in his jeans.

  DING DONG. Knock, knock, knock.

  “Fuck!” Robert whispers. “Don’t move.” He grabs his t-shirt off the floor and slips it on before hoofing over to the door and swinging it open. Two men stand there wearing suits. One is brave enough to speak to Robert who must have hunger for bloodshed in his eyes.

  “We’re looking for Caroline Stone. We have a warrant for her arrest.”

  Chapter 15

  “El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene para secarse.”

  He who gets wet earliest has most time to dry.

  As I sit in the back seat of the white sedan, handcuffed to the point cutting off circulation, the buildings outside begin to look familiar.

  “Hey, this is the Federal Building, not a police station,” I say. “Where are we going?”

  The two plain-clothed officers in the front seat say nothing. I can only see the back of their heads, neatly combed brown and blonde hair. Nearly identical blue-grey suits. One is playing with his iPhone. The other drives toward the underground parking and shows his badge to the security guard at the gate. Sliding the car into the dark concrete cavern where numerous conspicuously federal government sedans and vans reside like legions waiting for war, he cuts off the engine. The blonde officer steps out. He swings around to open my door, and commandeers me out of the vehicle. Unfamiliar with having my hands cuffed behind me, I stumble. For several seconds I have that dizzy feeling at the thought of being admitted to jail, as if I might throw up. The idea of getting naked, bending over, and coughing worries me the most.

  “Is there a jail here, or will you have to transport me somewhere?”

  As if I’m invisible, neither officer answers me. When we step inside the elevator, brown hair presses the button to the 12th floor. Blonde hair pulls out Chap-Stick and glides it across his lips. It smells like cherries, and I recall that I haven’t eaten since breakfast at the hospital, where I had three grapes and pushed the flavorless oatmeal to the side. Oatmeal and grapes seem like a delectable feast right now.

  The elevator rises like a bullet and swishes open on the 12th floor. Blonde hair unceremoniously grabs my arm. Gliding down a beige-carpeted hallway, we walk past closed office doors with brass numbers. When we reach room 116, brown hair opens the door and steps inside. The room is relatively small with a view of the Civic Center building, its white dome pointing toward the sky. Plaques and framed certificates line the walls. On them I catch glimpses of “F.B. I.” and “Massachusetts Institution of Technology.” A small bookshelf holds binders in the corner. Brown hair sits down behind his desk and says, “Sit” as if I’m a dog. He points at one of the two chairs opposite his desk. Thankfully, blonde hair uncuffs me.

  While I shake circulation back into my fingers, I sit as though everything is going to be fine, even though I know it isn’t. Blonde hair sits in the chair next to me. The prickly sensation in the room suggests something important is about to occur, although I have no idea what.

  “Ms. Stone,” brown hair says, “I’m Agent Morrie Larsen and this is Agent Kevin Silver.” Larsen, who’s in his mid-thirties and tanned, points to the blonde guy.

  “Okay,” I say, looking around the office, wondering where the jail is. “Am I arrested or what?”

  “Technically, no, not yet, and you have the right to remain silent, all that, but we’ve brought you in to talk with you first. Is that alright?” he asks. I wonder about Robert, what he might recommend at a moment like this, but since he’s not here, I just nod.

  “It seems you have a predilection for breaking into homes.” Larsen looks bored as he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a folder, opens it, and fans out images on his desk. Freeze-framed video photographs of me in the Chairman’s house. Grainy, but definitely me. The expression on my face suggests a ghost might be chasing me.

  “I hardly think breaking-in once amounts to a habit. I only broke into that one house,” I say before realizing that a confession is probably not in my best interests at this point. However, I can’t deny the image of myself on the screen in the Chairman’s house. It’s telling, damning. My stomach growls, and I wonder what Robert is doing right now. I wonder if he’ll give up on me now that I’m going to jail. The thought feels like glass in my stomach.

  “What were you doing there?” Agent Silver wants to know, his blonde hair shiny in the office lighting. He looks like that boy in the movie Home Alone if he were aged ten years and someone put lip gloss on him.

  I shake my head. “It’s a long story… I only broke in to get something back that was mine. I didn’t break in to steal something. I’m not a thief.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Agent Larsen says, pointing at the photos. “We know you broke in, but we can figure out how you’re connected to Collin. What were you looking for?”

  “Like I said, I only wanted to get back something that belonged to me.”

  Agent Silver exhales and places his right ankle over his left knee, leaning back into the chair. Out the window, he needle on the Civic Center dome looks razor sharp. “This is going to take all day. I got other shit to do,” he tells Larsen.

  “Ms. Stone, it’s in your best interest to tell us what you took from Collin Finn’s house,” Larsen warns.

  “Can I get a drink of water?” I ask, feeling parched, and wondering if I want to tell this story yet again. Agent Silver stands, unwillingly, and thumps out of the office, coming back moments later with a cup of water the size of a thimble and hands it to me. I swallow it in one gulp.

  Since their patience is wearing thin, I confess all, telling them about the tape, mailing it to Collin, changing my mind and wanting it back, breaking into Collin’s house, dropping the envelope on the lawn, all that, and then Collin showing up at my apartment with a gun.

  “Why do you think Collin wanted to shoot you?” Agent Larsen asks, unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaning back in his swivel chair. The uninterested expression on his face suggests he discusses shooting often.

  “He thought I knew something about the Children’s Refuge Project,” I say, feeling like a criminal for simply talking about it.

  “So you do know?” Agent Larsen raises his eyebrows at me.

  “I do, or at least I think I do. I put it together, anyway,” I say, looking at my tennis shoes and wondering if rubber is edible.

  “What do you think you know?” Agent Silver asks.

  “When I broke into Collin’s house to retrieve my envelope from his mailbox, I grabbed the wrong envelope, and
pictures fell out of young women, really young, girls maybe. I saw an email address pasted on the front. I didn’t think about it at the time since I wanted to get out of there. I just wanted my envelope. It wasn’t until later at the office when I saw one of Collin’s misplaced file boxes that I realized the connection. There was a similar email address in the file, too.”

  “That’s why we saw them outside her apartment,” Silver explains to Larsen.

  “Who?” I ask, wondering what they’re talking about.

  They sit there quietly for a moment, seemingly pondering, while I contemplate whether I should tell them how hungry I am. People walk by outside the closed door and the smell of hamburgers floats in.

  “Ms. Stone, we have a proposal for you. Seeing that there’s a warrant for your arrest, we’d like to offer you a proposition. We could guarantee you a minimized sentence, only probation, if you help us,” Agent Larsen offers. I have the feeling he’s in charge here.

  “Help you?”

  “More like cooperate,” Silver states. He takes out a piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. Chewing like a school kid, he says, “We’ve been investigating a child prostitution ring in San Francisco for nearly five years now. We’ve traced the ring from the Philippines all the way to California, all the way to Collin’s house, but haven’t gotten any further. Being a lawyer, Collin’s kept himself squeaky clean. He’s untouchable. As far as society is concerned, the man is nothing but goodness and virtue.”

  “But we know better,” Agent Larsen says. “We were watching his house the night you broke in, so we saw you, but other people saw you, too. Those are the people we’re interested in finding out about. If we can get to them, we can get the information we want. Those pictures you saw in his mailbox were sent from us in the hopes of luring in his contacts. When he found out you broke into his house, he naturally became suspicious that you might have planted those photos. We think he’s told his contacts, and now they’re suspicious of you.” He pauses for a moment. “Essentially, you’re in great danger if they find you.”

  “You want to help us stop child prostitution, don’t you?” Agent Silver asks.

  “Of course I do,” I say. I also want to avoid jail. “I’m sure I can’t help you though. I don’t know anyone who might be involved. I have no idea.”

  “We were thinking we could use you as bait.” Officer Silver smiles at me.

  He really looks like that guy in that movie. What’s his name? McCauley something.

  “Bait?” This is starting to sound unwise. “Bait is usually the piece of food that gets eaten by bigger animals.”

  “You’d have to break into Collin’s house again. Then you’d have to wait. We think Collin’s associate will come for you. This person is the same person who sent Collin to your apartment that night he shot you,” Agent Larsen says, pulling out an e-cigarette and taking a long pull. He lets the mist float out of his nose. It smells like coconut.

  “I can’t break into his house again. I’m sure he’s changed the code.”

  “We’ve fixed all that. We just need you to get in and wait. We’ll keep agents all around the house, watching you, and have you microphoned. You’ll be perfectly safe. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, well, then at least you’ll have a get-out-of jail free card. Sounds like a sweet offer to me,” Agent Larsen proposes. “I’d take it without consideration if I were you.”

  For a moment, I ponder prison. Really, I look like a dying person in the color orange. And more importantly, helping stop child prostitution is an honorable endeavor, surely enough to make up for all the stupid things I’ve done thus far.

  “I guess so,” I say after some silence. “But when?”

  “Sooner the better. Before all the worry dies down,” Agent Silver says, chomping. “Right now would be best, but we have to get you prepped first.”

  I’m hoping “prepped” includes food. I also think about Robert and what he might be doing now. He was in quite a tizzy while the officers carted me away.

  “Your wounds healed?” Agent Silver wants to know.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “So you could run fairly fast if necessary, if you had to?” Agent Larsen inquires, his lips pressed in concern.

  “Maybe. I haven’t tried.” I shrug. The question concerns me. “But I am super hungry. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and you yanked me out of Robert’s house just before we were sitting down for dinner.”

  Agent Larsen raises his eyebrows at Agent Silver, as if they know Robert and I were just about to tear each other’s clothes off. Agent Larsen then silently nods at Agent Silver and gestures toward the door.

  “Agent Silver will get you prepped, and I’ll see you in the cafeteria. Today was stuffed baked potato day. I’m sure there’s plenty left. You alright with that?”

  “At this point I’d eat Agent Silver’s Chap-Stick if he’d let me.”

  I rise and follow Agent Silver down the hall. I could follow him blindly by the sound of his chomping and the smell of his cherry lips. We pass more offices and then happen upon a pair of steel double-doors. Agent Silver swipes a card across a keypad and the doors open wide. Inside is a black table and walls of white metal cabinets. Agent Silver opens a cabinet full of electronic devices. He pulls out a set and puts them on the table. Next he opens the cabinet nearby and yanks out a black bullet-proof vest. Looking at it makes me feel as though I’ve just embarked on climbing Mount Everest. Suicidal. Death wish.

  “What’s the vest for?” I ask.

  “Just in case,” Agent Silver answers. “Can you take off your top?” He places the bullet-proof vest on the table too and looks at me with his hand out.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your sweater and your top. I’m gonna need you to take them off.”

  I glare at him.

  “No one’s gonna molest you. I need to tape the wires to your chest and get the vest on. Now please.”

  Twisting my mouth, I remove my sweater and then lift off my shirt. Underneath, I’m wearing a pink bra with black polka dots. Agent Silver raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

  Covering my bra with my arm, I try not to watch while Agent Silver tapes wires to my my chest. Then he slides the bulletproof vest over my head as if I were a child being dressed. It feels like trying to fit into a tight surgical glove and smells like cigarettes. Afterwards, I slide my shirt and sweater on again. However, the vest makes me look as if I’m pregnant. Agent Silver puts a bud in his ear.

  “Say something,” he commands.

  “What?”

  “Good,” he says. “Now, let’s meet Agent Larsen downstairs.”

  I follow him as we tread back down the hall to the elevators and ride down to the fourth floor, where we step off and walk to the cafeteria. Inside, I find Agent Larsen and twenty other agents, a mix of plain-clothed and swat-geared officers, men and women. They stand in a tight group among the many empty tables in the cafeteria. On one table is a small bag of chips and a Coke. I feel like Pavlov’s dog.

  “Come on over. Have a seat, Ms. Stone,” Agent Larsen commands, waving me over. “Your dinner,” he offers pointing at the chips as I arrive. “Sorry, stuffed baked potatoes were all gone.”

  I notice twenty FBI agents watching me impatiently. I open the bag and take two bites of plain chips and it’s heaven. Next, I swig the Coke. After three more bites, Agent Larsen says, “You probably don’t want to fill up too much.”

  “Why?” I ask, still famished.

  “You just don’t,” he refuses to tell me. His relaxed voice makes me feel relaxed, as though heading out with a swat team is a nightly activity.

  I take the bag with me anyway, and the group of FBI agents and I become a tight throng moving toward the elevator. Most of the agents talk with each other, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Agent Larsen asks Agent Silver if I’m prepped.

  “As she’ll ever be,” he says apologetically.

  The group disperses into four cars and a van
. We exit the underground parking into San Francisco at night, glittering orange like distant dying stars. At least I’m no longer handcuffed and starving.

  Within twenty minutes we arrive at the Chairman’s house. It looks dead, empty, abandoned among houses full of life and light. Agent Larsen drives past the house and parks around the corner. He puts a bud in his ear, and then he and Agent Silver turn around and look at me.

  “You ready?” Agent Larsen asks.

  “Yeah, I guess.Do I get a weapon or anything?”

  He shakes his head profoundly. “The house is empty. All you need to do is use this key to get into the gate,” he says handing me the key, “and enter this code.” He hands me the code on a piece of paper. “After that, just make yourself comfortable and wait. Whoever comes won’t even get into the house. We’ll apprehend him first.”

  “How long do I have to wait?” I wonder, my palms suddenly sweating.

  “No telling. Could be two hours, could be four. If nothing happens, we’ll ring the doorbell to tell you we’re coming to get you out. Got it?”

  “I suppose.” I’m suddenly terrified, as if a legion of bad people waits inside to kill me.

  “Don’t worry,” Agent Larsen says with a smile. “We’re here. All those men and women you saw in the cafeteria, all the ones who followed us out to the garage. They’re all here.” He points in all directions. “Front, side, back of the house. You’re not alone, I promise. If something happens, you just tell us. We’ll hear you. You sense movement, whatever. You tell us. You’re wired. Remember that. Once you enter the code and get inside, enter it again on the code panel inside the house.”