by Rosa, A.
Emotionally
Compromised
“A smile will get you pretty far, but a smile and a gun will get you farther.”
Al Capone
A . Rosa
Emotionally Compromised
A.Rosa
Editors:
H. Danielle Crabtree
Charlotte Ashley
Cover Photo
Model: Sandra Guillén
Blog: http://sandrawearsprada.blogspot.com/
Photographer: Marcelo Encina
Blog http://ourcheloencina.tumblr.com/
Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/78059250@N05/
eBook
ISBN-13: 978-1-62890-455-0
© Copyright 2013 A.Rosa
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, events or locales is coincidental.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
SNEAK PEEK OF BOOK #2
DEDICATIONS
Without the following people this book would never be.
My Family.
Christian, Margie, and Nicholas Rosa.
My Little Daddy, My Momma, and My Baby Bro.
Without your unconditional love, unfiltered truth, and infinite support, I would never be able to pursue any of my crazy endeavors. How you deal with me is still a miracle I have yet to wrap my head around, but without you I would be lost. I love you.
My Best Friends.
Geoffrey Gonzalez, James Ybarra, and Matthew Smith.
You have made the bad times bearable, the good times absolutely incredible, and the laughter endless. I hope some day we can write our memoirs together, since of course, the titles have already been decided. I love you like brothers. You are without a doubt my family, and that will never change. I will forever write my next novels with you three in mind.
CHAPTER ONE
Complication
ALEX TURNER
I take a drag of my cigarette, and exhale into the phone, "Derek, are we really talking about this?"
"How long is your break?" he asks, ignoring my question, and I cannot help my mocking laughter.
"Not long enough for this conversation, I'm sure."
"I swear, are you always set to anger mode?"
Another giggle erupts from me. I can almost feel him smiling on the other end too.
"Take off that grin I know you have on your face right now. You are not funny, Derek."
"I know, but as long as I can make you laugh, I'm good." I lean against the building and sigh. "I've made you mad again, haven't I?" he adds. I can hear his tone shift. "Are you smoking? I can hear you smoking. I thought you were trying to stop?"
I grunt, but I guess I'm smiling. I cannot be doing this.
"Agent Matthews, do you have anything new to report?"
He responds the same way, and exhales loudly. "Back to formalities. I guess it is only fair on company time. Just know that this is me caring, Agent Turner."
I rub at my temples, and I am thankful he can't see the look on my face.
"Agent Matthews," I whine.
"All right, all right ... no, Agent Turner, nothing new to report. Just don't do anything stupid.
Take your time with this."
"I'll call you later, Derek."
"Please, Alex."
"Bye."
I hang up the phone, wondering how I got myself into this mess as I take another long drag of my cigarette. The nicotine calms my nerves.
When did my personal and professional life come crashing into one another? I need to tell Derek to be more professional. How can I act like an undercover agent when my estranged best friend—I guess ex-boyfriend—wants to talk while I'm on the job?
I laugh at the thought—job—as I pull the tight spandex shorts up slightly, and smooth out the trashy black tube top. These clothes barely cover me. I feel so put on display. A female agent, chosen to go undercover only because she looks good in practically nothing. I roll my eyes and run my hands through my dark curly hair. When will I earn the respect the guys get?
Focus, Alex, you do have an objective.
Right. Find out who Marcus Gibbs calls his close friends, and see if he meets any of his connections here. Derek explained to me that the word on the street is his French accomplice is in town, and that they might meet tonight somewhere public and inconspicuous. Without knowing what this person looks like, this is tough.
Even tougher is that the company he works for does business with the French all the time, making it difficult to tell the difference between a business associate and a potential suspect.
I have to be particular with my observations. At times, it feels like my team is leading me blind, but I can do this. I am eager to get the ball rolling on this assignment.
I'm undercover at a nightclub called Fluxx, where the rich and famous come to play on the weekends, and scam for some hot tail. I'm acting as a waitress assigned to Gibbs's table. This is my second weekend working here, and the second time I've encountered him. The first interaction was bland, but this time he seems to be attentive. I've already caught his eye tonight when I sat Marcus and a few friends at his table twenty minutes ago.
No sign of anything out of the ordinary, but the looks these men give me are sickening. Little do they know, I could dislocate their knee, and have them kneeling and begging for mercy at my whim.
The thought makes me smile. Thanks to the wonderful United States of America's federal government. Its agencies have made me into the perfect killing machine. Beautiful, but deadly is what I am assuming they were going for.
M
ission accomplished.
My emotional range is bleak, but my aim is damn near perfect. That's why I am better with a gun than with a boyfriend, and prefer it that way. Maybe that is because my gun obeys without question.
Even I know I can be melodramatic sometimes.
I roll my eyes, take the last drag off my cigarette, and flick it into the darkness. At twenty-five years old, I wonder what the hell I am doing with myself.
I am not in the mood for this undercover bullshit tonight. Derek has me going crazy. We broke up weeks ago, and he keeps asking for a second chance. I don't give second chances. The academy taught me that. He taught me that.
There aren’t many excuses he could muster to explain why I caught him lip-locking with an ex. That girl should consider herself lucky that all she got was a broken nose. I chuckle at the memory. So satisfying.
To clarify, she had it coming. She is the one who yanked my arm around, asking for a fight. I ended it the moment it began with the heel of my palm against her nose, and walked out.
A secret agent should not have so much baggage.
I shrug silently, thinking there have been happier times. Ah yes, happier times with Derek, with my job, and with my life. I need to isolate all these things.
Now he wants forgiveness and me back. No fucking way. I wish we could go back to being friends. That is my current goal. If he is going to be my team leader or partner in the field, he has to accept the situation for what it is, and not use—what did he call it? Oh yeah—company time to get me to talk to him.
This is business. I want to remind him there are more things on the line—like my life! He isn't the one wearing barely anything, selling himself as a sex object, practically unarmed because, where could I put a gun in this outfit?
There is a possibility that Gibbs's European connection could be an armed and dangerous terrorist. Ugh! The thought is so frustrating! Derek can be so fucking careless!
I peer at my phone, realizing that my fake job's break is over, and the overbearing asshole who thinks he's my boss may come stomping out here ordering me around like a whore. The notion of jabbing him in the jugular, leaving him gasping for air, is the only laughable thought I have.
I lean down to my high heels, and adjust the strap and the knife tucked under my heel. It's my only protection.
I wish I had a gun. I'd feel better.
Flustered, I turn around and walk back inside. It's dark—too dark for my liking—and I scan the perimeter for anything suspicious. I identify each exit in case I have to run.
My thoughts consume me, making it difficult to focus.
Take a deep breath, Alex; you are here to get a job done.
I cross the dance floor to get to the bar more quickly.
Out of nowhere, a hand emerges from the darkness and grabs my ass, pinching it. It has me reeling around quicker than the guy can see coming, and robotically, I snatch this stranger's wrist and have his arm twisted and contorted behind him.
The man—who is obviously much taller than my 5'6" frame at maybe 6'2” or 6'3”—gasps in shock, but seems amused. He's blond with angular features, broad shoulders, in his late twenties possibly, and good-looking, but I don't give a shit.
I wonder if this is considered abusing the clientele.
"Ow! What are you doing?" he gasps. I can tell he's strong, but the angle I have his arm at makes it impossible for him to wriggle out of my grasp.
Thank you, hand-to-hand combat training.
I smile seductively and lean in so he can hear me over the music. My lips brush against his ear.
"Don't touch me. Who do you think you are, grabbing at a girl? It's sickening. If you do it again, when I pass my LLAT exam, I will find a way to represent myself in court just to sue your ass, got it?"
He looks embarrassed, like a lost child—stupefied and extremely apologetic. "I didn't mean—"
“To grab my ass? Funny, it looked like that's exactly what you meant to do."
His lips twitch with amusement, but his embarrassment lingers. "I'm really sorry."
"Well, apology not accepted. Learn how to treat a woman."
"I really am sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Definitely not to you anyway."
I smirk, which for some reason gets the corner of his mouth to arch upward slightly, and it makes my heart rate rise. In that moment, I realize I have been standing here too long. Thank goodness it's dark, because his beautifully sculpted features are distracting, and I am worried that if I can figure out what color his eyes are I might falter.
I raise my hand to signal to him this conversation is over and walk away.
As I leave, he shouts, "What's your name?"
I turn my head back to look at him as I continue putting distance between us. "You'll never know." Because he won't.
The last image I have is of him biting his bottom lip as he watches me disappear.
I can't help but laugh as I head back behind the bar. That little interaction was satisfying in so many ways.
Lydia, the head barmaid, looks up from the register. "Hey, girl, what was that about?"
"A touchy-feely customer, and I had to set it right."
She tilts her head back and cackles. "You better get used to touchy-feely around here, sweetie."
The statement doesn't sit well with me. Little does she know, this isn't my real job, and I'm more than thankful for that fact.
I look around, searching for Marcus's table. I only get a small glimpse of his profile, but not at the others at his table. I wonder if there are any out-of-the-ordinary European men discussing big business or biological warfare over there. I begin wiping down the counter as people head to the dance floor.
Francesca, another scantily clad waitress, comes up and hands me a piece of paper. "Your table ordered these. I have to take my lunch."
The attitude that accompanies her words is unwelcome, but as I take the paper from her hand, I'm happy for the excuse to go over to Marcus's table. Spying from over here is proving useless.
I make the four drinks: two rum and cokes, a tequila sunrise, and a gin and tonic with two limes. I wouldn't mind the gin and tonic. My favorite.
I place them on a tray, balance it on my arm, and stroll over.
Do you even have a game plan, Agent Turner?
Why, my ever-present subconscious, I'm glad you asked! I'm relying on my half-naked self, my unbelievable wit, my dazzling smile, and my ridiculous skill at flirting to get me by here.
I want to be on a first name basis with Marcus. I want him to welcome this skanky-looking waitress (that being me) into his booth. I want him to request me by name. I want him to let me into his shady world.
But what will that require physically?
I hate thinking about that part. I guess he might have to touch me. Derek explained all this to me. He told me to be prepared to feel uncomfortable, but not to do anything I don't want to do—anything that would put me in danger. How dangerous can a twenty-nine-year-old scientist be?
You've done this all before: the president in Russia, the prince in Dubai. This guy should be a piece of cake. Do not overthink this. You have been handled before, and you did fine. Thanks, subconscious, I needed the pep talk.
My internal monologue concludes as I reach his table and find the private VIP booth contains more men than my four drinks are prepared for.
"Howdy, boys." Howdy? You idiot, this isn't Texas.
"Looking real good tonight, Miss Thang."
Miss Thang? You have got to be kidding me, but I recognize that voice: Marcus Gibbs.
I set his rum and coke down, and seductively peer up through my eyelashes to make eye contact with him. He is grinning and obviously a little tipsy, which I know will make him bolder than normal, but hopefully easier to handle.
"Hello, Mr. Gibbs." I lick my bottom lip as I set another drink down.
It's a shame these bad men are always so good-looking, but maybe I should be thankful. Marcus has sandy brown hair and bright, vivid green eyes. H
is strong jawline is only one of the things that makes him so attractive. My file tells me he played soccer in college, and his lean physique is proof. It also says he was a hopeful for the Nobel Prize this year for finding a cure for a specialized type of malaria that troubles a lot of West Africa. It's also rumored he has somehow managed to mutate a certain strain of the same disease into another type of bubonic plague, and is working to sell it to a terrorist group as a biological weapon.
I smile sweetly as I rise, and realize I am spending too much time staring at Marcus.
"Who has the gin and tonic, boys?"
"I do ... and please, your name is?"
I haven't had a chance to scan the whole table, but the voice sounds familiar. I pick up the drink and make eye contact with the faceless voice.
The man from the dance floor. My stomach plummets.
My guts sink farther into the abyss that is my nerves as I realize exactly who that man is. In better light, it becomes obvious.
Jeremy Hunt. CEO of Sunscape Biotechnologies. Gibbs's boss, best friend, and local playboy. How could I be so stupid?
"Here is your drink, sir." I place it in front of him, not tearing my stare from his eyes. He does the same. It's unnerving—frustrating even.
His glacier blue eyes pull me in. I have to look away, and it's almost as if I've lost some unknown game.
Marcus and a few of his friends laugh at my blatant disregard for Jeremy's question.
"So, am I to assume you don't have a name?" Jeremy smiles wryly at me, and I can't help but smile mischievously back. This table of men seems to be amused, and I think I can play this to my advantage.
Wrinkling my nose at him, I come back with, "Assume away, sir." I finally have an opportunity to scan the table as I ask, "Would any more of you gentlemen like another drink?"
They continue to chuckle, and I swear I overhear one of the men lean in to tell Jeremy, "When's the last time that's happened to you, Hunt?"
The remark makes me smile.
The table has six men sitting around it, all comparably young. A man on my far left looks unfamiliar though. I don't remember him from my file. He doesn't look foreign, but he is older than the others, though not by much. He is possibly in his mid-to-late thirties: brown hair, dark eyes, and a thick five o'clock shadow. That's all I can tell in the dim lighting.