by Livia Grant
God, she was tired. It was so tempting to just go back to her bedroom and take a nap, but the health club on the mezzanine level of the building was calling to her. Before she could back out, she grabbed her latte and headed down the hallway to the left, dragging her suitcase behind. She’d change and go workout first.
The slapping sounds followed by feminine laughter hit her ears a split second too late. She’d already turned the knob on the bedroom door, letting not only the offending sounds, but heartbreaking pictures burn into her memory the split-second the door was open.
Unlucky for her, the two occupants of her bedroom hadn’t heard Khloe enter. No. That would have been too merciful. Instead, she stood frozen, doomed to watch her boyfriend of five months fucking the very married actress who’d be starring in that night’s grand opening on Broadway.
Looks like she’d got an early jump on her opening night celebration.
It was insane that the very next thing that crossed Khloe’s mind wasn’t how could the bastard cheat on me? No. It wasn’t even how could she cheat on her extremely handsome husband? It was a crushing disappointment that not once in all of their time together had Dean looked that excited to be with her. Their sex life was like a watered down version of the glorious fuckfest happening in front of her.
Gloria Mining’s perfect body was stretched taut, her hands secured in Khloe’s very own leather cuffs from a boyfriend past. The carabiner connecting them attached to a new hook she’d never seen in her ceiling. Both traitors were buck naked, with boyfriend’s hands dug into the bony hips of his lover, easily lifting her body to the perfect angle to accommodate his pounding thrusts.
“Holy love of Jesus, I’m gonna come again!” Gloria screamed just before Dean’s glistening, perfect body began grunting, his own ejaculation mere seconds away.
In the throes of her own emotional thrashing, Khloe’s latte slipped through her fingers, crashing to the floor and exploding out into a six-foot radius of hot coffee, blanketing even the copulating couple. She took small pleasure in seeing the pained grimace on his face as he turned toward her, although she suspected it was the burn of the liquid and agony of pinching off his own release that accounted for his discomfort more than being caught with his dick where it didn’t belong.
“Khloe! What the fuck?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Dean.” A forced calm she didn’t dare abandon came over her. “Nice to see you too, Gloria. I wasn’t expecting to see you until after the show tonight.”
The three occupants of the room froze, unsure exactly how to undo the current mess. Khloe, having been down this particular road once before, had the perfect idea.
Grabbing her cell phone from her back pocket, she quickly unlocked the screen and raised it up to start snapping away. It took the adulterers in the room a few seconds to realize what was happening.
“Goddammit, Khloe. That’s enough! Put the phone away!”
She flipped into video mode just in time to capture the wet mess of Dean’s withdrawal from the now struggling-to-be-free woman in front of him. The same woman screaming for him to release her trapped arms as she wriggled like a fish hooked at the end of a line. Had it been happening to someone else, the scene might have been funny. The cheater ran towards the bed to grab a throw blanket to wrap around his waist to hide his fast deflating cock.
“You would be more interested in hiding your too-small dick before helping me down, you bastard.” Seems Gloria wasn’t as big of a fan of his tool as she’d appeared just moments before. Maybe she was a better actress than Khloe had given her credit for.
Khloe rubbed it in. “Uh-oh, Dean. Looks like trouble in paradise.”
He threw her a dirty glare as he finally approached Gloria to begin loosening her restraints. Something snapped inside her in that surreal moment, standing in her own bedroom filming her now ex-boyfriend releasing his married lover from the very bonds she longed to be in. It wasn’t that his betrayal left her heartbroken. They hadn’t been in love. It was deeper than that, if that were possible. Standing there as an outsider to an intimacy she craved, Khloe’s insecurities closed in, reminding her that yet again, she was second best in someone’s life. Replaceable. Interchangeable.
The ringing in her ears was a warning sign. She’d pushed herself too far. Too little sleep. Too much caffeine. Strenuous exercise and too-few calories mixed a dangerous cocktail on a normal day. The poisonous kick of adrenaline brought on by betrayal could be her knockout blow. Tears pricked her eyes. If she didn’t hurry, they’d get to see her cry.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
She couldn’t stay here. Not now. Maybe never again. Without a word, she turned to retreat, pulling her carryon bag behind her. She hadn’t unpacked a thing, so all she had to do was pick up her leather travel bag near the door. The last thing she heard before she walked out was both lovers screaming at her to erase the photos.
“Are you hungry Miss Monroe? I could stop and pick you up something to eat.”
Johnson was a saint. Truly. She’d called him from the lobby of her building, begging him to rush back to pick her up. Desperate to get away before Dean tried to follow her. She was smart enough to know not to catch a taxi. It wouldn’t have been safe to lose it in a public cab.
But the back of Johnson’s private livery car had been the perfect place for a meltdown. An hour-long, screaming, crying, cussing meltdown. To his credit, the driver only tried to help in the beginning minutes, concerned for her. He eventually caught on that his passenger just needed to get something out of her system and had patiently been driving her around the streets of Manhattan for the last two hours.
It was about an hour into the drive that her phone had started to light up with calls from Dean. The same Dean who rarely called her when they were apart, leaving it up to her to try to track him down when she wanted to chat. The same Dean who was presently not worried about her wellbeing, but rather what she planned to do with the damning evidence she carried on her iPhone. Seems he was to be auditioning with Gloria’s talented director of a husband for a part in an upcoming project. She guessed fucking the director’s wife wouldn’t gain him many brownie points.
For the first time in a long time, Khloe was tempted to direct the driver to the Bronx. The only thing that stopped her from running home to visit mom and dad was knowing that there was virtually no chance they could make her feel any better and a greater than average shot they’d make her feel worse.
Her ultra religious parents didn’t approve of her lifestyle.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Monroe, but I have another ride chartered in about an hour. Are you ready for me to take you back to your apartment yet or would you prefer I take you to a hotel instead?”
Their eyes met briefly in the rear-view mirror. She saw pity staring back at her and she hated it.
Where to go? Not to her apartment. Not the Bronx. In fact, nowhere in NYC.
“Take me back to the airport.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had the thirty-minute drive to figure out where she would fly. It was a bit overwhelming. She had nine days off and literally the ability to fly anywhere in the world her U.S. passport would allow. A Caribbean island? Too romantic to go alone. Europe? Back to L.A.?
Who could she call to go with her? How sad that in five minutes she couldn’t come up with a single name of a travel companion, other than staff who worked for her. This wasn’t the first time in her life a crushing loneliness hit her. She had thousands of acquaintances in her contact list. Maybe millions of fans, yet in times like this, she had to face how truly alone she was in the world.
She thought back to one of the only times in her life she’d felt like she belonged. Like she’d been wanted. Like she was with real friends.
Familiar regret pressed in, offering to suffocate her and put her out of her misery. She’d had something special just once, four years before when she’d been younger… dumber. Naive enough to think the love she’d fel
t would be easy to find. She’d tried to trade it up for the next bigger size and in the process, had lost it all.
“Which airline, Miss Monroe?” Johnson asked. They were entering the airport property.
“American, please.”
Her mind raced as he dropped her at the curb and she walked through the sliding door, keeping her sunglasses on, this time to hide her red eyes. There was no line at the premier passenger line. She had her ID and credit card in her hand by the time the airline employee smiled and asked, “Good morning. How can I assist you?”
She pushed her butterflies down and held her credit card out as she replied, “I need a one-way first-class ticket on your next flight to Washington National Airport in D.C.”
“Of course, Miss Monroe.”
She’d seen his photo all over the press lately. For the first time in years, she actually knew where to find him. She just prayed she wouldn’t chicken out when she got there.
She needed to talk to Chase Cartwright.
Chapter 2
“This is complete bullshit. I’ve been on the sidelines long enough. I’m as ready as I am gonna be. I need to get back on assignment.” Ryder Helms was talking too loud. He knew the drill. His boss set a public meeting place to break the bad news, knowing Ryder wouldn’t be able to make a scene.
Well, his boss was in for a rude awakening if he thought Ryder would lie down and let the agency walk all over him.
“I talked to your doctors. You’re not cleared for action. Period. Be glad we’re letting you take light duty. I’d rather you take a vacation, get some R&R, but I know better than to think you’d do something as sensible as that,” his boss deadpanned.
“Listen, I can golf as good as the next guy, and I’m not opposed to some dirty downtime on a private beach, preferably with a naked woman beside me, but I digress. You need me back in Moscow. The longer I’m gone, the harder it’s gonna be to regain my cover. We’ve invested too many fucking years to just throw my connections down the drain.” Ryder had lowered his voice, leaning in to avoid the group of women lunching nearby from hearing the details of their private conversation.
Ryder’s commanding officer, Brandon Webster, took a bite of his rare steak as if he hadn’t a care in the world before answering. Every second that ticked by, Ryder’s blood pressure rose another point.
“This is not the time, nor the place, for this discussion,” was Webster’s only response.
“Which is exactly why I told you it was a bullshit move.” He took a deep breath and laid his cards on the table. “I’m not gonna let this drop just because you choose to have lunch with the garden club. We’re gonna talk about this. It’s up to you if you want to do it here or somewhere more private.”
His superior officer grimaced as if he’d eaten something bitter. “You can be a real pain in my ass, you know that?”
Ryder grinned. “Yeah, but you need me, and you know it.”
The balding man took another bite of steak before waving down the nearby waiter to ask for their check. Ten minutes later, the men stepped out into the frigid February winter in the nation’s capital. They’d been eating in an upscale restaurant not far from the capitol so he wasn’t surprised to bump into a sitting U.S. Senator as they left.
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” Brandon suggested.
The men took a silent stroll towards the nearby small park. Children’s playground equipment stood buried under a soft blanket of snow and the men had the space to themselves. They’d found the privacy needed for the conversation Ryder was desperate to have.
He waited for his commanding officer to restart the exchange as the men walked side-by-side along the snow-covered path. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Now, let’s get this straight. I don’t want to fuck things up in Moscow any more than you do, but my hands are tied. You’ve had three medical incidents in the last two years. You’ve been red flagged. You aren’t going back undercover until you get a clean bill of health. Period.” The balding man didn’t bother glancing sideways at him.
Ryder pulled him to a stop so they could see each other as he delivered his retort. “Listen, we both know damn well my three medical incidents are only because of my assignment. I’m in excellent health, despite being abducted and tortured for a week over two years ago. Despite jumping from the back of a moving truck at forty miles per hour last year. And yes, even in spite of being shot twice at close range four months ago. I’m a fucking machine to be in the shape I’m in considering all I’ve been through in the last two years.”
“You’ve just proven their point. It’s getting too dangerous.” Ryder didn’t like the look in Webster’s eye as he finished his thought. “We’re considering not sending you back in.”
“Now wait a fucking minute. It’s bad enough my return to duty is being delayed. You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m walking away from this. We’re getting close. I can feel it. Igor Romanovski’s brigade is going to fall and when it does, I’ll be there with the Volkov’s to step into the void. We’re this close to having connections sitting directly on the Bratva council. We can’t abandon the mission.”
Brandon Webster gave his full attention to his pissed off agent, finally raising his own voice in frustration. “You don’t need to tell me what’s at stake here. Don’t forget that the Soviet block was where I did my active duty years. The stakes are as high as ever right now with global violence at an all-time high. With the Russian government dabbling in politics around the globe. Don’t think for one minute that I don’t know how many American lives I’ll be putting at risk if I lose out on the chance to have an insider sitting at the table with some of the world’s biggest crime lords. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s just what?” Ryder pressed.
“You’re almost forty, Ryder. You were less than an inch away from having a bullet turn you into a paraplegic. It’s okay to let it affect you. Hell, I’d be worried if it didn’t make you pause.”
Fuck. So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.
“I see Dr. Albright has been shooting off at the mouth again. What the hell ever happened to patient privacy?”
“Give me a break. You aren’t a schoolteacher or an office worker. You’re a deep-cover agent. A highly trained killing machine. A multilingual intelligence officer with years of experience. If you think you’re entitled to privacy, you’re not nearly as smart as I’d given you credit for.”
Ryder recognized the backhanded compliment. He also knew his boss was right. Physically, his body was healing. Mentally, he’d been struggling to get back to his A-game and going back into the Volkov Bratva before he was ready was like a suicide mission.
“So where does this leave me?” he pressed, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Right now, it leaves you on light duty. Instead of fighting it, try to enjoy it. We need your help at Langley with the influx of intel translations. When you’re not there, I know you have a few friends here in D.C. from your Marine days. Call them. Maybe go out for a beer. Play poker. Visit the local BDSM club and take out some of your built up aggression on one of the pain sluts you like to play with.”
Ryder had never discussed his sexual proclivities with his boss. He raised his eyebrow in surprise causing Webster to chuckle. “What? You don’t think word of your kinky shit hasn’t made it back to me? Just keep it legal, will ya? And remember you aren’t in Russia. The agency doesn’t need any new scandals and you sure as shit don’t need to have your face plastered on the front page of The Post. There’s no faster way to get yourself sidelined for good.”
Ryder pulled the collar of his wool winter coat up higher to keep out the brisk wind. Shit, he hated his options.
“Fine. I’ll keep coming out to Langley and helping with the intel, but I’m on record. One more month. That’s all. I need to be back in Moscow by the end of March.”
“Why don’t we wait and see how the next few weeks go?” his boss offered.
&nbs
p; “Great. Now all I need to do is find some friends to invite me out for a beer.”
“If you’re gonna be this sour, you should have just stayed home. We don’t need you scaring all of the subs away. We’re already short on ‘em as it is,” his old friend Spencer Cook warned. Ryder consciously tried to stop scowling as he sipped his scotch.
Being limited to only two drinks was yet another argument he’d had with the dungeon master. Sure, it was nice to be an invited guest to D.C.’s premier BDSM club, but he wasn’t really a ‘club’ kinda guy. He preferred his flavor of domination to be more on the down and dirty end of the continuum over what was practiced at the safe, sane, and consensual Black Light.
Spencer didn’t seem impressed. “Like I was saying. We just had someone drop out of the Valentine Roulette event next Tuesday night. You’d really be doing me a favor if you’d step up and you’d get something valuable in return. Besides getting to play with a willing sub for the night, you’ll get a one-month free membership worth $2,500. You said you might be stuck in town another month or two. I’m sure it would be easier to blow off some of that steam you seem to have pent up by having a place to come that specializes in your kind of kink.”
Ryder had to admit, he was tempted. Not that the club scene was really his thing, but he sure as hell wasn’t up for dating or, God forbid, getting into any kind of a relationship. He’d had no problems at all finding willing sex partners in Moscow. Women who craved the darker dominance he provided were easy to find there.
Not so much in D.C.
If he was going to be stuck on the sidelines for a few more months, something needed to change. His left hand was starting to get a workout.
Yep. Kinky sex with nameless strangers was exactly what the doctor ordered and Black Light, while still too tame for his tastes, was light years ahead of any other club in town. Not to mention it came with a built in benefit of being one-hundred percent confidential, something of great value for an undercover agent.