Bought His Life

by Aleka Nakis Tia Fanning

“Michiel.”

  “Me-shy-el,” Lawson repeated slowly as he leaned against the high bamboo desk.

  “That’s right, honey.” Michiel quickly typed on a flat typewriter connected to a small, thin television. “How long will we have the pleasure of your company?” he asked and glanced up.

  Lawson shook his head. “Not sure, a couple of days maybe.”

  “Ok, I’ll put five days for now. You can extend your stay or checkout whenever you like, free of penalty. Now, I need your driver’s license and a credit card, and you’ll be all set.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have either of those things. Why do I need them?”

  Michiel clucked his tongue. “Well, if you pay cash up front, I guess I can let the credit card slide. But you and your friend better be good boys and treat the room nice,” he warned as he wagged his finger.

  Lawson nodded his agreement.

  Smiling, Michiel went back to typing. “You don’t need a driver’s license, any picture ID will do. I just need to verify who you are.”

  “I’d love to comply, but you see—I was robbed this morning.”

  “Oh, how dreadful! You don’t appear hurt. At least you weren’t injured,” Michiel cooed with pouted lips, looking him up and down.

  Lawson suppressed his smile. “No, not at all, but my wallet, clothing, everything was in my Jeep and my Jeep was stolen. Luckily, I had some money in my pocket, and it’s all I have to pay for the room.” He let out a long sigh. “My friend is still at the police station giving his statement. Since I was the first to finish, I told him that I’d try to secure a room for us until we could contact the bank to send us more funds.”

  “You poor thing. What is this world coming to?” The clerk shook his head empathetically. “Well, how much do you have?”

  Lawson pulled the bundle of money from his pocket, silently counting it out. “Enough for five nights,” he said as he laid some bills on the counter.

  “Five hundred will cover a five-night stay, well at least for you and your friend. I’m giving you a special discount rate.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.” Lawson pocketed the remainder of the money. “And please, leave an extra set of keys at the desk. My friend will be coming by later.”

  Michiel nodded, asked for his full name and address, tapped away at his typewriter, then pulled out a plastic card with holes in it and handed it over. “Here you go. Your room number is thirteen.”

  Lawson glanced at the unusual key with a picture of a merman on it and turned to leave the motel.

  “Don’t you want to see the room first?” Michiel asked. “I can show you.”

  “No.” What he really wanted to do was get out of the tasteless clothing he’d confiscated from the kids on the beach. “I’ll leave the approval of the room to Jack. He’ll let you know if he doesn’t like it.”

  “Got it,” the clerk said, giving Lawson a dainty wave of his fingers. “Oh, by the way, tonight we’re having a little get-together off the pool area. There’ll be food, and we booked an awesome band.” Michiel’s eyes took on a dreamy look. “Oh my God, the band is amazing. They’re a cross between the Village People and the Chippendales, but even sexier, if you can imagine that. Personally, my favorite is the surgeon.”

  Lawson managed a smile, but really had no idea what Michiel was talking about. What was a Chippendale? Like the furniture?

  “Sure, I’ll try to stop by,” he found himself saying as he headed for the exit. He was about to open the door when he noticed a little stand with color pamphlets and stopped.

  “Those are brochures. Take all you want. Maybe you and your friend will have time to see the sites while you’re in town.”

  He grabbed a copy of a map that listed everything he needed to know about the local area, including restaurants.

  “Ta-Ta,” Michiel called out with yet another small wave. “Hope to see you around seven. And I hope the police are able to find the evil fiends that stole your stuff.”

  Lawson left the hotel, happy that everything was going so well. He walked across the street to a group of shops. The first thing he had to do before beginning his personal mission was to get a hold of some clothing. The only article of his own that he currently wore was his white undershirt, and though no one in this time seemed to mind, he still felt naked. But that also had a lot to do with the rest of his attire.

  Glancing down, he wondered again what was wrong with the men of this generation. The denim pants he’d found in one of the luggage packs on the beach were ragged looking, with holes in the knees. And the shoes he’d borrowed reminded him of a flatter version of the sandals Japanese geisha girls wore. He knew the young men had money, all one had to do was look at the fine vehicle they were driving to see it. So why would they purposely dress like this? And the motel clerk? What the hell was he wearing?

  Lawson entered the first garment store he found and instantly decided he was not impressed with twenty-first-century clothing. A majority of the shirts on sale reminded him of the walls of the Flaming Flamingo. Frustrated, he searched through the brightly colored apparel, hoping to find something suitable.

  A small blonde woman approached with a smile. “May I help you?”

  He grinned. Cindy, so her nametag read, was very cute, but she was nothing compared to his Kimber. And what was wrong with him obsessing over a woman he’d just met?

  “Yes, I’m looking for clothing that fits my way of dress. Nothing loud. I want class. Perhaps something in white or beige, or even black or brown?”

  A half hour later, he wore a complete ensemble, including undergarments. The white linen shirt, which Cindy called a Cuban guayabera, conformed to his torso. Coffee-colored linen pants hung around his hips, and he had traded his ‘flip-flops’ for a pair of woven leather sandals with a closed toe. He sat his favorite piece, a white ‘Havana’ straw hat with a dark-brown band on his head, and nodded his thanks to the sales girl.

  “Wow, you look great!” Cindy beamed. “All you need is a Cuban cigar and you’d look just like one of those handsome drug lords from the movies.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  Lawson had used a hefty amount of cash, over two hundred dollars, to purchase the clothes, but it had been worth the price. Raised a gentleman, he was determined to look the part. Discerning that new clothes deserved a clean body, he stopped at a general store to buy necessities before making his way back to the motel.

  At the Flamingo, he showered, contemplating what had brought him to this place and time, and ultimately, his early retirement. He sighed in contentment. He was finally free.

  Although he hadn’t completed his final mission—the assassination of Adolph Hitler—it was obvious that America had not fallen to the Germans as predicted.

  He could move on with a clear conscience.

  Everything had worked out thus far. This was the perfect place, or time actually, to retire. Here he was a stranger. There would be no hidden enemies looking to take him out, and no possibility that the US government would call him back to duty for another important mission. Whoever was still alive from his era probably thought him dead—tragically killed while serving his country.

  Though his days of counter-espionage were over, he had one last personal mission to complete. He needed to retrieve his key from the beautiful woman currently in possession of it. The woman, Kimber, was the only thing standing between him and the funds he needed to achieve his lifelong goal.

  The key opened his safety deposit box in Zurich, a box that had been in his family for generations. With the money, stocks, bonds, gold bars and jewels and other assorted assets he had from his inheritance, and some items collected during his time working for the OSS, he could make a home on some nice tropical island and live comfortably the rest of his days.

  He’d retire. Never deal with corrupt assholes. Enjoy beautiful women.

  Beneath the strong water pressure of the shower, he lathered his body and let his mind wander to his favorite scenario, the one that had kept him g
oing through his long lonely years as an agent. He pictured himself sunning on a sandy beach, the waves crashing at his feet while he held a hollowed-out coconut in his hand filled with a delicious tropical drink. He looked over, expecting to see a gorgeous, naked, big-bosom blonde beside him. But instead of the usual blonde, it was the dark-haired Kimber gazing at him with love and adoration in her eyes.

  His erection swelled, and he immediately adjusted the water temperature to frigid.

  Shaken by her presence, he tried again to recall his fantasy lady. But no matter how hard he thought, the only woman he saw was Kimber.

  Kimber on her knees before him. Naked. Her lips parted, and her eyes looking at him with a sultry hunger.

  “Hell. I’m not in the mood for a hard-on.”

  But his hand had a mind of its own. It fisted his cock and stroked the aching length. He imagined Kimber licking her lips as he traced her mouth with the heavy head of his dick, his excitement wetting her appetite with a single drop.

  She opened her mouth, offered her warm moistness, and he entered. Tangling his fingers in her silky hair, he pumped into that sweetness, his cock jerking with need. She took him deep, and he fucked her mouth, relentlessly pounding into it, holding her head tight and pushing her lips to the base until he roared in release and shot his seed down her throat. His Kimber was perfect. Taking every drop—every drop the icy water had not held back.

  He rested his head against the tile wall and stared at the mess in his hand. What was it about her that fascinated him so? What was it about the woman that had him masturbating to climax and coming in his own fist?

  Letting the water wash away his release, Lawson recalled his initial meeting with the holder of his key. Though the other two women she’d been with, beautiful in their own right, had smiled at him, Kimber had not. No, her hazel eyes had shot daggers at him instead. If looks could assassinate, he’d be long dead.

  And her tart answers to his simple questions had surprised him, too. In the past, he’d never had a problem when it came to charming women. She was like a bucket of ice water on his ego. But when he was honest with himself, he knew he’d enjoy everything about her. He was still hard thinking about her and her feisty resistance.

  That had to be it. He shook his head as he cleaned up. It was actually simple. He wanted her, but she didn’t want him. That had to be what made her so fascinating. She was a craving, and once he had a taste, she’d be out of his system and he could move on with his life.

  He turned off the water and grabbed the towel, feeling relieved at his conclusion, yet somehow empty. For some reason, seducing Kimber, stealing back his key and fleeing to a tropical paradise didn’t seem so appealing anymore—well, not without her.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he scolded himself. “You’re letting lust interfere with your lifelong dreams. She’s just a woman like any other.”

  Lawson dressed and decided to go to the local library. He had seventy years of reading to do if he wanted to fit into this time and woo his key away from Kimber.

  Chapter Five

  “You look like you’re enjoying your vacation.”

  DEA Special Agent Kimberleigh Jane Mitchell frowned. First of all, she wasn’t on vacation, she was on administrative leave. In fact, it was he, her supervisor, Special Agent Jackson, who had taken her off duty and forced her on leave. He’d claimed she needed some good old rest and relaxation. Then he’d interrupted her ‘vacation’, made her drive over two hours to Miami because it was urgent and had the balls to bitch about her casual appearance?

  Jackson must have read her mind. He raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a reprimand, I was just commenting.” His phone rang, and he lifted the receiver. “Excuse me.”

  Kimber ignored the conversation and skimmed the report. Sometime in the early morning, a local fisherman off the coast of Key Colony had spotted a possible plane exploding and had reported it to the local authorities. The police had noted that the old man was intoxicated, but they’d forwarded the report to the Coast Guard anyway.

  Meanwhile, around the same time that the fisherman had spotted the plane, the Coast Guard had picked up something on radar. However, whatever it was had appeared and disappeared from the screen within seconds. There was some shoddy excuse written about a malfunction in the radar as the reason they couldn’t identify or track the whereabouts of the unknown blip.

  The best part of the story had her chuckling and shaking her head in dismay. Based on a drunken fisherman’s eyewitness statement and an unidentified blip taken from broken radar, the Coast Guard had actually ventured out and searched for plane wreckage. Finding none, they’d returned to base and forwarded the report to the DEA.

  When her boss hung up the phone, she met his gaze. “What is it that you want me to do with this?”

  “Well, since you’re vacationing in the area, I thought you’d like to check it out.”

  “I don’t get it. There was no wreckage, and the fisherman was tanked. It could have been people on a yacht shooting off fireworks.”

  “It’s not only because of the report that I’m assigning you this investigation. I received a call from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department in Marathon. It seems that last night, some college kids were drinking at the State Park campgrounds. All but one of them passed out. And the lone kid who was still awake claims that early this morning, two men swam ashore and stole his money, clothes and his Jeep—all in the name of the US Navy. They even told him to pick up his vehicle later at the base. I guess the kid tried to fight them off, but the men jumped him. According to the Marathon officers, the boy has a doozie of a black eye and a sprained shoulder to add to his hangover.”

  “And his companions?”

  “Didn’t see a damn thing. But that’s just one too many coincidences for me.”

  “You thinking drug runners?”

  “Might be. I called the naval base, and they’ve been alerted to look out for the stolen vehicle, but I doubt these guys were Navy.”

  It was one hell of a coincidence. A plane going down off Key Colony, then two strange men just happened to swim up on the shores of Marathon. This might turn out to be an interesting investigation after all.

  “Did Marathon send a report on the students?”

  Agent Jackson shook his head. “Not yet. They haven’t taken all the statements. At the time of the call, they were having problems rousing two of the kids from their alcohol-induced slumber. I’ll email it to you, or you can just collect it when you get back to Marathon.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on this immediately.” Kimber rose from the chair and stuck the file in her brown leather carryall. “Sir, anything on Carmelo?”

  “No.” Her boss blew out a heavy breath. “He’s still missing. But don’t worry, we’ll get him.”

  “Again, I want to apolo—”

  Jackson held up his hand. “No need. The information you obtained was enough to put him away for life. It was a tricky assignment, and you did well. I couldn’t ask for more.”

  Kimber gave a curt nod and left the office.

  She didn’t bother stopping and talking with the guys as she passed them in the hallways. There was nothing she could say. She’d heard the rumors of what they thought, how they believed that she’d let her temper get in the way of her job and ruined the whole sting.

  What did they know?

  She reached her fire-orange, sixty-nine Mustang and opened the trunk, dug in her gym bag and pulled out her shoulder holster, jacket and pumps. After fastening the rig to her body, she took the small gun case out of her leather carryall, opened it and moved the nine-mil to her holster. She shrugged on her cream-colored linen jacket and jerked off her sandals, flinging them into the backseat, then slid the brown pumps on her feet.

  What did any of them know?

  After locking her trunk, she jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door as hard as she could.

  Did they think it had been easy for her to get inside Carmelo’s organization? Did they h
ave any idea what she’d had to endure to get that information?

  She punched the steering wheel in frustration. Perhaps she had let her temper get in the way, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t have had to kick his ass if Hector Tomas Carmelo, the bastard that he was, hadn’t hit her.

  Hadn’t she already degraded herself enough? Night after night, while undercover as a ditzy stripper named Ginger, she’d taken off her clothes and shook her tits in the drug lord’s face.

  She had tolerated an entire month of painful Brazilian waxes, blonde highlights and blue contacts before he had finally deemed her worthy enough to grace his presence on a more permanent level—which equated to her being one of the many beautiful hussies that hung on his arm until he got bored and replaced her.

  Disgust roiled in her stomach. She’d even slept with the fuck.

  Hector, or Tomas as he liked to be called, had thought her nothing more than a sex kitten, too stupid to understand his intricate business dealings. Ha! If he knew she’d been planting bugs in his condo and passing on the information she’d overheard in those secret meetings, she bet he would have done things differently. Especially if he’d known she was fluent in Spanish.

  But Jackson and the other guys working the case didn’t seem to care about the sacrifices she’d made for the job. Did they honestly believe that Tomas would date a woman he couldn’t screw? Guess it never occurred to them that she’d had to prostitute herself for the information they’d received. Maybe she should’ve written the intimate details of her relationship with Carmelo in her reports, just so they could’ve had a verbal picture of how far undercover she’d truly been.

  But it probably wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing her coworkers cared about was the loss of information she’d garnered, now gone because she couldn’t control her temper and had been forced to abandon the sting.

  But if she had stayed, Tomas would have killed her.

  Screw Jackson and his lackeys. Without her, they wouldn’t even have a case against Tomas Carmelo. She was a damn fine agent, no matter what anyone thought.