by Renee Rose
“Your orders are to kill him?” Her voice was hoarse.
He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. “But I don’t plan to carry out those orders unless I absolutely have to.”
“What would make you have to?”
He shrugged. “A kill-or-be-killed situation.”
“What was this?” she asked drily, gesturing to her wrecked room with a sweep of her hand.
He grinned. “That was me trying not to get killed. He must have seen me entering through your window and thought I was here to harm you. I can respect that.”
After a moment of silence, he touched her back. “Come on, let’s get you to bed, sweetheart.”
He tucked her in and wrapped his body around her soft form, holding her back against his front. “I think he’ll find me,” he said softly. “And maybe together we can fix the mess he’s in.”
He heard Becca sniff.
In the morning, Parker crept into the room and stood beside the bed. Zac rolled over to face the boy and put his finger to his lips as he crawled out of bed, so they didn’t wake Becca.
“Dad, did you send me a bike?” Parker demanded.
“Yes, have you tried it out?”
“Well, Mom was going to take it to a bike shop to have it assembled.”
Assembled. Damn. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course Becca wouldn’t have the know-how or desire to put a bike together. Being a single mom held a multitude of challenges, not the least of which might be putting together the “some assembly required” presents. He felt like a total ass for not thinking of that.
“Show me where the box is, and I’ll get it put together for you after breakfast, okay?”
“All right!” Parker exclaimed, racing down the hall to the laundry room and reappeared dragging a box as big as he was.
He laughed. “Just leave it there and I’ll take care of it,” he said.
He made breakfast and brewed some coffee in Becca’s French press. She came padding down the hall, sniffing appreciatively.
“Mmm, that coffee smells divine.”
He poured a cup and served her. “Hungry for some French toast?”
“Absolutely.”
He handed her a plate. “I’m going to my place to get some tools, but I’ll be right back.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you going out the window or the front door?”
“Don’t get smart, missy, you know that won’t end well for you,” he teased. “Front door.”
“Oh, can I come?” Parker yelled, racing out of the living room.
“Nope. Sorry, bud.”
“I want to see your place. Is it upstairs?”
“No can do, buddy. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“When does that mean?” Parker wailed, sounding somewhat desperate. Guilt washed over him. This coming and going thing was not going to work. He was making their lives infinitely worse. He glanced at Becca to see her mouth set into a grim line.
“It means less than one hour, unless I get called into duty. And if that happens, I’ll come back to say goodbye, I promise. Okay?”
Parker hesitated, as if he weren’t sure whether he could trust him, but then he nodded solemnly. “’Kay.”
He pulled a baseball cap low over his head and walked out the door, taking the stairs to his apartment on the top floor. In his apartment, he checked for communications on his laptop, then gathered some tools into a duffel bag. Picking up his cell, he called Marcus.
“What’s up?”
“El Demo showed. I’m not filing a report, so keep it under your hat until I know more. He was watching Becca’s place, and I entered through her window. I guess he thought she was in danger because he followed me in with intent to kill.”
“Whoa,” Marcus whistled. “You got a problem with doors?”
He grinned. “I liked the idea of showing up in her bedroom.”
“Ugh—please. I don’t want to hear about your sex life. So what happened?”
“So we fought a little and then Parker came in and called me ‘Dad’ and he realized his mistake and took off.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I told him to contact me. When or if he does, I guess I’ll take it from there.”
“Be careful.”
“Will do. I’ll keep you posted.”
When he returned to Becca’s place, Parker had dragged the box with the bike into the living room and emptied all the parts in a giant sprawl.
He’d often wondered what it would be like to be an ordinary person—to live the American dream, with the car in the garage and the wife and 2.5 kids. He thought he would go nuts. His profession was more than just money, or a means to avoid being killed. It was an addiction. He needed the adrenalin rush he got from combat, secret missions, and a variety of mortally dangerous situations. How would someone like him ever stop? No, he’d always figured he would die on the job.
But the satisfaction he felt from the simple act of putting together a bike for his son surprised him.
“Okay, Parker, it’s all set. I just need to pump up the tires and you need to put the helmet on, and we can go try it out.”
“Yay!” Parker said, getting up and running to put on his shoes.
“Wanna come?” he asked Becca.
“You’re going out in public with him?”
He had already weighed the risks and decided it would be safe enough. “Yeah. You coming?”
She looked torn, like part of her wanted to disapprove, but the other part didn’t want to miss out. “Yeah, okay.”
They took the elevator down and he threw Parker’s bike in the back of his SUV, which she had since learned that he parked in different locations around their neighborhood, to avoid any detectible pattern. He drove to a gas station to fill the tires, and then to Balboa Park, where he unloaded the bike.
“He doesn’t know how to ride yet, you know,” Becca said in a tight voice.
“I’m going to teach him.”
He could feel her anxiety level ratcheting up as she pulled out her inhaler and took a puff. He helped Parker with his helmet and explained the basics of steering into the direction he was leaning. Parker kicked off enthusiastically, only to crash before he made one rotation of the pedals. Zac helped the boy back up and steadied the bike. “Okay, I’m going to hold the back of your seat while you get the feel for it, all right?”
Parker’s eyes had a worried look now. He gazed up at Zac as if for reassurance. He smiled. “You’re fine, you’re doing great.”
Parker pressed the pedals again and this time Zac held onto the back to keep it from dumping, jogging a little behind him as he kept the bike upright. When it seemed like he had the hang of it, he let go.
Parker crashed.
Chapter Seven
“Jesus, Zac! Why did you let go of him?” she snapped, dashing forward. Parker was hurt, huddled on the sidewalk where he’d fallen.
Zac got there first and picked Parker up, placing him on his feet, instead of scooping him into his lap, as she would’ve done. “Let me see. Yep, you got a road rash. It happens, buddy. It’s part of learning how to ride.”
She bristled. “Okay, I think it’s enough for today.”
Zac looked up, a line of impatience between his brows. “The best way to learn is to get right back on,” he said to both of them. He made a big show of examining Parker’s knee again. “You’re going to have a beautiful scab to show off at school tomorrow and you can tell your friends about how you learned to ride your bike. Come on, let’s try it again.”
Parker looked doubtful.
“He’s had enough!”
Zac frowned at her over his shoulder. “I’ve got this, Becca.”
The sharpness in his tone set her teeth on edge. Where did he get off? Parker was her kid—her kid. Zac had nothing to do with parenting him.
Six f-ing Father’s Days I’ve had to make up to my kid for not having a man in his life. Now Zac shows up and thinks because he made pancakes and bou
ght him a bike, he gets to have a role in his life?
“No. He’s hurt, he needs to go home. We can try it again another day.”
Zac ignored her and turned to Parker. “You are super brave. Are you ready to give it another go, buddy?”
Parker nodded and threw his leg over the bike. Zac repeated his act of jogging along behind him, supporting the bike. When he let go, he remained jogging behind, tricking Parker into thinking he was still holding on. “That’s it, Parker, you’ve got it now!” he cheered.
Parker wobbled and she instinctively shot forward, though of course she was too far away to catch him. His feet came off the pedals and he caught himself, prepared this time for the potential fall. Zac got him started again and he continued his tenuous wobbling and pedaling. Zac walked over to her, his face an unreadable mask.
Though it seemed he had been right, she was in no mood to forgive him. She scowled. He flicked an eyebrow and moved to stand behind her, wrapping an arm across her chest in a way that could be either threatening or affectionate, but was clearly an act of dominance. She tried to shrug him off, but the grasp tightened.
He put his lips close to her ear. “I know you’re pissed, and we’ll talk about it when we get home.”
The authority conveyed in his words created a flutter of fear and submission, overriding her defensive anger. He held her against his body as they both watched Parker learning to balance the bike, the look of pride at his continued success radiating brighter than the sun. She gradually relaxed and pressed herself back against Zac and he rewarded her with a kiss on the neck.
But anticipation of their “talk” turned her surly again on the ride home as she rehearsed her arguments. In the very back of her mind was the niggling fear she’d broken some domestic discipline rule by arguing with him, but they’d never defined any rules or expectations for her. Still, she knew differences in opinion should be expressed respectfully. But fuck that—she wasn’t even in a domestic discipline relationship—she didn’t even have a real man. All she had was a ghost in this crazy, twisted “spy who loved me” situation. And she was certain Zac had no right to make the final decision for any parenting decision when it came to Parker.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Ever observant, Parker picked up on her growing tension. She stalled, picking up her inhaler and taking a puff.
“Your mom’s pissed at me, but we’re going to work it out.”
“Language, Zac!” she snapped with more venom than was necessary.
“Sorry. Your mom’s mad at me. We’re going to work it out.”
How were they going to work it out? At that moment, this small issue seemed insurmountable. She could throw herself at this man sexually, but actually letting him into her life seemed to be an entirely different thing.
When they reached her apartment, Zac called Parker to him, sitting him in front of his laptop with a set of headphones to watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. Her belly began to twist in knots as it became clear he was soundproofing their son so they could “talk.”
She worked herself up, silently storming at him in her head when he beckoned her to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly.
She began to attack immediately. “You—you may not take risks with my son’s safety. Just because you live in constant danger and deal with pain on a daily basis does not mean he has to!”
Zac’s face remained perfectly smooth. She wanted to ripple it again—she wanted to see that small irritation she’d caused in the park. She wanted some kind of reaction out of him.
“Do you really think you can judge what a kid can take? He’s six years old! I mean, you’re a man who—who—gets tortured!” She sounded like a spluttering fool, but she was too upset to speak intelligently. “I am his mother. I am the one who knows him. I have been the one in his life, kissing every boo-boo, holding him when he falls. Not you. Never you. So if you think you can insinuate yourself into head parent role just like that, you have another think coming!”
Zac nodded. “I get it, Becca,” he said, placating her with the seriousness of his gaze. “You’ve been doing this on your own for a long time and you’ve done a damn good job. I’m sorry I haven’t been here. You don’t trust me to make the right decisions for Parker. I understand.” He reached out and grasped her waist, pulling her to stand between his legs. “I’m going to earn that trust from you,” he said with the solemnity of an oath.
Her anger faded and she felt suddenly vulnerable, a trembling behind her knees making them wobble.
Zac stared for a moment, then he gave her hips a squeeze. “Bring me the wooden hairbrush.”
Her eyes narrowed, defensiveness returning like lightening. “Why?” she demanded.
He stroked her hip. “It’s not a punishment. But you and I need to reconnect and this is how we’re going to do it.”
Her insides turned to liquid. She struggled to catch her breath.
“Breathe.”
The command was soft. It reached right into her lungs and filled them, as if they really could obey him. He patted her butt to urge her to obey the first command, and she did, her heart beating an insistent rhythm in her ears and wrists. She’d bought the wooden hairbrush for spanking. Not that she’d had anyone to spank her, but she liked to smack it on her own ass now and again to imagine how it might feel. But she was more than a little afraid of it now.
She brought it to him and held it out, cursing her hand for shaking. Of course, there was no hiding anything from Zac. He wrapped both hands around hers, taking the brush and giving her a squeeze of reassurance.
“Pull down your pants.”
She took off her shorts, but left her panties on. Zac waited, tilting his head as he observed her. She wasn’t trying to be defiant, she just suddenly felt overwhelmingly exposed and taking off her panties while he watched seemed more embarrassing than anything she’d already done in front of him. She felt her face flushing.
“Pull down your panties.” He touched her thigh. “Breathing.”
Her lungs responded again, admitting a gulp of air as she peeled her panties down. Down or off?
“Right there,” he said, stopping her when they were mid-thigh, as if he sensed her question.
He guided her into position over his lap with her torso on the bed and began spanking her with his hand. It was not gentle or slow and she began to wriggle after only eight smacks, the delayed burn starting to set in. He caught the backs of her thighs, making her kick her feet. He smacked high on her cheeks, which she hated almost as much as the thighs. He pummeled the lower half of her buttocks like he had something to prove. She began to whimper, not real crying, but a genuine expression of her discomfort. Was he ever going to stop? And where did he get off, anyway?
It didn’t seem so. On and on he slapped until her cheeks grew almost numb. It seemed like an eternity before he stopped and rubbed.
“Becca, you gave me authority over you.”
She couldn’t reel her thoughts from where they’d scattered to answer him.
“Is that still the kind of arrangement you want?”
He was rubbing her bottom, and the numbness was starting to dissipate, the fire returning. She felt like weeping, though she wasn’t sure why.
Yes. This was exactly the kind of arrangement she wanted. It made no sense logically, and parts of her were rebelling, but the tears behind her eyes were for something akin to grace. The grace of being turned over her man’s knee, submitting completely, being held accountable and loved at the same time.
He picked up the wooden hairbrush and began to spank her with the same intensity and speed he had used with his hand. It was way too much. Panic flared and she squirmed wildly.
“Shh,” he murmured. A gentle sound that didn’t match the blistering he was inflicting on her woeful bottom.
She wailed in protest, even buried her face in the covers and screamed, but he did not stop. She was not in control of her spanking.
“Is this still what you w
ant?”
Why was he asking that at this moment? Part of her wanted to scream “No!” at the top of her lungs.
“Please?” she panted.
“Take your spanking,” he said softly, never relenting with his firm smacks, the wood making a popping sound as it connected with tender flesh.
“Do you trust me to be in charge of you?”
She felt a sob rise in her throat. She wanted to escape the pain, the urge to fight made her angry.
“How can I trust you when I never know when you’ll be around?” she shrieked.
He missed a beat of his regular rhythm, and when he picked it back up he was striking harder. “No. You cannot throw that at me every time you get mad. I said this was all I could do and you agreed to it.”
She wailed, tightening her bottom and stiffening up as if she might swim right off his lap and onto the bed. He showed no mercy, just continued spanking through her long wail and when she came out on the other side of it, she collapsed, all the fight leaving her, sobs and tears tumbling out into the covers. She bawled as he lightened the intensity of the spanks, but not the speed, continuing to beat out a rhythm of dominance on her very sorry backside.
“I’m sorry,” she wailed.
* * *
“That’s it, baby.” He stopped spanking and rubbed Becca’s very well-punished bottom. Slightly swollen, it radiated heat and the lower half was a deep red, even purple in some areas.
She continued to weep and he stroked her nape, and down the length of her spine. He was careful not to try to comfort her tears away, but rather, to give her a safe space where she could let them all out. When they stopped, she squirmed on his lap, probably just realizing she was still lying over it with her panties down.
“Is it over?”
He leaned over and kissed her bottom. “Yes, it’s over.”
“That really hurt.”
“I know.” He pulled up her panties and she hissed at the feel of them touching her tender backside. “Crawl up a bit.”