Desert Tryst (1Night Stand)

by Susanne Saville

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  Desert Tryst

  Copyright © 2015 by Susanne Saville

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-860-5

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Desert Tryst

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Susanne Saville

  Chapter One

  DMITRI

  New Mexico is the Land of Enchantment, but I’m not asking for enchantment, just a pleasurable one-night stand that won’t end with me decaying in a shallow grave somewhere along the Jornada del Muerto. It’s not called the “Dead Man’s Journey” for nothing. Ninety miles without water—not a creek or a spring, not even a puddle in this desert—is a long way to travel when your covered wagon can do only eight to ten miles a day. Racing down the highway in an air-conditioned Jaguar F-TYPE, you might not consider such things.

  I’m dwelling on history to avoid thinking about my immediate future, and that doesn’t happen often. I keep my emotions neatly boxed. They don’t interfere. Even when I ease open the lid and allow myself to experience excitement, lust, anger, fear, I find fear quite helpful actually, loneliness…my nerve has never failed. So why are butterflies assaulting my gut? This excursion was intended to be relaxing.

  I heard about the 1Night Stand dating service through connections of connections and managed to get accepted by Madame Eve, the owner, which I’ll admit surprised me. My legends are always meticulously created, but Madame Eve’s background checks are famous for their thoroughness. If anyone could ferret out that I’m a professional assassin, she would. Evidently, it wasn’t an issue in my case.

  My profession is the reason I’d decided to engage Madame Eve’s services in the first place—to experience one night free from calculating my partner’s motives and angles, or from continually sleeping alone with one hand on my SIG Sauer. To be able to let down my guard a little, relieve some stress, perhaps even have a bit of fun. There’s no retirement plan for what I do, so why not spend the money to experience one perfect night?

  The dream date will start at the Owl Bar. From there, we’ll move to a secluded bed-and-breakfast we’ll have all to ourselves. It’s not just that I like privacy. The more remote the location, the safer, and thus more at ease, I’ll feel.

  I gave my name as Dmitri to 1Night Stand. It’s my favorite of all my aliases, and if someone’s going to be shouting my name, he may as well shout one I like. I used the same philosophy when describing what I wanted to Madame Eve. If I’m paying for my ideal one-night stand, might as well be honest what my ideal is.

  Or whom.

  Tall. Lanky. Casual good looks. Straight, prominent nose. Soulful eyes, deep as dark chocolate. Brown hair that shines a little reddish in the sun. Normally, he slicks it back, but when things get rough and tumble, he’s sweating, and his heavy forelock falls into his eyes.... There is nothing sexier in this world, believe me.

  That’s Special Agent Thomas Dalton, by the way. The only G-man who has come close to catching me. He’s a profiler, which, as far as I can tell, means he can think like I do. Plus, he’s relentless. Steadfast. Loyal. I like all that in a man.

  Let’s be honest, I like that he’s fucking hot, too. If Madame Eve can find someone who even remotely resembles him, I’ll be happy. Well…satisfied. I’m rarely happy. I’m a thug with a brain, and it doesn’t do me any good to feel anything too strongly.

  My heart speeds up as I slow the car to exit onto a local two-lane street. A little way beyond this town, down a nondescript road, lies Trinity Site, where the world’s first atomic bomb was detonated in 1945. I intend to wave at the entrance, Stallion Gate, as I pass by on my way out of town tomorrow morning.

  Cold War history is a hobby of mine. Despite my collection of passports, I’m told I’m Russian by birth, and I’ve chosen to believe that. I admire the culture’s fatalism, tragic strength, and love of poetry. Or maybe that’s just me being overdramatic.

  I’m fluent in Russian with a Moscovite accent, English with both British and American accents, though I tend to default to British from habit, German—High German, although the Viennese accent is perfect for when I’m bored, and French with a truly gutter accent the rats from the docks of Marseille would be ashamed to speak. I like languages. Words can be both marvelous weapons and instant camouflage.

  Gravel rattles and spins under my tires as I pull into the Owl Bar parking lot. Climbing out of the Jag, I take a moment to stretch before heading inside. The night air is too warm for my black leather jacket, but I’m not leaving it behind. I take my armor where I find it.

  The bar is dimly lit, which I like, but all the tables are occupied, which is disappointing. The long wooden bar itself provides the only available seats. I straddle one, even though this means I’m sitting with my back to the door, and, since I’m early, I order a green chile cheeseburger and a Sam Adams Boston Lager. If you stop at the Owl Bar, you must order the green chile cheeseburger. Not only are they famous for it, but you cannot visit New Mexico without eating one. It’s the law, I believe.

  Having my back to the door should be fine. As no one knows I’m in New Mexico, let alone in this particular establishment, no one should be looking to sneak up on me. Yes, it’ll be fine. I should be safe. I repeat that to myself several times while examining the shelves behind the bar. Row upon row of bottles. Different-colored glass. Various brands of alcohol. But nothing behind them reflects the entrance. This place really needs a mirror. Apparently the owner is not accustomed to catering to the hunted.

  My food arrives, sliding down the one hundred year-old bar, and the way the pungent chile heat intermingles with the cream of the cheese and the juicy beef makes my taste buds dance. My mouth is chock-full of this goodness when someone to my left speaks close behind me.

&
nbsp; “Dmitri Dzerzhinsky.” As calm a declaration of war as ever there was.

  I know that voice. I’ve dreamt of that voice. Dreamt of it whispering the most carnal, arousing things to me in his dry, Midwestern baritone.

  It’s because of the owner of this voice that I’m now in the predicament I’m in.

  Yearning for one night with a surrogate for my very Special Agent, I’m now cornered by the actual, very genuine Thomas Dalton.

  I consider the odds of a successful escape. I’m sitting, he’s standing. He’s taller, by an inch or two, but I have more muscle. I could probably take him down and get out the door, but if he has backup outside, I’m dead.

  Which would be a rather disappointing end to this evening.

  Remaining seated seems my best option. Maybe it’s a subconscious death wish, but I’ve been lucky before letting things play out and seizing the unexpected opportunity. I’m also in no hurry to hurt him.

  Then again, I never like hurting him. The few times I’ve allowed us a protracted brawl, because, honestly, that’s a very stupid move—always go for the quick takedown or the clean getaway—I barely defended myself. Does he realize the physical risks I’ve taken just to spend a few minutes in his company?

  I hope not.

  The humiliation would be…would be comparable to his witnessing his doppelganger appear and say something romantic to me to begin our date. The pit of my stomach is solid ice. I need plausible deniability.

  Say it’s a business meeting.

  If the substitute arrives with flowers, I might have to kill him.

  Without deigning to acknowledge Dalton, I signal the bartender for two lagers. When I place one of the cold, foamy drinks in front of the empty place next to me, Dalton sits. I’m pleasantly surprised, though I shouldn’t be. No one turns down a drink in the desert.

  I finish my lager and start on the second. There’s time. Dalton’s not going to do anything violent with all these civilians around. Surreptitiously, I slide my plate toward him. I’m willing to share whatever he wants. If only I could say those words aloud.

  Leaning in, he steals one of the french fries. He’s irresistibly close, and his scent triggers a throbbing deep in my groin.. I imagine grabbing his endearingly absurd paisley tie, pulling him out of his seat, and seizing his mouth with mine. In one minor movement, he has invaded my personal space, my brain, and my heart.

  Not heart. Did I say heart? Pretend I didn’t.

  Just as one doesn’t forget the smell of baking bread or newly mown grass, the smell of Thomas Dalton is imprinted on my mind. He’s like the world refreshed after rain. The individual elements elude me, but when I catch his scent, it’s like a long-lost part of me has finally returned home.

  See? Overdramatic.

  “I’m Dmitri Sandoval tonight. Why are you here?” Why are you spoiling my night? I suppose even Madame Eve cannot guarantee a one-night stand if fate intervenes.

  He steals another fry. “I’m on leave.”

  “You’re kidding.” This isn’t your typical vacation spot. The isolation is what made it perfect for testing the atom bomb. “Are you here for the radiation?”

  His face bears a gentle, friendly expression. “No. I’m here for you.”

  “You’re not armed.”

  He’s wearing a slim-fit white button-front shirt with a baroque tie and snugly tailored gray suit trousers. The only thing he could possibly be concealing is a knife, and the FBI doesn’t encourage knife work.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he responds quietly, his dark, pellucid eyes looking…wounded?

  Interesting. Inexplicable, but interesting.

  Speaking of which, pellucid is an interesting word. It means pure, clear, easily understood. Nobody ever uses it. Perhaps nothing in this world is that way, except Dalton’s eyes.

  He drinks his lager and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. My imagination goes to interesting places. When he glances at me, I immediately pretend my cheeseburger is the most fascinating thing in the world and concentrate on finishing it.

  “What’s that taste like?” He indicates my burger with a quick jerk of his chin, his dark eyebrows lifting in innocent curiosity.

  As I said, you can’t come to New Mexico and not try a green chile cheeseburger. He needs this experience so, albeit somewhat reluctantly, I hand over the last bite. I’m expecting him to take it from me with his fingers.

  He doesn’t.

  Bowing his head, he takes it from me with his mouth, the barest swipe of his tongue grazing my fingers as he does so. Heat that has nothing to do with chiles rushes across my face.

  Images—vivid, pornographic images—flash through my mind. Bodies, positions, skin. Suddenly my jeans are strangling my cock, and no amount of subtle shifting is going to disguise this erection, but I try just the same.

  My lizard brain has no such decency, urging me to bend him over and fuck him into the glossy wooden bar. Now. In this pulsing, heated instant, I don’t care what the world sees or says, I want everyone to recognize my claim on him. He’s mine.

  I don’t do it, of course.

  His boyish grin alerts me to the fact my game face has slipped and honest emotions are showing. I cover the shock his actions caused by finishing my lager. Why the hell had he done that? Who told him about my dreams?

  My gut clenches. This could be a honey-pot trap; seduce and ensnare. Would they send Dalton on such a mission? I’m pretty damned sure he’s straight. I can be ordered to do things against my inclinations, but surely his employers can’t treat him the same way.

  Rummaging inside my brain for something cutting to sneer at him, I ask, “Was that bit of theater part of your orders?”

  Doleful chocolate eyes regard me like I kicked his puppy. “I’m not under orders. I’m not working. I told you. I’m on leave.”

  “So you did.” Surrendering my food, but nothing else, I shove the plate over and let him finish my french fries while I order a third lager.

  His next sentence is slightly muffled by a mouthful of potato. “I’d like to talk about bringing you in.”

  Well now.

  Smiling grimly, I take a sip. “That can’t be good for my life expectancy.”

  He shakes his head. “Not arresting you. I’d make you my protected source.”

  With a scoffing snort, I drink some more.

  “What? You’d be a valuable resource with your network of contacts. You’re the sort of confidential informant most agents can only dream about.”

  “I sincerely doubt they’d give my sins a pass.”

  “You never kill innocents. You’ve left clues for me at your crime scenes. You’ve sent me evidence against some of the worst criminals I’ve hunted. You believe in justice, and you want to help. I can make it official.”

  Yes, I do those things. Fuck justice. I send him evidence because I like to see him succeed.

  And I’ve continued to help him even though my actions haven’t gone unnoticed. I’ve been punished in various ways for it. Pain. Humiliation. Nothing incapacitating. I was raised to be what I am. Unending years of training that make me too valuable to be put out of action. Unless I turn to the other side, then I am dead. And the official criminal justice system will have nothing to do with it.

  “You’ve got a great imagination there” I say, as if his words haven’t an ounce of truth.

  After the bartender takes our plate, Dalton runs his forefinger up and down along the patch of empty bar in front of him. Dalton has long fingers. Aristocratic. I always imagine his hands on me when I jack off.

  “Your....” He appears to fumble for the right word, uneasy empathy on his face. “Patron. I can get you away from him.”

  Patron. That’ll work. Also foster parent. Boss. Pimp.

  Clients go through him. He gives me the assignments; he keeps part of the fee. When I was little, I used to dream someone would come and take me away from him. I’m not little anymore, and dreams are for fools.

  “I don’t nee
d rescuing.” One of these days, I’ll kill the man myself. At least, I tell myself I will. The things I’ve had to do because of him…for him…. No, I’m not going down that rabbit hole now.

  Dalton leans sideways against the bar, his body turned to face me, loose-limbed and open. Hunched over my lager like a wolf protecting its kill, I wait for the other shoe to drop. This is not the evening I’d expected to experience. More than that, I can’t take his being nice to me. Usually we exchange no more than a few sentences before someone throws a punch. I’m certainly going to hit him if he says any more sympathetic shit.

  He sighs. “Okay. I give up. Why did you want to meet me?”

  “I didn’t want to meet you.”

  My snarl doesn’t deter him. He merely quirks his eyebrows in an endearingly bewildered expression and presses on. “Odd. I’ve been corresponding via email with a woman named Madame Eve….”

  Fuckityfuckfuckfuck

  He’s my date.

  Chapter Two

  He’s still talking, but I only hear roaring in my ears.

  He’s my date.

  Finishing my lager in three long gulps, I signal for another. This is a conversation I would prefer to have while drunk.

  “Madame Eve sent you here?” This cannot be happening. This can not be happening.

  “Yes.”

  “To rendezvous with me?” Incredulity slips through the cracks in my reserve, but it’s not as cringe-worthy as the hope I hear in my own voice. He’d never touch me. Other than when we’re fighting and he’s trying to apprehend me. He believes in good and evil. Which side I fall on is obvious.

  “Yes,” Dalton answers with an air of patience, as if he’s waiting for me to realize something. “She said you wanted to meet—”

  “I didn’t want to meet you.” I don’t bother to hide the anger, verging on hatred, in my voice. It’s hatred of myself, of my weakness, not him. He doesn’t know that, though.