by H E Johnson
“I guess you can take it,” he said.
Then he hauled me on top of him, impaling me on a warm shaft of brilliant light. His penis, swelling with hot blood, filled my cunt. A big hand slapped my ass in rhythm with our fucking. Each blow forced apart my thighs, opening my hole for ever deeper thrusts of cock. Sweet, muttering profanities with near religious fervour, bounced me up and down on his pelvis like a rag doll.
I was going to be sore tomorrow. But right now I didn’t care. This was way better than our first time. Likely he’d still been pissed at McCord for going on a bender. But now I was forgiven.
And getting a royal fucking.
“Hang on for the wave,” he murmured. Sweet’s hips rose and fell, taking me with him. “Look, babe, no hands.”
I giggled. Then, straight-faced:
“How would you rate this product’s performance?” Pushing his shoulders into the mattress, I grunted, “Good, bad, or indifferent?”
“We’re still in beta. Wait for the big release.”
“No refunds, no returns. All sales final, dude.”
I gazed down at Sweet. His eyes looked past me in the direction of the television screen. I wondered if my real face might be watching us. Novak definitely was. And if McCord’s mind wasn’t completely obliterated, that made a potential audience of three.
“Location, location, location,” whined Novak. “Make him talk, Nikita.”
I ignored her. Getting off wasn’t always easy for me, and I needed this one bad. It had been a while, you know? But I was lucky. Sweet pushed the right knobs and buttons this time. He waited patiently for me to climax before drenching my scorched insides with a second flood of seed. All in all, a workmanlike effort by all concerned. When it was over, Novak said:
“I hope that was worth dying for, you stupid bitch.”
Well, you can’t please everybody, can you?
Wednesday Play Date
Wednesday. Over a breakfast of coffee and bagels, Sweet informed me that he had business to take care of. Since I needed to shop for a new outfit, I should call Zeke and he’d drive me to the usual place.
Mention of an outfit caused me to glance down at my current ensemble. I was wearing last night’s dress and feeling a tad icky about it.
“Work clothes,” Sweet said with a reproving look. “This Sunday. Remember?”
Duh. I closed my eyes to recall DEAD4U’s most recent event. McCord, having put her opponent on the ground, had done a fancy jump-spin with sledge to deliver the coup de grâce in whirlwind fashion. But her prey, fighting for his life, had ripped Crystal’s battle outfit with his bare hands. And would’ve shredded McCord had those hands held a weapon.
Wolseley had used this example to drive home the stupidity of showing off.
So, yes, Madam Crunch would need a new outfit. This was business, after all.
Nodding, I continued to nibble on the remains of a desiccated bagel. Shopping on someone else’s dime sounded good to me.
Sweet finished his coffee. He was wearing a light blue suit with crisp white shirt and gold tie. The tie caught my eye, reminding me of last night’s robe and the messy business under his desk. He noticed me staring at it and smiled. Rising, he kissed me quickly on the mouth and left. I listened to his footsteps on the staircase. Waited for the door to open and close.
Only then did I let out a sigh of relief.
“You did good,” Novak observed. “What’s next?”
“Like the man said, I gotta go shopping.”
“There isn’t time . . .”
I cut her off. “Yes, there is! Deviating from a person’s behaviour patterns is the surest way to draw unwanted attention. If Sweet expects Madam Crunch to shop, then Madam Crunch goes shopping.”
“Four days,” Novak reminded me. “His grab team will be taking the game’s next vic anytime now. Since we don’t have a location . . .”
“When I know, you’ll know. Right now I have to see a man about a new outfit.”
◆◆◆
I found Zeke’s number listed in the contacts on McCord’s phone. I called. Epstein answered after three rings. Hopefully he’d washed his hands.
“Yeah?” he grunted.
“Santiago says you have to take me shopping. Pick me up in ten.”
“Make it fifteen. I need to get dressed.”
“Boot-ez la bitch du jour out of bed and get moving.”
“Kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?”
“That and so much more.”
He laughed and cut the call. His mood seemed more upbeat this morning. Maybe he’d gotten laid after all.
I went to the bathroom and checked my makeup. Thought about Zeke Epstein for a minute or so. Would I find a thin line of hair running from navel to crotch? If so, how would I have known about it? And why was I obsessing about a guy I didn’t even know?
Unless I did . . .
◆◆◆
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was Epstein. “I’m here. Double-parked outside. As this is a loading zone, could you please load your ass into the vehicle before I get ticketed?”
I told him I’d be down pronto. He snickered.
◆◆◆
When I got outside, I found Epstein waiting behind the wheel of the Mercedes. Leaning back. Chin tilted up. Dark glasses hiding his eyes. He smiled when he saw me. Scratching that bristly chin, he held up a hand in greeting.
I felt suddenly self-conscious about wearing last night’s dress.
I got into the passenger seat but didn’t buckle up. Instead I turned to Epstein and said, “Thanks for picking me up, but you don’t need to tag along. Just drop me off somewhere. Okay? I can manage fine on my own.” I paused. Licked lips that felt suddenly dry. “You must have better things to do than sit in a car while I shop.”
Epstein raised those aviator shades. Caramel coloured eyes examined me. They seemed out of place in a tough guy’s face. Too soft maybe. Shooting me a quizzical look, he said:
“Orders from on high, babe. Sweet doesn’t want you going MIA again. Not this close to game time.” Epstein paused. Licked his lower lip. Light brown eyes, gleaming, scanned my face. “Anything you’d like to share with the class, Crys?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. But his tone insinuated that I did. This was going to be tricky.
I shrugged. “Ask Santiago. He’s the boss.”
Epstein’s expression went stony. He dropped the shades over his eyes. Then he nodded. Said yeah, whatever. “You getting a new game outfit?” he asked. “Usual place?”
“Affirmative.”
Epstein pulled out into traffic. He put on some music. Hummed along to the melody. Tapping his fingers on the dashboard as he drove one-handed.
“Did Santiago say anything to you about that cop getting toe-tagged?” he asked.
That cop, of course, being me. I felt a sudden chill. I was dead and not dead. Running around in someone else’s body like I had a clue. If I weren’t careful, I’d end up being “toe-tagged” a second time.
“Not to me,” I replied. “You?”
“So far, so good. Looks like we’re in the clear.”
We? So Epstein had been an accomplice to my murder. Was I missing something here? According to department intel, Epstein was Sweet’s driver—nothing more. Had McCord held out on me?
Epstein took us uptown. I watched pricey boutiques flash by. Windows full of cool slinky dresses draped over skinny unsmiling mannequins. Very nice. Uptown reeked of class and money. Not my scene—but I could get used to it. Easily.
He parked the Mercedes outside a cocktail bar. I got out and waited to see where we going. One of these shops provided Madam Crunch with those skimpy outfits she wore for the games. But which one was it?
Epstein got out and walked around the car. He stopped beside me. Again the puzzled look.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Fuck. I had no idea where this shop was at. But I couldn’t let Epstein see how clueless I was. There had to
be . . . wait a hot second . . . yes!
“Wouldn’t you rather come inside?” I smiled. “You could give me some advice.”
“Fashion tips?” Epstein laughed. “From me? Are you serious?”
Novak hissed into my head, “Lose him. Now. He’s a driver, for God’s sake!”
Ignoring Novak’s advice, I smiled at Epstein and said, “Our audience is close to eighty percent male. We need to appeal to men’s baser instincts.” I gave him the full up-and-down body scan. “You’re a man. You know what you like, right?”
“Guilty,” Epstein replied dryly. “On all counts.”
Was there a hint of a smile on that smooth face? If only he’d take off those damned aviator shades . . .
Novak’s voice filled my head. “Do not flirt with the help!” she shouted. “You’re on the job, Chen!”
Having some asshole scream directly into your brain is more painful than you can imagine. With no eardrums to bust, a tsunami of sound pushes your mind under a solid wall of noise.
I tried not to let my discomfort show. I focussed all my female sex voodoo on Epstein. Tits out. Mouth open.
His mouth curved in response.
“Sweet doesn’t need to know,” I promised. “It’ll be our little secret.”
Epstein pushed the glasses on top of a curly mop of hair and said okay. Dark eyes glittered. As he walked past to lead the way, a forearm brushed my ribcage. Made me want to melt through that warm skin.
A new voice cut in. “Wolseley here. Taking over from Novak. Blood flow sensors indicate arousal. Do not engage, Nikita. Copy?”
We went in the same direction we’d driven. Epstein walked on my left flank, curbside. I tried following his movement without making it obvious that I had no idea where we were going.
Ahead was the corner. Straight? Left? Right? Epstein turned left as I nearly kept going into the street. Stopping, I paused with him to wait for the light to change.
We crossed the street. Passed a restaurant and tiny greengrocer’s. Third building was an old red brick house with narrow windows of bevelled glass and a small porch. I followed Epstein up the front path onto the porch. Beside the door, a weathered wood plaque displayed a stern woman’s profile on a cameo brooch. Scrawled in fancy italic ironwork was a single word: JJ’s.
“Ready or not,” said Epstein.
Jackie
Epstein rang the bell. I heard the soft slap of feet approaching. Sounded like a large dog. Great. Having a wet muzzle thrust in my crotch didn’t thrill me. And hearing some idiot babble about her mutt was worse.
The door opened to reveal a tall, slimly built female with a faceful of ash-white Kabuki makeup that made her look either ageless or dead. She wore black tights, white shirt and bare feet. The feet came with frosted pink toenails to match a shiny pink beehive hairdo up top.
I looked around for a dog. Not a muzzle in sight. Looked back at the woman’s slim bare feet. Thinking:
So you’re the bitch.
The woman raised an eyebrow. Taking me by the hand, she led me into her lair.
“Say nothing,” warned Wolseley.
I ignored him.
Inside: white walls and scuffed pine floor. Sunlight, prismed through bevelled glass, stained rainbows across the floor. Wrought-iron park benches were scattered about in a seemingly random manner. These mixed with neon art pieces and vintage movie posters. Not a place I’d want to hang my hat. But it takes all kinds right?
“Santiago said you’d be needing a new outfit,” the woman cooed. “So I whipped up a little something. Hope you like.”
I snuck a glance at the woman. She’d packed on more makeup than a geisha. Who was she hoping to impress with this crap? Me?
I said great, yeah. I felt Epstein’s eyes on my back. Something was off. Epstein wanted out. Bad. So what was the deal here?
Epstein said, “I can wait outside, Jackie.”
Jackie? The name didn’t ring any bells. Why in hell hadn’t we gotten any intel on this person? And why did her voice sound so creepily familiar?
“Take a seat, Mr. Epstein,” purred Jackie. “This won’t take long.”
Epstein sat. He didn’t look comfortable. And I couldn’t blame him.
Wolseley whispered into my head, “Play along no matter what. Everything is cool.”
Yeah? So why didn’t this feel cool?
Maintain the smile, I told myself. Smile like you mean it.
Jackie nodded toward a translucent folding screen decorated with paisley hummingbirds. Taking the hint, I walked around the screen. Three outfits hung from a chrome garment rack. All three came in red latex with a black hammer: Madam Crunch’s game colours and insignia.
So I had three models from which to choose—none of which matched my personal style of T-shirt and jeans. I felt my heart sink. Madam Crunch favoured corsets or bustiers paired with hot pants and jump boots. Which was a look Crystal McCord could pull off. But exposing that much skin to a worldwide audience gave prudish Nikita Chen a case of the creeps.
“Did up something different for you,” said the laconic voice on the other side of the screen.
I found the article in question. It was a black latex chemise. Mid-thigh length. No hot pants or underwear came with it. So I’d be going total commando for an audience of millions.
Fuck me.
“You might want to accessorize with these,” my tormentor added. “Soften the look a bit. Santiago said viewers wanted you a bit more . . . feminine.”
Jackie tossed something over the screen. I made a one-handed grab. Damn! McCord had good motor skills. Opening my fist, I found a pair of black lace gloves. They were fingerless. I tried them on, stretching the lace halfway to my elbows.
This made me look more feminine? In whose messed-up, alternate universe were fingerless lace gloves considered ladylike? Kiss my effing lady parts! No wonder our so-called civilized world was fucked beyond repair.
“No hot pants?” I asked hopefully. “No jump boots?”
“Look underneath the clothing rack.”
I did. There was a pair of ballet slippers. Red satin ones with ribbon ties. Oh, my God. No . . .
Jackie snorted. “It’s all about the merchandising. Give the suckers what they want.” She paused. “There’s a mirror behind you—if you can’t remember how you look.”
Can’t remember? The little wheels in my head started spinning. Something was off here, all right.
I looked through the translucent folding screen at Jackie. Yep. No mistaking those hazel eyes and thin lips. And now I knew where I’d heard that voice before.
Holy mother of fuck! SpecOps had penetrated Sweet’s crew—at least its periphery. Would’ve been nice if someone had told me. Coz I didn’t like surprises. Well, maybe in bed. But not on the job, not like this.
What kind of twisted game had I stumbled into here? If only McCord were available for some Q&A . . . but therein lay the risk of jacking someone’s body.
Shuttering my mind, I stripped quickly. The chemise opened in the back. It hugged my curves like a prettier second skin.
“Jackie” walked around the screen. Her eyes raked over me. She gave a terse nod of approval that made that pink beehive bounce.
“Let me zip you up,” she purred.
Seeing no way around this, I turned. Felt her fingers find the zipper. The metal slide gave a slick, wet sound sliding up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed.
Lieutenant Lane Novak—aka Jackie—ran her hands down my vinyl flanks. Nibbling my neck she whispered, “Making sure you look your best for the big day hon.”
◆◆◆
Wolseley: “She warned you to ditch the driver Nikita. Don’t freak now. Play along like everything’s cool. Copy?”
I didn’t see any point in replying so I didn’t. Novak jerked her head in the direction of the privacy screen. What now? Was I supposed to go down on her? Coz that wasn’t happening. Then I saw Epstein’s outline through the translucent screen. Hmm.
Was she telling me something about our friendly driver?
I did an eye-roll. “This looks great,” I said in a flat tone. “Except I’m not loving the ballet slippers.”
Novak shrugged. “I ran everything past Santiago first. He said you’d be fine.”
Ballet slippers? Forget outdoors then. Sweet must’ve planned this fight for a level surface. A heavy, muscular woman like Crystal needed solid footing against smaller and lighter opponents.
Meeting her eyes I said, “Well he’s the boss.”
Novak smirked. She tapped her head and mouthed, “Talk later”. To which I mouthed an inappropriate response. Novak chuckled as she unzipped me.
◆◆◆
Outside the house Epstein exhaled loudly. I handed him the package. He took it without hesitation.
“That bitch gives me the creeps,” he muttered. “Couldn’t you have done this without me?”
“Sure,” I drawled. “But I can’t make Santiago jealous all on my lonesome . . . can I?” Digging a playful elbow into his ribs, I added, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Right, Zeke?”
He didn’t answer. Had I hit a nerve?
We walked back to the Mercedes. Epstein took the wheel. As the car pulled out, he asked where I wanted to go next.
“My place,” I told him. “Got to get my head right for tomorrow.”
Epstein nodded. He put on the aviators. We drove away from uptown through the industrial wasteland on the way to Crystal’s eastside pad. Some indie band played on the car’s music system.
Novak’s voice boomed in my skull:
“I told you not to bring Sweet’s driver. Next time listen. Okay? I think Epstein suspects something, but I’m not sure why or how. Any ideas?”
I looked at my left hand.
“So you don’t know either,” said Novak. “Okay. Go home. Take a cold shower and get your head together. We’ll game plan as we go.”
Fun & Games
Epstein drove the Jeep up McCord’s driveway. He’d been pretty quiet on the ride over. Aside from commenting on the weather and the sorry state of the city’s streets, Epstein had kept that handsome mouth sealed tight.