Deep Cover: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Sophia Reed

  There was nothing about prostitution I was against when it was done right. Brothels that were clean and tested for STD's, I believed in that. Some girls were there against their will. Others weren't. I'd hired plenty of prostitutes over the years but it was the girls who weren't professionals who usually allowed the most intense BDSM experiences. That had to do with consent, or having the free will to agree to dispense with free will.

  I'd known too many women hurt by trafficking, by illegal prostitution. Shit, include Chloe in the mix - hurt by a relationship that started off lifestyle and ended up abuse.

  Whatever I'd done, I rationalized the majority of it. That thought made me smile to myself. I knew I went too far sometimes. Never with a partner who didn't at least start out willing, even if she’d signed a contract because I had something she couldn't get any other way.

  Most of the time, that wasn't just money or rainforest opiate cures. Most of the time it was the freedom to explore dark desires. If I took it too far –

  But I broke off there. If I took it too far, I was still holding a letter of agreement or a contract that stated the girl in question had stepped into the event with her eyes open.

  It was the times I slipped up knowing I could get away with it that I hated about myself.

  Annie was sleeping beside me, still chained to the bed. Her lips were parted, her lashes brushing her cheeks. Her breasts were exposed, the sheet fallen down, and I pulled it back up, covering her.

  Lying there with my hands behind my head, I contemplated what I wanted for her. She wouldn't leave until the next day. Then she'd take a new apartment, not a good one, not in a nice area, paying cash. She'd furnish it with basic necessities and then she'd scope out area stores, those where girls had been picked up for shoplifting.

  It had been decided she'd start with things that weren't necessities instead of working up to them like she'd arrived in town and needed stuff. There might be someone kind hearted that would want to let her go or allow her to work off her pilfering in the store, doing honest work.

  Moving fast was important. Moving smart, too.

  So we had today together and I was thinking what experience to give her. I'd pushed her hard the night before, making her obey without use of force and submit to the things she hated the most.

  I could spend today repeating that. I could take her to the clinic where they discreetly handled the few women who got hurt during play, and ask them to put her through the most humiliating paces they could.

  Or I could tie her up and keep her in pain.

  But watching her sleep, all I wanted was to arrange a spa day for her, something Annie the cop probably never did for herself. Massage, sauna, whatever else could be done without making her look like a society girl suddenly on the fritz. Just something pleasant.

  I realized her eyes were open. "Good morning, beautiful."

  She smiled. "Good morning, handsome."

  I laughed low in my throat.

  "May I ask what you were thinking, sir?"

  So I told her. That I wanted to do something nice for her before she went off to do something that would be nice for people who would never know she'd done it but would be unpleasant for her.

  I saw her run the word unpleasant around, because that barely covered any of it, but all she said was, "Did you decide on something?"

  I told her only about the spa day and asked if there were other things she could do that wouldn't seem like rich bitch slumming.

  She chose her words slowly and cautiously and said, "There are. There's a lot to a spa day. A facial wouldn't leave me obviously pampered, just shinier. Plus these guys seem the sort to assume any girl under forty is fresh, nubile and theirs to play with." She looked at my face and apologized. "Wasn't thinking."

  Whatever my expression had said – pain, probably – it didn't matter. I brushed her apology aside and said, "What do you want to do before you go undercover again, Officer Knox?"

  She considered for almost no time so apparently she'd thought about it herself. "I'd like to go for a run with you," she said.

  My eyebrows went up.

  "Then have something for breakfast that's bad for me and not fish."

  I smirked.

  "Food, I mean, sir. But yes, that too."

  I laughed.

  "And then I'd like to get ahead on my homework, call my teachers, tell them I'll be out a week or two, and go from there."

  "You have weird ideas of pleasure, Miss Knox," I said.

  "You have weird ideas of food, Mr. St. Martin," she replied. "I mean – fish?"

  Later in the day there was one more thing to take care of, that had nothing to do with humiliating or hurting her, or even making her come with explosive pleasure. Just as I had a doctor on call, I had a veterinarian as well.

  Annie stopped her packing when I said that and stared at me. "You want me to see a vet?" I could tell by the aggressive tilt of her head she was afraid we were moving into human pet territory and I was tempted to let her believe it but it had nothing to do with it.

  I surprised her by putting my arms around her and holding her against me. She stiffened for a long minute before she leaned into me. I couldn't blame her. The sensation took me by surprise every time now too. Tenderness had always been associated with the threat of loss. Ever since losing Emily and seeing the things people had done to Ariel and to the Lily over in Europe, forever damaged, I kept my distance. Shared experiences were one thing. The insta-closeness garnered by a violent scene, by pain endured by one partner for the gratification of – usually both. Sometimes it was all for me.

  This was different. I knew what Annie was. A cop, a narc and undercover agent who did deep cover work and wasn't too afraid to do it and wasn't cocky enough to get herself killed. She was steel inside, not often lace but more likely a couple days worn baby doll tee and too short shorts. Lily, that Lily, she was tough in her survival but breakable in reality.

  The girl I held felt so small.

  When she relaxed against me I said, "Obviously you can't go in wearing a wire." I felt the change in her body posture that meant I won't go in wired and I waited to see if she'd say it aloud. Before I let her out of the compound I'd know she was coming back.

  She bided her time and probably bit her lip. I pulled back far enough, still holding her but able to see her face. "I'm going to chip you."

  I expected anger. I'd done something similar at the start of our – acquaintance, let's call it, but that was long since gone. This time I'd simply put it on the back of her neck, up along her hairline. No one was going to be kissing her neck. That wasn't what the people involved in the trade wanted.

  Her voice was small when she asked, "Will it hurt?"

  Did it last time? warred with Do you want it to? Because I wanted to cane her even if it meant she couldn't leave for another week while she healed. Or maybe especially because of that. Maybe her ex-fiancé Mark had been a piece of work and hadn't been even close to the right choice for her, but the fact that he kept waiting for her, however aggressive and controlling that waiting was, when Annie often left with nothing more than a note and sometimes not that, sometimes he had to call and beg for information. Was she on a case? Did anyone know if she was safe? Okay, then, healthy? I thought that made the asshole into a bit of a saint.

  37

  Annie

  Monday morning, relaxed after a day of massage and facial and sauna, which followed a run through the desert, TaeKwon-Do training, weights, a severe spanking over Cole's lap, and sex, I took a backpack and a Target wheeled suitcase, a POS car bought from someone local who needed the money to support some habit or another, and drove into Las Vegas.

  I had my phone and I had an i-Pad where Cole had downloaded copies of my textbooks for me so when I ended somewhere they weren't on my phone. Otherwise, I needed the basic necessities of life like shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrush, etc. After all, I'm just getting started again after six months inside.

  Cole's techs did the work on my
record. Usually PD would do it, making it look like Lily had served time, just enough to explain where she'd been if she ran into anyone after not being undercover for a while.

  I trusted his people. He only hired the best.

  The apartment was run down and shabby but clean. I'd actually be looking for work as something like a waitress, which I knew nothing about. The cover was that Lily was always with the gangs or whatever. Lily was always being taken care of by some man who included a lot of liberties with that care. No reason to change now.

  "Here's your key," the fat woman said. She was beautiful and motherly and straining the fabric of every piece of clothing she was wearing. But she was also concerned about me and honestly, it felt nice. Even if I wasn't really some down on her luck gangbanger from Oregon or Washington, trying a new state and new life, I still was on the verge of something that made me grateful for a little human kindness.

  "You're new in town. I can give you some ideas where you can get groceries cheap, and clothes if you need them, and where no one will hurt you." She laughed then, ruefully, and added, "Probably."

  The laugh allowed me to ask, "How do you know I don't have a trust fund?" I smiled.

  She rolled her eyes. "Because they don't give trust funds to baby dolls stupid enough to spend it somewhere like this."

  She'd laughed, but I didn't. She'd been kind to me and the apartments, while threadbare, were clean and in the best shape she could get them. I liked her. I didn't want to laugh at her even if she thought it was laughing with her.

  Too many girls are trained growing up to go along with whatever teasing they receive at home. Oh, you're so stupid / funny / silly / dumb / weird, said with "love" and the belief that of course the girl knows she's loved.

  Sometimes she does. Sometimes it doesn't matter. She doesn't want to be teased just because to that person, teasing equates with love.

  She just wants to be taken seriously.

  I spent the rest of Monday outfitting the furnished apartment with the things I absolutely figured I'd need if I didn't have them in another apartment and didn't have a wad of Cole's money in a separate bank account. The fact that I'd just done this when putting together an apartment to live in while I went to UNLV, and the fact that I frequently hadn't had the money to do this sort of thing until I did have it, made the day surreal.

  It was also much less interesting than it had been the first time. Plus whatever I bought it was going to be given away or donated somewhere in short order. That was good, so I wanted to get stuff that would benefit people.

  It was also kind of silly. Thing was, I knew from experience if I didn't go all out and create a full-fledged persona, then the first thing that happened would be someone would arrive on my doorstep, just dropping by and in reality checking out that I was who I said I was.

  One of my mentors back in Seattle had taught me to always go the distance. Even when it bypassed the budget for the operation and you paid out of pocket to do something like furnish the apartment or dress the role you were playing, do it.

  Your life wasn't something to skimp on. If you needed to prove who you were by how you dressed and acted, do it.

  On Tuesday I got up, texted Cole, was told to do a stress position for twenty minutes and to leave the connection between us open. I thought about saying no.

  I thought about the times I had said no and about the times I'd gone back after walking away.

  I wondered what would happen when this thing that I was doing was over. If I lived through it, would I want to go back to Cole? Or to school? Both?

  Neither?

  I didn't know. And so I might as well do what he said. I stripped off my clothes, faced the tablet, knelt on the scratchy carpet and locked my hands behind my head, elbows out. I rested on the balls of my feet, ass on heels, and had just settled into it when I realized I hadn't set the timer.

  Cole didn't laugh often but he laughed his ass off over that one.

  Twenty minutes later I got up, thanked him for – well, I wasn't sure what – disconnected and took a shower.

  Then I went to one of the nearest stores that was not where people in my new neighborhood shopped. It wasn't where Cole would shop, or send his minions to shop for him. It was just upscale.

  I bought a loaf of bread. I made sure to be seen in my scuffed clothes and my POS car. I flooded the engine once on purpose and then once by mistake, just wanting to be certain I was noticed.

  I drove back to the apartment and spent a day looking for work. It was every bit as depressing as doing it for real would be. Several places weren't taking applications. I knew it was illegal not to accept a resume. I didn't know if it was illegal not to accept an application. At the end of the day my feet hurt and my smile hurt and my head and heart weren't doing too great.

  On Thursday I went back to the expensive store and looked around for a good fifteen minutes before buying a single Coke. I could feel security taking note.

  On Friday I went back again and did something similar.

  On Sunday I went during the time of day the store was packed with shoppers buying rotisserie chickens for dinner and snacks for whatever football game was on that afternoon. Wearing a low cut t-shirt that clung to my boobs but ballooned out into a smock top, covering the tops of my sweats, the ones with the big pockets that were cut off just below my ass, I tried to look as un-nonchalant while pretending to be nonchalant as I could. I nervously picked up items and put them down again, looked at prices, considered, went back to specific aisles.

  And finally I picked up a Coke, a small bag of chips, a packet of fried chicken already consigned to the cold to-go bin, and while juggling those, slipped a box of hair dye into my shirt, holding it awkwardly with my elbow until in plain sight of whoever might be looking, I scratched a sudden itch.

  The box of hair dye was redistributed into the tops of my cut off sweats.

  Security tagged me before I made the sliding doors. He took my elbow, which he shouldn't have, and drew me aside, letting an old woman on a walker shuffle past.

  "Let go of me!" I didn't have to pretend to be incensed.

  There was no offer of letting me pay. There was no question of whether I'd forgotten the box of hair dye lodged in the top of my sweats. Or the nail polish in one of the pockets.

  He marched me to his office which was in the back of the store, doing it in full view of every customer. He radioed for back up.

  Backup! He was grocery store security and I had beauty products in my pocket.

  But the cover was enough and my face flamed, more with anger than embarrassment.

  "Sit your ass down," he said, and shoved me toward the chair he wanted me to take.

  I bit my lip, which hopefully made me look more like a cowed, unlucky girl and not like I was reminding myself to keep my eye on the real prize and not lose it by kidney punching the guy when he was stupid enough to turn his back on me. I could make him pee blood for a week.

  Instead, I sat my ass down and cried.

  He rolled his eyes at me and called the police. While they were on their way he decided he’d better search me to see if there were any other stolen items on my person. I could guess where this was heading, and given I had lots of pockets, I really wouldn't have been concealing anything there.

  But Lily got lucky and the police arrived too soon. He got to feel up a bit of boob. While they were cuffing me, I lost my balance – ditzy shoplifter! – and elbowed him sharply enough in the gut he said "Huh!"

  The police didn't seem to care.

  I managed not to wink at weaselly security on my way out.

  Here's the thing. In Nevada, anything under $650 in value is petty larceny. My hair dye and nail polish were overpriced, especially in that store, and they still didn't even come to over $35.

  I was well under the mark of $650 when it becomes grand larceny. Grand larceny can carry sentences up to 10 years in prison and $10,000 in fines.

  Petty larceny can only go to 6 months in jail and $1000.
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  And by the time the courts get around to your case, you're all so old nobody gives a damn anymore. You're out on bond or OR and expected to come to court when ordered, long enough after the event you don't remember what you did that time because of all the times since then you weren't even caught. Vegas has much bigger things to contend with than the shoplifting of beauty products.

  Right.

  But strangely, after booking that involved my mug shots being sent somewhere, I didn't know where, but emailed, and spending a couple hours in a cell before word came back about – well, everything – it turned out I was going to be arraigned in the afternoon.

  "That's unusual, isn't it?" I asked the female guard.

  She was bodybuilder big and ebony colored and pretty but she didn't smile or speak. I'd have rather been on her side.

  She shrugged. "Judge got the time, it's up to him to schedule."

  "But it doesn't happen every time?" I pressed.

  She looked like she was about to snap at me, then she sighed and changed her mind. "Not most of the time, no. Just be thankful you're getting an easy out. If you get Judge Townsend, you might walk away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist by end of day."

  And then, because of course this was surely protocol, she said I'd be getting a ride home in a squad car and I ought to fix myself up real nice.

  Nothing ever went this fast or this easy and the cop in me – the superstitious cop in me – was pretty sure once I got in front of Judge Townsend it would all go south.

  In a very, very major way.

  38

  Annie

  Judge Townsend liked what I'd chosen to wear. Because Lily traded a lot on her assets. I wore a skimpy stretchy camisole over naked boobs, and a little see-through shell top covered in artfully placed flowers over it. I'd combed my newly blond curls into a wild mass and I wore sandals with heels. My shorts, though, were utilitarian. Long, coming nearly to my knees, denim and not form-fitting.