Pink Slip

by Katrina Jackson

  Her eyes scanned his body but then she looked away. She likely would have forgotten him, but then he spoke, his voice carrying over the humid summer air. His Southern accent was deep and playful and overly thick. It was an affectation. She could hear the stress he placed on dropping the endings of some words but not others. And she loved it.

  She began to walk faster, hoping to get away from the feelings his voice stirred in her gut. She didn’t have time for a white boy with a broad skinny chest, messing with her family’s plans for her. And so of course he walked into her Poli Sci class on the first Tuesday of the semester. And of course he’d shown up on Thursday in her Criminology class.

  She spent half a semester looking as if she was paying close attention to their professor while she tried not to show how much attention she was paying to Lane. He became a singular point of disorder in her neatly scheduled world, first just those two days a week and then every day. Until finally the whirlwind that he created became a familiar release from the predictability that ruled every other aspect of her life. And because she loved him, she accepted that. He reminded her that sometimes it was okay to go with the flow and see where you ended up. Where they ended up together.

  But working together had at times been difficult. At home their differences worked very well for them, but in the field it was like a creaky stair; it didn’t stop you from walking up and down them, it was just a grating reminder that something was wrong. They decided that they had two options: fix their creaky stair or stop working together. Neither of them was willing to accept the latter so they’d agreed that hiring an assistant was the best option; they needed someone who could mediate between them. But finding someone who could perform to Monica’s exacting standards, manage all of Lane’s chaos and keep the peace between them professionally had proven more difficult than either of them had expected.

  Monica was in the backseat of a chauffeured car. She was poring over the employment application and background check for the latest candidate to be their personal assistant. She was wearing a very professional pencil skirt that hit at a very respectable length just above the knee and a light, knit jumper. The job ad had been purposefully vague about her and Lane’s professions so she was dressed generically as the wife of a diplomat or the wife of a politician on the campaign trail.

  By any metric, Kierra Ward was not the candidate they needed. She did not have security clearance, her student loan debt was a potential liability and she had no experience as a personal assistant. There were a whole host of better equipped assistants that were already Agency approved. But every PA they’d been assigned so far had pissed off either Monica or Lane or, in the last instance, both of them. They were determined that whoever they hired had to be able to please them equally and, for their own sanity, it had to be someone they could envision working for them long-term.

  The car came to a slow stop. Monica shoved the files from her lap into her shoulder bag and waited for the chauffeur to open her door. But when the door opened, Lane’s large hand reached into the backseat to help her from the car. His lopsided, cocky grin greeted her as she stepped into the slight chill of the late afternoon.

  “How’d you get here before me?”

  “I have my ways,” was all he said before leaning in to press his lips to her cheek.

  She smiled, remembered that there were other agents standing guard around them and frowned. “Have you read her file?”

  Lane sighed dramatically, indicating that he had not.

  She rolled her eyes and reached into her purse, pulling out a file with a brief precis of Kierra’s strengths and many weaknesses. She handed it to him and turned away. They walked toward the abandoned warehouse that the Agency reserved for rendezvous with clients and contacts who had minimal or no clearance.

  “A poet?”

  “I know.”

  “That’s a lot of debt,” he said, picking up on all of Monica’s concerns.

  “I had more when I was recruited,” she offered as a rebuttal.

  They’d reached the back entrance to the building and Lane’s hand shot out to grasp the door handle but he didn’t pull it open. She checked her watch. Five minutes before Kierra showed up.

  “Let’s say we hire her,” he said, locking her in his stare. “Do you really think that she’ll stay for a few years? She has a master’s in literature and fine arts, why would she want to be our PA for more than a few months?”

  Monica nodded, “Let’s ask her.”

  ◆◆◆

  To the outside world Monica and Lane were nice, upper middle class philanthropists. Their neighbors had been led to believe that they made their living traveling the world preaching the gospel of micro-lending as a business innovation with a clear moral imperative. Even un The Agency the picture they presented was only a tiny sliver of their true selves. They were one of a handful of couples who blended espionage with their real personal lives – eschewing the extended deceit of a spouse, which almost always ended poorly. They weren’t the only married spies, but they were currently the only couple who’d walked into the international spy racket already together. Company gossip was that they were definitive “hashtag relationship goals” as their first assistant, who left to train as an agent, used to tell them. And the reality was that they were all of those things and kinky.

  Monica and Lane had been, since their third date, the kind of couple who were attached at the hip. Not because they needed to be, but because they wanted to be.

  It was intoxicating to find each other when they were young and just beginning to experience their first tastes of adulthood and all of the mistakes that entailed. Their relationship was fused to those first heady feelings of freedom that most people feel in their late teens, before too much responsibility ruined it all. They allowed each other to think and say and feel everything without judgement and with the sure knowledge that they had someone there to share it all with.

  And they had shared everything. And every one.

  Monica watched Kierra walk on scared legs, the blindfold firmly covering her eyes, her hand placed delicately on the driver’s arm.

  When she was near, Lane stood from his seat and helped the driver settle Kierra into the chair across the boardroom table separating Monica from her potential employee. It was a ridiculous thing to have an elegant and formal oak table and office chairs in the middle of this cavernous seemingly abandoned warehouse, but Monica didn’t bother to question it.

  When Kierra was seated, the driver walked past them with a nod of his head for Monica. While they waited for him to exit, Monica’s eyes locked on Lane.

  He had that cocky grin playing on his lips again.

  Kierra jumped at the sound of the door opening and then jumped again as it slammed closed.

  “Hello,” she said in a small, terrified voice.

  Lane looked at Monica. She should speak. His voice would terrify her. What woman would want to find herself in a room, blindfolded, with a strange man? But Monica’s tongue felt thick and immobile in her suddenly dry mouth. Kierra smelled like lavender and it did something unexpected to her core.

  She cleared her throat. Kierra jumped.

  “Hello,” she said again.

  “Calm down, Ms. Ward,” Monica finally said. She’d meant the words to sounds soothing, but they came out like a barking command. Monica was just about to apologize for scaring her, but Kierra shivered at her words. And not in fear.

  Monica nodded to Lane to remove the blindfold. Kierra’s hands went straight to her hair, smoothing her strands back into place. Monica found that unconscious vanity oddly endearing. She turned to see Lane standing behind her and her eyes widened in obvious fear. And then she turned, locking eyes with Monica.

  “Hello Ms. Ward. My name is Monica Peters and this is my husband, Lane.” Peters was their comfortable alias, the one they used for their almost-personal lives.

  “Hi,” Kierra replied in a small, shy voice, her eyes immediately settling on Monica’s lips. And then she
cleared her throat and said in a much stronger voice this time “Hello. It’s nice to meet you both.” This time she settled her gaze a bit higher on the bridge of Monica’s nose.

  Monica clenched her hands into fists but hid them under the table in her lap.

  “Thank you for making time in your day to meet with us,” Monica said.

  The words seemed to pull Kierra back into the moment and remind her why she was here.

  She sat up straight and nodded towards them. “No, thank you. I really appreciate the opportunity.”

  “So tell us a little about yourself, darlin’,” Lane said casually, his voice oozing an innocence that Monica knew was a put on. She had to dig her nails into her palms at the way he said darlin’.

  That voice, low and careless, was classic misdirection. It put the women and men they invited into their bed at ease. He’d lay that accent on thick and call them “darlin’”, “sweetheart” and sometimes “pumpkin”, weaving a whole Southern fantasy of seduction between those words. And it worked every time.

  Monica was sympathetic. She could close her eyes and remember the first time she’d fallen under his spell. She was by no means immune to it now, but over the years she had become used to feeding off of the promises buried beneath that soft burr he used to seduce their playmates. But she still had to gird herself against that same voice trying to convince her to leave the office early, or be a bit reckless in the name of a little fun. And at night, she had to hold that voice at bay while he asked her so damn gentlemanly to fuck him faster or say his name louder or to eat their new friend harder. It was a battle because she was in charge and Lane just loved testing the bounds of her control.

  But that voice was not for work. It wasn’t even for company unless she said so. Calling Kierra “darlin’’ was another one of those challenges that Monica tolerated because they made her wet.

  She tried to focus on what Kierra was saying but only snatches filtered through her growing lust. Instead her attention was centered on the way that Lane’s legs were spread wide so that his right knee was bumping into her crossed legs. Just to aggravate her.

  He took over the interview; asking the questions from their agreed upon script. Nothing alarming stood out in Kierra’s questions, Monica thought, although again her brain wasn’t that invested in her biggest weakness or conversely her biggest strength. Instead she was thinking about how much she liked the sound of Kierra’s voice and the way Kierra’s head swiveled between her and Lane as she answered his questions. Her eagerness to please them both equally was a plus. Monica’s sex kept clenching as Kierra’s earrings bounced when her head moved. That felt like a plus as well.

  And then Lane’s voice cut through the haze. “That all seems well and good, sweetheart. But you’ll be working for both of us and we’re very different. I’m easy, very laidback,” he said.

  Monica rolled her eyes, which Kierra caught. She giggled and then covered her mouth quickly with one hand. She apologized silently with wide, rich, beautiful brown eyes.

  “No need to apologize,” Lane said, his hand reaching out under the table to settle on Monica’s knee because he knew that after that giggle, she’d need him to keep her grounded.

  “So like I was saying, I’m the easy one. And my wife is demanding, very exacting standards, and maybe sometimes just a bit hard to please.”

  Monica licked her lips, her eyes trained on Kierra’s nipples which seemed to have hardened as Lane spoke.

  “So my question,” he asked, “Is how you’d work to please both of us?” He asked, emphasis on the word both.

  And then Kierra sighed. It was a light exhalation, full of pleasure and promise and yearning that Monica might have missed if her entire being hadn’t been taut with tension, hanging on Kierra’s every breath.

  Monica never heard her answer. She didn’t care.

  And then the interview was ending. The driver had returned, ready to take Kierra back to the car and drive her home. Lane reached his hand out to shake Kierra’s hand. And then it was Monica’s turn. When their skin touched, Kierra unconsciously licked her lips and Monica’s eyes dropped to savor the movement. She bit her own lips and stared as she stared at that flash of tongue.

  And then Lane’s hand was on the small of her back. Monica pulled her hand away reluctantly.

  “We still have a few more interviews, Kierra. But I think this has the best so far. Very good,” he said and then kissed Monica’s cheek. Again, the way Monica might have responded to that very unprofessional show of affection changed completely at Kierra’s reaction. Her eyes tracked Lane’s lips brushing across Monica’s skin. Her gaze was hungry.

  “I agree,” Monica said. Kierra nodded lamely, her eyes on them for a second too long before skittering away. The driver replaced her blindfold and she turned to leave on still shaky legs.

  They stood there, watching Kierra walk away, Lane’s hand tight around Monica’s waist. And then Lane unexpectedly yelled after her. “You’ll hear from us real soon, sweet girl.”

  Monica closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her body physically unable to handle the way he said “sweet girl,” as if those two words were a filthy promise of everything they wanted to do to her.

  Because of course they were.

  PART ONE

  one

  today

  Kierra stood in front of her full-length mirror in a black lace bra and a matching pair of panties, mentally running through her outfit options.

  What does one wear to start their last week of work?

  She considered something very professional that she knew her boss, Monica Peters, would love. She slipped on a white button-down shirt and shimmied into a black, skin-tight jersey pencil skirt. She could lean into the look with a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup, and a pair of four-inch platform black Mary Janes. The very thin heel would be impractical and just barely professional, but Monica would appreciate Kierra’s commitment to the aesthetic. She lifted onto the balls of her feet and turned around to admire the way her ass looked in the skirt. Perfect.

  She pulled off this first choice and then slipped into a pair of tight skinny black leather trousers and a cropped band t-shirt. She could pair this look with her favorite pair of Doc Martens, an excess of chunky silver jewelry, a bold, colorful eye look, and a lipstick just begging to be smudged. This option would be right up her boss, Lane Peters’, alley: unprofessional, if not downright anti-authority.

  Her cell phone beeped and she walked to the bed to look at it. The alarm notification reminded her that it was time to stop fucking around and get going so that she could pick up the Peters’ coffee and set up for their morning debrief.

  She turned back to the mirror and decided, as she usually did, to compromise. She swapped out the pants for the pencil skirt. She considered the Doc Martens, but slipped on a pair of heels instead. Not the four-inch platforms that would make Monica’s stoic face break for a fraction of a second, but a dark brown patent leather pair that matched her skin perfectly and would appeal to Lane’s love of long legs and an almost dangerously thin heel.

  She pulled her shoulder-length wavy black hair into a half ponytail, swiped a berry toned lipstick over her lips that accentuated the red undertones of her skin and then a super shiny clear gloss over top of it. She grabbed her bag and breezed out of her front door seconds before her alarm began to blare that it was absolutely time for her to leave for work.

  It was strange to think that she only had a few more days to pick up Monica and Lane’s coffee on the way to work, extra hot so that it was the perfect temperature when she arrived. Just a few more days to flounce around the office on her too high, too skinny heels in an outfit that was too tight or too short, or both, desperately putting herself on display for them. She only had five more days to spend her lunch break locked in the bathroom no one but her ever used and slowly finger herself while she recalled every one of their scrutinizing stares, gentle but firm instructions (Lane) and restrained commands (Monica). But she w
ouldn’t let herself come; she never did. It gave her a particular thrill to sit in their office, knees together, pussy wet and trembling, while they all went over the next’s day’s schedule in excruciating, somehow erotic, detail.

  She only had one more week with them. And she wanted to savor every minute.

  On her last days as Monica and Lane Peters’ personal assistant, she wanted to come home as she usually did, barely wave at her best friend and roommate, Maya, and then lock herself in her bedroom with her favorite vibrator. She wanted to dive into the release of as many orgasms as she could handle after hours teetering on the brink, images of her (former) bosses clouding her brain and their names falling like a chant from her lips.

  Because all good things must come to an end.

  Apparently.

  Monica

  Monica’s body was tense. She was standing erect, her back straight, her legs shoulder-width apart with a light escrima stick in each hand. Her face was hot and she could feel beads of sweat dribbling down her back. Her senses were acute and focused on Lane. She was waiting.

  He was facing her, rolling on his feet from his heels up to his toes, reminding her that even though he was a few years older, his body was still light and agile. As if she didn’t know. Lane was wearing the easy smile that Monica had long since learned to ignore because she knew that it didn’t mean anything. Instead, she let her eyes travel over his face, cataloging the flare of his nostrils as he breathed, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes and between his eyebrows and his biggest tell of all: his bright red ears.

  If his cheeks had been a bright crimson, that would have indicated his embarrassment or discomfort. If that blush had spread down his neck in splotches, she would have deduced that he was angry. But only his ears turned red when he was horny.

  “You gonna make a move, old man?” She asked in a whispered challenge.