by JA Huss
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Jesus. No,” I say. “At least not that game. I have nothing to do with this Jordan Wells shit. At all. I bumped into you the same way you bumped into me. And yeah, I misled you a little to get you to stay with me tonight, and yeah, that was part of my job. But no one told me to fuck you, Issy. Or like you. That was just… me.”
She thinks about this for a second. “I still have a lot of questions.”
“Like what?” I ask. “Ask me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Why did the FBI show up at my office?”
“I don’t really know for sure, but I’m assuming you’re just caught in someone’s web.”
“Bad luck,” she answers.
I shrug. “Bad luck.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Me either.” I laugh. “But no one’s after you now and we can’t get any answers until morning, so why dwell on it?”
I squeeze her breasts again so she won’t forget we have other options. Better ways to pass the time than focusing on what’s probably nothing more than some bizarre random circumstance.
I lean back a little so I can see her face. Her eyes are darting back and forth, like she’s thinking pretty hard about something. She sighs, meets my gaze, and says, “You just want to see me in the costume.”
“True.” I smile. “And you want to put it on. Just admit it.”
She tries not to smile, but fails, so she turns her head to hide it.
“So let me put it on you.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I say, reaching around her back to unclasp her bra. I drag it, and her open blouse, down her arms and let them both fall to the floor. She takes yet another deep breath, like she wants to give in to an urge to fold her arms across her chest and cover herself.
But she doesn’t give in. She looks up at me and holds her position, arms down at her side.
I unbutton her pants, slide my hands under the fabric of her slacks, and let my fingers slip between her legs.
“You’re excited,” I say, leaning down once again, this time to smell her. Her scent is not perfume, but something else. Something softer. Sweeter. Shampoo, or hand lotion, or hell, maybe she’s just sweet on the inside and it leaks through her pores to balance out the tough-girl exterior.
“Mmmm,” she moans.
“So what do ya say? You up for a wardrobe change?”
Her back stiffens at the question, but my fingers are ready. I push one inside her and it glides easily through her wetness. “Say yes,” I whisper. “Just say yes, Issy. Accept the challenge and we’ll turn this whole night around. Make it something new. Something special.”
“Special.” She chuckles. “I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you at all.”
“Well, how about this?” I say back, one hand sliding her pants over her hips until they fall down her legs, the other still inside her pussy, busy taking away the last of her inhibitions. “I’ll dress you up and for as long as it takes me to do that, you can ask me questions. I’ll answer every single one with the truth. You bare yourself to me, I’ll lay myself open to you. Deal?”
She bites her lip, but nods her head at the same time. “You’re just gonna lie, so why bother.”
I hold my hand up, palm towards her like I’m taking an oath, and say, “Promise. The truth, and nothing but the truth.”
She hesitates. And when she says nothing at all, I take that as a yes. “Excellent,” I say, walking around her to reach for the discarded costume. “Excellent.”
Her eyes track me, her body turning as I pick up her outfit. Damn, this might be the funnest mistake of my life.
“OK,” she finally says, biting her lip. “First question. Why did you lie to me earlier?”
I hold up the lingerie and shake my head a little. This, all of this—that magic bag she’s carrying around—is definitely a sex fantasy come to life.
“Wait,” I say, looking down at her.
“What? You said you’d answer anything. Don’t back out on me now, Agent Murphy.”
“No, I mean, wait a second. You’re accusing me of playing a game with you, but…”
“But what?” She’s still resisting the urge to cover herself. But she doesn’t bring her arms up. She steps out of her pants and kicks them aside instead.
“But… what if you’re playing a game with me?” I ask.
“What? What’s that even mean?”
“What if… someone bought me a game with Jordan Wells and you’re the player and I’m the unsuspecting victim?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nice try. I’m not even gonna answer that.”
“Why?” I ask, walking over to her again, unable to resist the feeling of the soft silky fabric of her costume between my fingers.
“Because it’s ridiculous. I’m the one who has no clue what’s happening. I’m the one who met with Jordan. I’m the one who got turned down. You said you didn’t even know him. And that’s enough questions from you. Unless you’d like me to play dress-up with you while you ask me questions.” She grabs the lingerie from my hand and holds it up. “Choose.”
My laugh bellows all the way up to the ceiling. “I don’t think so.” I snatch the costume back, bend down, and reach for her ankle.
She gasps, pulling away.
“Cooperate, Issy. It’s better that way.”
“I’m ticklish,” she says, once again pulling her foot away from my reaching hand. “I’ll handle the foot department.”
“No way,” I say, serious. “I’m definitely handling the boots.”
She stifles a grin, bites her lip, and shakes her head all in the same moment. “You have a foot fetish?”
“No… uh, well, I don’t think so. I just like the thought of slipping your feet into those sexy-as-fuck boots. And,” I say, taking hold of her ankle—she hisses in a breath through her teeth, like this is painful—“I’ll take these ones off, as well.”
I slip her shoe off before she can think too hard about that. Clearly, her feet need the attention if it makes her that uncomfortable.
When I look up at her, I’m grinning. So big.
She counters with, “Why were you demoted? When you left the FBI in DC?”
Shit. Why’d I have to go admit that to her? “It’s a long story.”
“Those boots will take a long time to put on. We’ve got time. Now talk.”
I eye the boots and decide she’s right. There’s no zipper, it’s just laces and grommets for as far as the eye can see.
Which absolutely delights me. So fuck it.
“OK,” I say, cupping her foot. It’s tiny, just like her. And soft.
She grits her teeth, holds onto my shoulder for balance, and mumbles something like, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“I’m Irish.”
“Yes,” she hisses, like she’s trying to distract herself. “Your name doesn’t hide that fact.”
“Right. It’s like a goddamned stigma. But what can you do?”
“You could change it, I guess.” She’s calmer now, because I’ve let go of her foot and she’s not balancing on one leg. But she winces and grabs my shoulders again when I reach for the other one and slip that shoe off too.
“I could, I guess. But doesn’t change who I am.”
“Who are you?”
“Finnegan Murphy.”
“Finnegan.” She laughs. “It’s silly and sexy at the same time.”
“So I’ve been told before. Back east the Irish have a certain… reputation.”
“Oh,” she says.
“Is that an, Oh, that’s interesting, kind of oh? Or an, Oh, that’s too bad, kind of oh?”
“Bad, dummy.”
I swipe a finger up the underside of her foot until she tries to hop backwards. I have her by the ankle with the other hand, so she gets… maybe two inches of space.
“Stop it!” she squeals.
“Then be fair. You want to know things abou
t me? I’m telling you them. But you can’t judge me until I’m done.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Well, it is now. Because that’s playing fair. And we’re playing fair.”
“Then don’t tickle me.”
“Deal.”
I smile up at her, but she’s scowling. “Go on.”
“OK, so I’m from a big extended Irish family. And my father was FBI, and his father was FBI, and his father before that was FBI too.”
“Got it. You’ve got no ambition of your own.”
“Fuck. You.” But I follow that up immediately with, “I’m sorry. Forget I said that. It’s not fair.”
“Jesus. Fuckin’ men. You’re all the same.”
“I’m gonna do you a favor now, and forget you said that. Because it’s not fair either. You don’t know me. I don’t know you, and hopefully, once we tell our stories, we’ll see eye to eye. Maybe you’ll change your mind about me.”
“I’m not telling my story, you’re telling yours because we made a deal. So one more time, Agent Murphy. Why did you get demoted?” This time it comes out with a little more venom. But she’s also eyeing the boot I’m holding with apprehension.
I place my hand on the back of her upper thigh and say, “Relax. It’s not torture. It’s fun.”
She forces a smile, but shakes her head.
I start unlacing the back of the boot. I swear, there’s like forty-seven eyelets to deal with. But I’m not complaining. That’s forty-seven chances to drive her wild as I lace them back up.
“OK, back to the fuckin’ question. The demotion in DC. What was that about? You disappoint your dad or something?”
“You’re a goddamned mind-reader, Ms. Grey.”
“So you did.”
I nod.
“What did you do?”
“I did… a whole lot of nothing for a very long time. And then one day… I had enough, you know?” I look up at her as I lace her boot.
“He was a good witch? Or a bad witch?”
I think about this and want to say good, because there’s good in everybody. And it’s easy to see the good over the bad when it comes to family. But I can’t lie. I promised her the truth. So I don’t bother trying and answer with, “Bad witch.”
“Oh.”
“He’s dead now, so… whatever.”
She pouts her lips a little. “Well, sorry about that. That he’s dead. It’s hard to lose people.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And appreciated.”
“Were you close at least? Even if you disappointed him?”
“Yeah. I guess you could say we’re close.” Then I wince. Because I said that like he’s still alive. It’s so hard for me to believe he’s dead and… “I mean… I went into the FBI because he wanted me to, and I thought it’d make him proud of me.”
“Is he?” Then she winces, and not because I’ve got the laces all undone and I’m reaching for her foot to slip it inside the boot, either. It’s because she’s talking about him in the present tense too. “Was he? Before he died?”
“It depends when you asked him, I guess.”
“OK,” she says, thinking about that for a moment. “Go on. We seem to be taking a while to get to the point here so…”
“Yeah,” I say. “Right. DC. So I went into the FBI Academy in Virginia. Graduated pretty high up in my class. Not top, but near the top. And I guess that’s expected because of who I was and all.”
“Come on. You’re taking way too long to answer one stupid question.”
That’s because I don’t really want to tell her the next part. I deflect and wrap both hands around her calf, sliding them up to her thighs. I’m watching her face as I do this. She closes her eyes and sighs.
Which makes me smile.
“So on graduation day I’m standing there, all dressed up, feeling pretty fucking good about myself. And my dad comes over with a little box. A gift, ya know?”
“Was it a watch or something?”
My hands stop what they’re doing as I gaze off into space, thinking back on that moment. “No, it wasn’t a watch. It was a phone.”
“Huh,” she says. “Like a cool new iPhone? Kind of a weird gift, but OK.”
“No, it wasn’t a cool new iPhone. It was a cheap-ass thing you buy in the checkout lane at Walmart.”
Now she’s squinting her eyes. Trying to fit the pieces together. I’m just about to give the big reveal when she says, “Oh. Shit.”
“What?” I ask.
“It was a burner phone, wasn’t it?”
“How the fuck did you guess that?”
“Was it? Was it a burner?”
I nod.
“Fuckin’ A. He was dirty, wasn’t he.”
“How the fuck did you jump to that conclusion?” I ask.
“Sorry. OK, well, good.” She draws in a deep breath and lets it out.
“No,” I say. “He was the bad witch, remember. He was dirty as fuck, Issy. And that phone was… it was his way of saying, ‘Welcome to the family, Finn. Now you’re a bad witch too.’”
“Shit. You had no idea?”
I shake my head. “Not a fuckin’ clue.”
“What did you do?”
“I took it.” I look up at her as I say this, my eyes looking right into hers. “I answered it when it rang. I got a new one sent to me every few weeks or so. And I answered those too.”
“So you fell in line.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I did.”
“So what happened? That you got sent to Denver?”
I start lacing up her boot, winding the laces back and forth across the back of her calf, all the way up to that little dent behind her knee. And each time I poke the lace head into the eye, she makes the cutest little whimper sound. Like I’m driving her crazy. “So mostly I’m just doing my job. Sometimes it would be a month in between calls. But when it rang, that fucker rang, ya know?”
“What did they make you do?”
“Whatever.”
“Kill people?”
“Yeah, some. But they were all thugs, right? Enemies. Different gangs, different cities.”
“Gangs?”
“Remember when I told you I was Irish?”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Oh, fuck is right.” I inhale. Exhale loudly. I finish lacing the boot, tie it off at the back side of her knee, and reach for the other one.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Why did I get sent here?”
“Why?”
“Because one day…” The whole fucking thing flashes through my head in this one moment. Everything that went down that night. “One day I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Nah. I’m not gonna do it. I’m done.’”
Issy is quiet now. So I just go on.
“And he pulled out a gun and put it to my head. And he said, ‘The only way you’re done is if you’re dead, Finnegan.’”
“Jesus.”
“And… well—” I consider lying again. But what’s the point? “I shot him first. Because even though I really didn’t want to believe he’d shoot me… I knew he was gonna do it.”
Issy’s mouth is hanging open. Her eyes wide.
“Because he had this look of surprise on his face when he realized I had my gun out. And then he laughed, and I could almost feel the muscles in his arm, like he was about to pull that fuckin’ trigger. And I just happened to pull mine first.”
“You’re here because you killed your FBI dad?”
I shrug. “Ya know, Issy, I’m not really sure why I’m here.” I continue lacing her boot, and feeling proud of how it all looks. I’m practically an expert. This one goes much quicker. Not that I’m trying to be quick. It actually feels good getting some of this shit I’ve been carrying around for the past few months off my back. “I’m just taking it one day at a time. I’m not doing a very good job at that, but I’m trying.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No,” I say. Bu
t that’s all I have for that. And I’m tying the bow at the back of her knee anyway, so her time is up. I sit back on my heels, admiring my work. She twists around to try to get a glimpse. “You’re goddamned sexy, you know that?”
She shrugs when I look up at her. “It’s the boots.”
But I shake my head as I stand back up. “Nah, It’s not the boots. It’s just… you.” And then I place my hands on her cheeks, lean in, and kiss her. Like really kiss her.
When I pull back her eyes are open. Watching me. “So,” I say.
“So,” she says.
“Am I a good witch or a bad witch?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ISSY
“I’m not sure yet,” I say, answering his question. “You definitely come off as good witch. On the outside, I mean. I can’t explain it, but bad guys don’t admit shit like that to people they hardly know.”
“But you’re not sure about what’s on the inside.”
I stare at him. This man I didn’t know yesterday morning. This man I met under the strangest of circumstances. This man who has proclaimed himself my protector.
This man killed his own father.
If my silence makes him nervous, he doesn’t show it. He bends down, picks up the costume, and says, “Take all the time you need to come to a conclusion. But while you’re doing that… may I?”
He shakes the lingerie in his hand, shoots me a wicked grin that has bad witch written all over it, and then he winks.
His wink is a thing, I decide. To put people at ease. To make them forget bad witches even exist and there’s nothing to see here but goodness.
And it works. For me, at least. Because I feel pretty OK about his confession.
Why is the question. Why do I feel OK about it?
Is this a game with Jordan? Or is this all real? Would a guy admit to being a dirty FBI agent, and killing his dirty FBI agent father, and being demoted and sent to—
“Hey,” I say. “So what happened after? I mean, you didn’t really answer my question. How the fuck did you get to Denver?”
“Well… the FBI is a gang too. We cover for each other. And I’m pretty sure my father wasn’t the only dirty guy in the DC bureau.”
“So they covered for you?”
I nod. “Gave me some paid leave, then swept the whole thing under the rug and sent me out here.”
