Phish NET Stalkings

by Denise Robbins

  Phish NET Stalkings

  By Denise Robbins

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  London, Texas

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Copyright 2012 by Denise Robbins

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN- 978-1-60318-410-6

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  * * * *

  Dear Reader,

  The story idea for Phish NET Stalkings came to me from one of my writing prompts I post on my blog. The writing prompts are a tool to break out of the writer’s block and boost creativity. It all started from one little sentence that began like this. When she discovered her date…

  I let my mind go and my fingers type and what came out of it was something that made everyone including me, laugh. From that tiny sentence, I spun the tale of two people whose first meeting is explosive to say the least.

  I hope you enjoy reading about Cooper Chance and Jane East as much as I loved writing their adventure.

  WARNING: Be careful drinking anything when reading the first chapters of Phish NET Stalkings!

  Happy reading!

  Denise Robbins

  Phish NET Stalkings is dedicated to my Grandmother, Maxine Cohoon. My grandmother is the heart of our family and a woman who taught me by example that life is too short and that it’s meant for living.

  Here’s to living, Grandma!

  Hugs and kisses,

  Denise

  ONE

  Was he back in high school? That’s how he felt with all their harassment. He also did not want to let them down. New to the job, Cooper Chance was desperate to gain their respect and trust.

  “Come on, Chief.”

  “You gotta do it.”

  “No take backs.”

  “A bet is a bet.”

  Cooper wanted to catch the guy who beat up on the local women. With no females on his force, he did not have much of a choice. One of the men had to dress in drag.

  “Fine,” he grumbled and took the outfit some of the boys picked up from a generously proportioned streetwalker named Florence.

  Cooper went into his office, shut the door, and closed the blinds. “No way can I pull this off.” He held up the leather skirt and heels. He stripped down to his skivvies and slid into the black leather skirt. “No way!” The damn boxers hung too low, below the skirt hem.

  “Shit,” he growled and raked fingers through his hair. Just listen to him talking about hems—he already sounded like a girl.

  “That’s why we included the ladies’ panties,” someone shouted back. Muffled chuckling rumbled behind his locked office door.

  He riffled through the pile and found a pair of bright pink panties with ruffles and the tags still on them. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  The raucous laughter and low snickering that met his complaint burned his ass. What made him think that becoming the Chief of Police of a small town would be simple, easy? He must have been nuts. At least if he had been in a big city, like New York, Boston, or Minneapolis, he might not have felt so ridiculous. He would have fit in with any number of transgenders who walked the street. But here, in Manchester, New Hampshire he would stick out like a wolf in a pack of cats.

  “Do women really wear this kind of underwear?”

  “Panties,” one of the men shouted from the outer office.

  “Panties,” he grumbled out the corner of his mouth. He held the silky material and eyed it with caution half expecting his men to supply him with a thong. Air wheezed out of his lungs when he saw that there was material on all sides and not some tiny strip that would ride up his ass. Just the thought of it made his shoulders shiver.

  Before he lost his nerve, Cooper stripped off the cotton boxers and stuffed his beefy legs into the pink panties. When the underwear reached halfway up his thighs, he heard a popping noise. What next? Now, the elastic in the leg holes had ripped apart. “Not one size fits all, are they?”

  He tugged the drawers the rest of the way up so pink lace and ruffles encased him. Shrinkage occurred upon contact; his nuts shriveled to the size of acorns. He looked at the flimsy fabric, rolled his eyes, then sliding his fingers between the leg holes and his skin, gave the material a solid yank. “Ahh. Freedom.”

  No man should wear silk against his manhood. It was unnatural and emasculating. Shit, shit, shit. He would never ever bet against the Patriots again. He lived in New England now, time to forget his Vikings. “Never bet against the house,” he mumbled a mental reminder not to be so stupid again.

  Turning back to the pile, he came up with a pair of pantyhose. “Who the hell wears stockings to walk the street in the middle of freakin’ winter?”

  “All the boys…” Chuckling outside his door. “All the ladies of the night.”

  “Yeah, right.” Only the ones who wanted to catch pneumonia.

  Cooper held the very large, white, and stretchy bra in his hands, tugging at the material. “Damn.” The cups on the thing were larger than a baseball cap and more pointy, like the old L’eggs pantyhose holder his mother used to buy. “Jeez. Don’t think about your mother you idiot.”

  Fascinated by the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, because that was what the thing could hold, Cooper decided the damn garment reminded him of the Saturday Night Live characters, the Coneheads. His ex-fiancée had never worn anything so ugly. Nor had any woman he ever dated. At least not that he had seen. Just how big was the hooker who donated the contraption? An image of his face buried between two ginormous breasts flashed in his mind. “That would be one way to smother an irritating John.”

  “Get it over with,” he encouraged himself then wrapped the wide band around his chest and tugged the closure together. Three hooks? There were three hooks. He had never seen one with three hooks before.

  With a few twists, Cooper had the bra shifted in the right direction, and the straps slipped over his shoulders. One quick peek at the mirror told him he looked utterly ridiculous. He rolled his eyes heavenward and silently asked, “Why me?”

  When he checked his reflection again, his shoulders slumped and he poked a finger at the bra’s cup. It dimpled and stayed there. Like that looks real! What if some pervert copped a feel and came up with air? His cover would be blown and the perp beating up on the local hookers would know they had set a trap for him and get away, move on.

  Cooper sifted through the stuff his men had handed him and found two… “Breasts?” He gulped, tucked his hands around himself and under his arms and gaped open-mouthed. They looked real. Very real. Two dark nipples surrounded by pale flesh winked up at him. Curiosity got the better of him. He released his hands and with tentative fingers touched one boob. It squished and appeared to be made of jelly. It felt so real. He lifted one and squeezed it in his hand. “Hmm. Are they real or fake?” Cooper laughed as he stuffed the squishy discs into the cup of his bra. He gave one the finger touch test again. This time the bra did not dimple and yeah, he thought, they could pass muster with any freehanded groper.

  Sliding on a fuzzy, long-sleeved, scoop-necked pink sweater topped off his wardrobe for this ridiculous stakeout. He should have stayed in Minneapolis working on cyber crimes. At least there, he did not have to
test his masculinity. With a great deal of effort, Cooper worked the black wavy wig onto his head, tucking every stray strand of his own dark hair up and under.

  He paused as he twisted open the cherry lipstick. It was too quiet out there. His men had stopped laughing, cracking jokes. What were they up to? “Focus. The sooner you finish getting dressed, the sooner this will be over.”

  Cooper shuffled over in the tight black leather skirt to stand closer to the mirror on the back of his door. He glided the lipstick across his lips. The first attempt made him look like a seriously psychotic clown. He reached onto the desk, pulled a tissue from the box, and wiped off the disaster.

  “How the hell do women do this?”

  This time he drew the lipstick across his lips as if coloring inside the lines of a coloring book. He took a step back and eyed his work. “Not bad,” he muttered and pursed his lips.

  Now the shoes. Cooper slid his feet into a pair of very large, black stilettos. He wobbled, fell forward and caught himself before doing a face-plant into the desk. He got his legs under him and managed to do something between a swagger and a stroll. He tried to turn on the damned pointed heels and landed on his ankle. “Shit!” Why the hell did women wear these contraptions?

  Women were insane.

  Cooper grabbed his black handbag with his sidearm inside it, tucked a peashooter, otherwise known as a Lady Derringer inside the thigh-highs, and tugged the skirt back down. He straightened, blew out a breath, and with the purse slung over his shoulder, opened the door and strode out on wobbly feet.

  The minute he stepped into the corridor, camera flashes snapped off in a flurry. Hoots and hollers, whistles, and jeers sounded. Ah, damn! Cooper paused, waited for the room full of police officers and clerks to quiet. When he had their full attention, he did what he knew none of them would expect. He Vogued.

  This time the cheering that went up around him lifted the roof off the station house. “Go CiCi!” someone shouted. “CiCi! CiCi!” his men chanted as he sashayed through the throng of men.

  Cooper paused at the door to the car lot and peered over his shoulder. “CiCi?”

  His second in command, Jack, stepped forward and offered an explanation. “The men used your initials and came up with your codename.” Jack grinned wide and tried to erase the smile off his face with a swipe of his hand across his lips.

  Cooper appreciated Jack’s attempt to be serious, but it was an impossible task. He returned Jack’s grin and eyed his waiting men.

  “CiCi it is,” he said and turned, flung the door open wide and strolled on stilettos out of the station house toward his vehicle.

  Yeah, this is what he had asked for. To be a part of a team, a family, and not sit behind a desk every day catching some damn hacker who built the next virus to bring a business to its knees. Or to be out in the field catching some perverted freaks that molested and videotaped their sexual encounters with children. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he thought about the last case he had been on. The case that had tied him up in knots for weeks and months and when they finally took down the international pornography ring, had him resigning from the FBI. Even now, he wondered if he did the right thing by letting the sicko ringleader live.

  He had him in his grasp, his arm wrapped around his throat, the barrel of his pistol against his temple. He could have pulled the trigger. He wanted to pull the trigger. Just one tiny itch and the King of child pornography and kid trafficking would have had his brains blown all over the bedroom. Or he could have broken his neck, crushed his windpipe. Either of those options was viable. He had the strength, the will, and most definitely, the desire, but he didn’t. He didn’t because of the little girl lying on the bed who would have seen it. She had already witnessed too many malicious acts in her short lifetime and he did not want to add to it. Instead, he let the two local police grab the King of child pornography out of his hold, cuff him, and haul his sick, sorry ass out of his sight and out of the girl’s.

  Had he made the right decision by letting the bastard live? He still wasn’t sure, but he saved Elana from the monster and saved her from seeing death. Coop gave his head a shake and ran his fingers through his log wig hair. Focus on the here and now. Concentrate on catching the rapist. Fuck! Another sexual predator.

  * * * *

  Standing on the corner in freezing weather dressed in women’s clothes was not his idea of fun. The first snow was just days or weeks away, and he stood on some street corner wearing fishnet stockings and a short leather skirt. Frigid air wafted up and nipped at his balls. The barely-there silk panties offered no warmth and his gonads crawled so far up inside that Cooper was not certain he would ever see them again.

  He strolled, if that was what you called wobbling on three-inch heels to the end of the street, pivoted and sashayed back, swinging his hips as he thought women did. Again, he wondered how women did it. The bra was killing him! He tried to adjust it the way he would his balls when in a less than comfortable position. He reached up and behind his back underneath the sweater, tried to maneuver the wide strap with his fingers. He did a little herky-jerky movement then gave up. Letting loose the damn binding material, it snapped against his skin.

  “Shit!” he swore under his breath.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Jack muttered in Cooper’s earpiece.

  “Next time, get a front hook bra.”

  Jack chuckled.

  Asshole. Cooper’s teeth chattered as he spoke low into the broach pinned to the top of the fuzzy pink sweater he wore. “Any movement?”

  “Someone rounding the corner at six o’clock,” a voice said into the receiver tucked into his ear.

  Potential target or not, any man who left a warm house to pay for sex or beat up a woman was a complete fool in his book and deserved what he got. The longer Cooper paced the street the more pissed off he became. “If this guy ever does show up, I will personally string him up by his balls then steal his pants. I’m freezing my nuts off, not to mention feeling ridiculous,” he mumbled.

  “You look great, especially the thick thighs and wide shoulders.”

  “Very curvy.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Cooper grumbled. “And Jack, you just wait. Payback is a bitch.”

  A muffled chuckle vibrated in his earpiece. Bastard.

  Cooper slapped at his arms, rubbed his hands up and down them in an attempt to get warm. No damn luck! He reached the other corner, pivoted, and when his foot refused to turn, he stumbled, and swore very unladylike under his breath as his hands and knees hit cement.

  “Ooo.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You okay, boss?”

  Ain’t that sweet. His men felt his pain. He bet they were more concerned that one of them would have to take his place standing on the corner in the wicked cold weather wearing this getup. Cooper nodded, afraid to speak when he felt, then saw, a large hand grip his bicep.

  “Eeek!” Cooper shrieked in his best female screech.

  “Need help, Miss?”

  Miss, that was good. From beneath fake eyelashes, Cooper saw a man’s hand with a gold wedding band on the ring finger clasp his forearm.

  “Uh, yes, please,” Cooper said in as soft a voice as he could muster.

  In spite of Cooper’s own size and muscle, the man practically lifted him off the sidewalk all by himself. On two feet again, he brushed at his hands and the front of his skirt. His stick-on fingernails shimmered in the street light. Damn! His stocking ripped. Before making eye contact, Cooper coiffed his wig, made certain it still held in place. Then he faced his would be Good Samaritan.

  “Thank you. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

  He couldn’t be more than mid-twenties. He had no five o’clock shadow, and it was well after five, his face held no wrinkles, and his posture was tall and straight. His wife must not have beaten him down too much yet. The ease at which the kid had hauled Cooper up hinted that the kid worked out. So why was he out here?

  “I’m sur
e you can think of something.” The young man leered at Cooper as he leaned in closer.

  “Oh. Hehe.” Cooper snickered behind his hand as he peered up at the John. For the first time, he realized the man stood taller than his own six-foot two-inch frame. Hell, the John towered over him. “What would you like?”

  “You,” the guy said, sliding his hand up the leather skirt along Cooper’s hip, then higher, stopping just below the bra. “I like my women a little large and in charge,” the John breathed into his ear as his hand covered his imitation breast.

  Cooper sucked in a sharp breath as he caught a whiff of the other man’s eye-watering, alcoholic breath and suffered through him copping a feel, squeezing his jelly-filled breast standing right there on a public street for all the world to see. Not all the world, only morons and pathetic cops were on the street in the frigid weather. This was not his perp, but he needed to get rid of him.

  “I got money, babe.” The John shoved a hand into his pocket, tugged a few times and pulled out a fist full of bills.

  “This way.” With the man’s hand suction-cupped to his fake boob, Cooper maneuvered him in the direction of the alley.

  “Oh, yeah, baby. We need a little privacy for what we want to do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “The stuff my wife can’t do now that she’s pregnant.”

  Jeez. “What’s your name?” Cooper asked the groper as they stepped off the sidewalk and into the dark alley.

  “Scott,” he answered and shoved Cooper against the building.

  Air whooshed out of his lungs when his back and head hit stucco wall. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. He tried to suck in air when Scott pressed himself against Cooper, slid one hand up his skirt. Cooper struggled for breath and the guy’s hands, but could not catch either.

  Too late. Large, cold hands reached pay dirt and froze in place. The young man’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped as realization struck. Scott jerked his hand back as if a snake had bitten it. The one-eyed snake.