The F King: A Bad Boy Romance (Still a Bad Boy Book 3)

by Ada Scott

  My new friend straightened his suit and raised his chin proudly as if he’d really asserted himself well. “Yeah. Alright. Fuck it, I’m clocking out for the night.”

  Oh he had no idea.

  “What’s your name, man?”

  “Tony.”

  “OK, Tony,” I said, opening the bag and tearing off a square with a picture of a grenade on it. “Here you are. Down the rabbit hole you go.”

  “Hey, thanks, maybe you’re not so bad.”

  Tony put the tab on his tongue and scratched his neck awkwardly. I could see he was the kind of guy who had to decide how low to stop shaving his face and say “OK, this is chest hair now.”

  “Take a seat, man,” I said, gesturing at the spare office chair. “I can put some music on if you want to listen to it while you wait for a while. I’ve got to get a little bit of work done though, if you don’t mind.”

  Tony looked over at the chair and then sat in it. “OK, that’d be great. Hoo-boy, I can already feel it kickin’ in over here.”

  I found some generic rave music on the internet, and a moment later my computer speakers were doing the best they could. It wasn’t much, but it didn’t have to be.

  Changing screens back to some test results, I pored over them for about ten minutes before glancing over my shoulder to see what kind of state Tony was in. It turned out he wasn’t in any kind of dancing mood.

  Staring straight ahead at nothing, I could see he was already breathing quick and shallow. Sweat was beading and dripping down his forehead and the sides of his face. To his credit, the sweat looked clear, so I at least had some evidence that he hadn’t used shoe polish to get that slick-back style going.

  I rose to my feet, closed the door to my office and approached the poor bastard known as Tony. He was probably seeing some pretty trippy colors right now, but as the drug worked its magic and triggered the production of m-chlorophenylpiperazine in Tony’s brain, well, that was when the shit was really going to hit the fan.

  The office chair he was sitting on rolled easily on its wheels, and I pushed him casually over to my decontamination enclosure. It was like the world’s most intense shower, and if anything dangerous was ever spilled on me, that’s where I’d run to.

  Things might get messy with Tony, so it was important to question him somewhere that was easy to clean. I took him to the edge, until the chair hit the frame around the door, and tipped him in.

  Tony sprawled forward, instinctively putting his hands out to brace for an impact he couldn’t see coming as he sensed the sudden movement. He landed mostly inside the enclosure and I moved the chair aside before planting my foot on his ass and shoving him the rest of the way in.

  Unable to keep his balance in the throes of whatever mind-expanding experience he was having, he tumbled forward again, this time breaking his fall with his face. He grunted and I shut the door, locking him inside in complete darkness.

  He’d be a lot easier to work over in an hour or two, if I let him soften himself up a bit by stewing in his own juices. Plus, I’d found that the early stages were a little on the incoherent screamy side of things. I’d get a lot more sense out of him later on, and the decontamination enclosure would spare my long-suffering eardrums most of his worthless Acardi shrieks.

  For two full hours, as my lab assistants finished their tasks and left for the day, I listened to the dull thuds of Tony trying to smash his way out through the stainless steel, and occasionally entertained the notion that I could hear the more high-pitched of his screams. Hopefully he didn’t lose his voice by the time I questioned him; his writing ability would be severely impaired even if he hadn’t broken his hands.

  When I had the place completely to myself, I finally opened the door. Light spilled into the decontamination enclosure and Tony scrambled backwards into the corner in terror.

  In addition to the blood coming from his nose, he had scratch marks on both of his cheeks and a wet patch on the front of his pants. He was looking at me as if his mind was breaking, muttering in what I assumed must be Italian.

  I smiled. “Do you know who I am?”

  Tony nodded and cried silently.

  “Say it. Who am I?”

  “Il Diavolo.”

  “In plain English…”

  “The Devil.”

  I laughed. “That’s right. Clever Tony. I’ve been watching you your whole life. I think, today, I’m going to eat your soul.”

  Tony whimpered and cried, trying to push himself backwards through the walls. “Nonononoooooo… please!”

  “Let’s have a talk, you and I. I’ll ask you some questions, and you tell me some answers. If you lie to me, I’ll be very fuckin’ angry. Do you understand?”

  “Anything! I’ll tell you anything, please!”

  “We’ll see about that, Tony. Let’s talk about your job. You’ve been with the Acardi Crime Family for a while now, done a lot of jobs for them. You’ve seen some things. What do you know about where they stash weapons? Cash? Where have you helped them hide their shit, Tony? Tell me now you motherfucker!”

  “Money! Weapons! Yes! I know! I fucking know some shit! Please!”

  “Tell me!”

  “Fucking millions! They’ve got millions hidden in a vault under a factory that makes computer shit in Redmond!”

  “Bellevuetech?”

  “Yeah! Yes! Yes! I delivered some cash there myself! I’ve never seen so much money in one place! Holy fucking shit! Oh please don’t hurt me! Oh my God…”

  Tony was wide-eyed and frantic, still pushing backwards to keep every last scrap of distance between us that he could. I stepped forward and kneeled in front of him.

  “Tell me more.”

  Tony was very helpful. Over the course of an hour before he passed out, he corroborated the information I’d had from several others in the past, and gave me the location for one more weapons and money cache that I hadn’t heard of before.

  When it came time for the Acardis to find out they were in a war with me, these places would be where they ran to. It would be crucial to take these locations to fund and supply the small army that would be required to establish my control in the chaos, and to consolidate my power before they really even knew what hit them.

  I heard a groan from the decontamination enclosure and some movement, so I spun away from my computer and peeked in through the open door. Tony was sitting in the corner, blinking in confusion.

  “Hey there, champ, how you feeling?” I asked.

  “W-what happened?”

  “Well, they call that a bad trip. You started swingin’ and swearin’, so I kind of bundled you into here where you couldn’t do too much damage.”

  “What… what’s that smell?”

  “I think you shit yourself.”

  “Oh… fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” he groaned.

  “Hey, listen, it’s OK man. Believe me, I’ve seen people do worse things while having a bad trip. Nobody needs to know. I’ve got some clothes here that a lab assistant left behind when he quit a few months back. You can have a shower in there, shove your clothes in the waste disposal, get dressed and head home. No harm, no foul, right?”

  “Um… what… uh…oh… OK.”

  “There’s the shower head, all you need to do to make it work is press that button and hold the handle… yeah, that one. Just reach out the door when you’re done.”

  I returned to my computer and blocked out the sounds of showering and vomiting that streamed through the crack in the door. A quarter of an hour later, Tony stood in my office in his new clothes, looking pale and dazed.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Almost midnight.”

  “Holy fuck…”

  “So you wanna buy some of this acid? $500 a tab.”

  “What? Fuck no.”

  “OK. Out of interest… what did you see?”

  “I… I dunno. Something. Something…” Tony trailed off.

  “Well, let’s get you out of here. Like I said, nobody
needs to know about this, right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, thanks… If the guys ever found out…”

  Tony stumbled off through the lab, his keys jingling in his new shorts. He was clearly in shock and didn’t even notice he was wearing a gay pride t-shirt.

  The clothes weren’t really left behind by a former lab assistant. I bought them especially for such interrogations, because what was the point of being the King without a sense of humor?

  Sarina

  Stacey was a miracle worker. With a ten-dollar investment in thrift shop clothes and dollar store accessories, she transformed me into an eighties pop star, complete with garish make-up and a side ponytail.

  The party was getting into full swing. A mass of wacky characters coming together for the first time on the dance floor, while Godzilla squared off against Spongebob in an epic game of beer pong at the side of the room.

  It surprised me how enthusiastic Ryan had been about attending the Halloween party. He said it was one of the best parties of the year when he was in college, though, so I guessed that was as good a reason as any.

  He’d supplied me with ten grams of F and told me how to cut it with powdered food coloring to make it go that bit further. He said it was all I needed to pay for my tuition and accommodation for the rest of the academic year.

  Of course, all I had done was hand it in to Sergeant Shelton, who gave me some money that had previously occupied the evidence room. It would have been impossible to find cash more randomized in serial numbers and infused with the chemical traces of its drug-loving owners than this.

  All I had to do was pay Ryan back for the F he’d given me on credit, and then I’d be in good standing with him for potential future deals and getting more involved in the business. That’s how the story was supposed to go, anyway.

  In reality, handing over the F to my CO felt like the betrayal of the century. Doing it made me feel like a robot, disconnected from myself and going through the motions I’d been programed to do.

  Underneath the self-assured, cocky even, exterior there was so much more to Ryan. He was smart, funny, fiercely loyal, and he’d shown me such devotion over the past couple of months that it was tearing my heart in half living this double life.

  He said he never told anybody about why he got involved with this F stuff as a side business and, going by the way it cut him up to admit, I believed him. I felt terrible that it took all these lies to weasel my way into this position of trust. He deserved better.

  Telling him about that horrific night with my foster father, James Salter, took the edge off my guilt a little bit too. Even thinking his name made my skin crawl, but sharing that part of me was like opening up the armor a little. It let me feel like I made some kind of real connection between Ryan and myself.

  When I wasn’t with him, I couldn’t shake the guilt and the knowledge that everything that felt so good and so right was going to crumble and fall to pieces around us. When I was with him, well, he brought Sarina Bell to life, and gave her the kinds of intangible things that made Sarina Beckett more than a little jealous.

  It was so fucking weird to be thinking about my undercover identity and my real identity, both, in a detached way, as if the essence of “me” was floating around trying to figure out which life I belonged in. When Ryan texted me saying he’d just arrived, my heart soared and it was a welcome leap out of the swampy existential crisis my mind was creating for me.

  I grabbed an extra drink and made my way towards the entrance, painfully aware of how much more thrilled I was to be seeing Ryan than I had been to hand over the drugs. Then things took a turn for the surreal when he came through the doors.

  Complete with inflatable nightstick, mirror-finish sunglasses and suspiciously realistic-looking handcuffs, Ryan was in full police uniform. I was a statue, carved with an expression of full disbelief, as Ryan spotted me and bopped in my direction in time to the music.

  “That for me,” he asked, pointing at the red plastic cup full of beer.

  I nodded.

  “Thanks. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Resisting arrest?” He reached for his nightstick.

  I shook my head, as much to say “no” as to clear the cobwebs from my brain. “Uh… no. That’s just a very realistic costume. I was going to hand over some money tonight, but this makes me feel like I have to watch myself!”

  “Oh you do, ma’am, are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?” he said, curling his free hand around me and bending down to give me a kiss.

  As soon as his lips touched mine, I felt my worries slipping away from me. I melted against him and by the time he pulled back, I was feeling more like myself again. Or more like Sarina Bell. Who was I?

  As far as Ryan was concerned, I was an eighties pop diva here to dance the night away with, and he didn’t waste any time taking me out into the middle of the floor. Sometimes we danced alone, sometimes in a circle made up mostly of the girls I’d taken out on that first night, and the guys who were trying to get into their panties at the moment.

  Whatever we did, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Ryan. I’d seen a lot of people in uniforms a lot like that one, but none of them ever filled it out quite like he did. Truly, it had never looked sexier.

  The alcohol flowed and the music was good enough to make the dancefloor crowded. As luck would have it, there was just the right mix of costumes in the room for Ryan to take part in an impromptu tribute band when YMCA by The Village People came on. Somebody even loaned him a fake moustache for the song.

  I was feeling pretty happy by the time the dancefloor started to thin out a bit, taking advantage of the occasional slow song to snuggle up to Ryan and just sway a bit to catch our breath between the more energetic numbers. His hand was on my lower back, hovering precariously close to my ass when he bent down and whispered in my ear.

  “Let’s go back to your room,” he said.

  “Lose the moustache and you’ve got a deal.”

  Ryan peeled it off and flung it over his shoulder without even looking behind him. That was the last I saw of it. We left with our arms around each other’s waists and headed for the elevator.

  We passed more peculiar pairings than ourselves on the way, but it was still difficult to shake the bizarre notion of me, an undercover cop, getting taken back to my room for what was no-doubt going to be yet another intense orgasm by the man I was supposed to be investigating… dressed as a cop. That didn’t stop me from wrapping my legs around him when he lifted me off the ground after the door to my room closed behind us, though.

  As we kissed, I knocked his hat off his head and ran my fingers through his hair. He gripped my ass tight and lowered us down on to my bed.

  “Ma’am, for crimes against fashion and music, I’m gonna have to take you into custody.”

  “You’ll never take me alive, copper,” I said.

  “You’re a feisty little diva, I’m gonna have to teach you to respect the law.”

  I bit my bottom lip as Ryan reached for his handcuffs and overwhelmed my token resistance to secure my wrists to the headboard above me. The handcuffs rattled against the metal bars as Ryan’s hands slid down my arms, caressing the sides of my breasts before coming to a stop just over my hips.

  “The Keytar isn’t a crime, man!” I said, wriggling as his fingertips slipped under my shirt and traced lightly on my skin towards my breasts.

  “That’s for the courts to decide. You hiding anything on your person that I might find interesting, young lady?”

  His hands reached my chest and I arched up against him, squashing myself against his palms. My nipples hardened inside my bra and Ryan gave me a playful two-handed squeeze.

  “Hmmm… what do we have here?” he said.

  Ryan pulled his hands out and gripped my shirt at the collar. With a sudden yank, he ripped the old material right down the middle, revealing my more modern underwear.

  “Did you know it’s a crime in this state to cover up a sexy body like this, ma’am?”


  “Look who’s talking.”

  Ryan smiled and pushed his hips forward, grinding himself between my legs and leaving me in no doubt that things had taken a turn for the hard down there. His fingers traversed down my chest, across my belly, then rose up to his shirt.

  With each button he undid, he revealed more of his lean and muscular torso. The handcuffs rattled again as I forgot myself for a second, and tried to reach for him so I could feel the hard curves of his body the way he had felt my soft ones.

  “You’re in a whole heap of trouble, miss.”

  “I have a license for that synthesizer.”

  Ryan shrugged off his shirt. I had my legs gripped around his waist, and tried to make him fall forward so I could kiss that inked masculine perfection. I loved the way it felt when I licked his body and my tongue slipped into the grooves created by his abs. It was like a sexy maze to navigate.

  Unfortunately, this time it seemed Ryan had other plans. He planted his hands on either side of my pillow, stopping himself from falling into as my tongue’s domain. He pushed his swollen bulge against my sex through my panties again and I sighed happily, bucking my hips a little.

  Regaining his balance, Ryan reached behind my back for the clasp of my bra, and I arched again to give him easier access. When he snapped his fingers, I felt the instant relief as the underwire released me.

  He ran his fingertips along the line where it had hugged me so tightly, loosening it further, before gathering it and my ruined two-dollar shirt into his grip and pushing them both up over my head. With me secured to the headboard as I was, he couldn’t get them completely off, but it was good enough to leave my upper body completely exposed to anything he wanted to do to me.

  I was forced to unhook my ankles from behind him, so he could move back slightly and bring his mouth to each of my nipples in turn, squeezing and kneading my breasts appreciatively at the same time. When he turned his attention to one, the cool air on his saliva teased the other nipple erect, until every touch of his tongue, lips and fingers had me straining and writhing against my restraints.