G-Men: The Series

by ANDREA SMITH

  Our bank account online showed over $9000 more in it than the Excel spreadsheet. I went over the figures again, now checking by check number or payment reference number to see if payments had cleared the bank.

  I finally found the difference. It was the check that Jack had written to Banion East Coast District Office in the amount of $9213.77 that hadn’t cleared. That had been over a month ago.

  I pulled out the check ledger with our numbered checks. The check number referenced on the Excel file for that payment was gone. The carbon behind it showed that Jack had written and signed it. That was strange.

  Maybe he’d forgotten to mail it or take it into the controller when he’d last been in Virginia. He usually made the trip to that branch office whenever he was in Charlotte to check the progress of the construction on the new distribution center.

  I made a mental note to ask him about it the next time he called. I saw where Jack’s electronic payroll deposit had gone in on January 1st. The previous one was received on December 15th. He got paid twice a month. I didn’t see any withdrawals made for the five grand he’d gifted me for Christmas.

  I clicked on the link to our joint savings account at the top of the screen. It required a separate password. I hadn’t recalled that being necessary before. It had been a while since I’d been in that account. There was always more than enough money in the checking to cover our bills. I knew that Jack had transferred some in to pay Lindsey’s tuition for the first half of the school year back in August.

  I put in the same password we used for the checking account. I received an error message for that one.

  Jack must have purposely set up a separate password for our savings account. Now I was extremely suspicious.

  I looked around his desk, and through the drawers to see if, by chance, he’d written it down. He’d shown me where he kept the password to our checking account if I should forget it. He’d assigned an alpha-numeric password that had Lindsey’s initials, plus his birth year behind it. I didn’t think I would have a problem remembering that.

  I searched everywhere, but didn’t find anything with his handwriting that looked to be a password. There was one alternative that might work. I needed to see if I could get the password reset. I would simply have to know the answers to the secret questions he’d selected.

  I clicked my cursor on the option that allowed a password to be reset, if forgotten. There were three questions I needed to answer before I would get an email with a temporary password.

  The first question was to identify Jack’s favorite sports team. That was easy enough as I typed in “Yankees.” Jack was a baseball lover.

  Correct!

  The next question was to name his favorite vacation spot.

  Oh hell. When was the last time we’d taken a vacation?

  I racked my brain trying to remember. Jack and I hadn’t taken a vacation in forever.

  Then I remembered that he’d taken Lindsey on a trip to Disney World back when she was ten years old. He’d not been able to make it home for her birthday that year and she’d been devastated. He’d told her he would take a week off and she could choose to go wherever she wanted. That had been her choice. I’d stayed behind because my mother was having surgery at the time and I needed to care for her.

  I typed in “Orlando.”

  Correct!

  The last question was to type in his mother’s maiden name.

  How in the hell would I know that? They hadn’t spoken in years. I myself hadn’t seen her since Lindsey was born. Jack had only seen her a couple of times before she had up and moved to New York City a few years after that. I wasn’t sure if Jack even had a phone number for her.

  Then I remembered the Bible that Jack had been given at his baptism. It might have that information inside of it.

  I dashed to our closet and pulled down the metal box containing Jack’s personal records. I turned the key that he always left in the lock and opened the lid. I rooted around through papers, blue ribbons, newspaper articles from his football days, and his diploma. My hand touched the leather bound book.

  Bingo!

  I looked inside and saw his pertinent information in the back that showed a family tree. There it was: Mother’s Maiden Name: Rafferty.

  I raced back to the office and typed it into the field.

  Correct!

  Moments later, I heard the computer beep that an email had come in. I went in and clicked on the link, typing in the temporary password that had been given. It then prompted me to type and retype a new password. I made it match the one for our checking account. I was in.

  It only took me a moment to figure out why Jack had blocked me from our savings account with a separate password.

  What the hell?

  We had more than $400,000 in our savings account.

  I pulled up all of the transaction activities for the last eighteen months. I started a new Excel worksheet to post it so that I could study the activity in depth.

  There were all kinds of cash deposits from ATMs around the country for various amounts. All were less than ten thousand dollars. I saw the cash withdrawal of five thousand which was likely my Christmas present.

  There were also deposits of checks made to the account. The checks were written to and endorsed by Jack.

  They were from insurance companies: State Farm, Allstate, Motorists Mutual, and Cincinnati Insurance. The checks were from different agencies around the country. There were a couple from Virginia, one from South Carolina, two from Indiana, and one from Illinois. Those deposits totaled over one hundred thousand dollars!

  There were miscellaneous withdrawals, generally done a couple of days after each deposit. The withdrawals were always half of what the deposit had been.

  I also noticed that the savings account wasn’t paying interest. Jack didn’t want to report interest income on our tax return. He clearly didn’t want me or the IRS to know about this nest egg or where the money was originating from.

  I was startled when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I had a text message:

  “Get your ass over here. We need to fuck.”

  I smiled as I typed a reply to Slate.

  “Be there in an hour. Be naked and ready.”

  I shut the computer down, and put the check ledger away. I would review this more later. Right now, I had something more important to do.

  chapter 19

  I was on the couch facing Slate. I was on his lap, his cock buried deeply inside of me.

  My legs were wrapped around his back as I rode him up and down, my hips circling clockwise as I pressed in deeper with each of his thrusts. I arched my back and leaned backwards, letting my long hair flow down to the floor as he grasped my hips and pumped in and out of me.

  I felt the orgasmic build-up deep within me. This had all of the markings of a mind-blowing orgasm. It’d been damn near two weeks since he’d fucked me and my body was in need of him. I sensed he was in need of me as well. As he neared his climax, he moaned my name over and over again. That was the tiny push I needed. He pulled me up; cupping my face in his hands as his lips devoured mine while we climaxed together.

  “Oh Sunny,” he rasped, as he was winding down. “I fucking missed this.”

  My heart fluttered, but not as much as it would have if he’d said he fucking missed me.

  I fisted my hands in his thick mane of hair, my lips now moving to his face, kissing him all over. I whispered in his ear softly, “I fucking missed you, Slate.”

  He immediately lifted me off of him, and sat me down beside him on the couch. His eyes were burning through me; a look of anger was on his face. He raked his hands through his hair, and then finally looked over at me again. Most of the anger was gone now. It was replaced with a look of compassion and concern.

  “Sunny,” he said gently, taking my hand into his, “that’s not what we’re about. You know that, right?”

 
“What are you talking about?”

  “About all of this shit like, ‘I missed you, Slate, or I care about you, Slate.’ We’re not going there. You do get that, right?”

  I totally fucked up. I’m a freakin’ idiot. . .

  “Well, sure. I know that. What I meant was that I missed you - you know? Our fucking. You’re the only one that I allow to do that, right?”

  He nodded his head affirmatively. He wasn’t convinced that my last-minute save was really the truth. He was worried that I was starting to get attached to him and that just wasn’t in the plan.

  He continued to look at me warily and I was pretty sure he was going to say something else about it when I diverted his attention by looking at my wristwatch.

  “Oh shit, I have to go,” I said, getting up from the couch and picking up the clothes that he’d literally ripped off of me and tossed on the floor as soon as I’d walked in.

  I headed towards the bathroom, trying my best to save face as the tears stung my eyes.

  “What the hell? You’re leaving already?”

  “I have to Slate. Jack has plans for this evening. We’re having dinner with friends,” I lied.

  I could tell he was royally pissed. It was good for him, I thought, as I got dressed and did my best to keep the tears from rolling dow-n my cheeks.

  I forced myself to hum a little tune while I dressed and repaired my just-fucked hair.

  When I returned to the living room, Slate was dressed and wearing a scowl that hadn’t been there when I arrived. I pulled my jacket up off of the kitchen chair, shrugging it on.

  “I kind of thought we would be spending the day together,” he mumbled. “I went to the store and bought steaks. I was going to cook dinner for us.”

  If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he had a full-fledged pout going.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “I didn’t know that you’d be calling today. Can I have a rain check?”

  “Whatever, Sunny,” he said, not bothering to hide his pissy attitude.

  He pulled his jacket on and opened the door for me. We descended the stairs and walked in silence to the bus stop.

  Just as the bus pulled up, I moved closer to the curb. I turned to tell him goodbye and he was right there, mere inches from me. He pulled me against him, bending my head back as he devoured me with his sensuous mouth. His tongue invaded mine, as he thoroughly kissed me.

  I heard the hydraulic door to the bus open. The driver cleared his throat loudly. I pushed against Slate, breaking our lip lock.

  “Slate, I gotta go.”

  “Don’t you fucking let that rat bastard touch you, Sunny. I’ll be able to tell, and I won’t be happy which means you won’t be happy. Got it?”

  I took a breath; my heart was pounding.

  “Yeah, Slate. I’ve got it,” I murmured softly, turning to board the bus.

  He stood there, watching me, as I took a seat near the window. I looked out at him standing there with a major scowl on his face, his smoldering eyes boring right through me.

  I raised my hand up and gave him a little wave. His eyes were still boring into me. He finally raised a hand and gave a slight wave, never once taking his eyes off of me. I shivered as the bus took off.

  The image of him was with me for the rest of the night as I nuked a Lean Cuisine and ate it in front of the television.

  Becky called later, as we hadn’t talked during the holidays. George had taken her and the kids to Aspen for the holidays. She had skied for the first time and had quite a story to tell me. She then asked how the holidays went for me. I filled her in, up to and including, what had happened this afternoon with Slate.

  “So, you’re still fucking the bad-boy biker, huh?”

  “Yep. I figure I have a lot of orgasms due me.”

  “You know,” she said, chuckling, “I can’t believe you never told me you hadn’t had an orgasm. Jesus Christ, Sam, that’s kind of a major thing, you know?”

  “Oh, come on, Bec, when did we really ever go into detail about our sex lives?”

  She was quiet for a moment. I could only guess that she was thinking back to high school…to the time when I got knocked up by Jack.

  “You know, you’re right. I mean you never even went into detail about the night at that party when Lindsey was conceived. The first I heard about it was when your period was late. Good Lord, I know you were a virgin, but even with that, I mean didn’t he sort of get you all lubed up so at least you were willing to bear the pain, just to get it over with?”

  “It wasn’t like that at all, Bec. He was drunk. We made out. The next thing I knew, he’d pulled my skirt up and ripped my panties off. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “Whoa, hold up there for a second. Are you telling me that Jack date-raped you?”

  “Well, I’m not sure date-rape is the correct term, Bec. We weren’t actually on a date. Come on, he was drunk, we were making out. It just got out of hand, that’s all.”

  “No, that isn’t all. Did you at any time tell him “no,” Samantha?”

  Becky was notorious for going off on tangents because she was a woman of principle. She believed in causes and I had a feeling that this was one of them.

  “I don’t remember. Possibly. Probably. But he was drunk, you know? He was all hot and bothered. I probably shouldn’t have even put myself in a position like that. But what can I say? I got Lindsey out of it, right? She’s worth ten of the rat bastard.”

  “The rat bastard? So, is that what you’re calling him now?”

  “Actually, Slate came up with that name. It’s fitting, though.”

  “Your marriage is so over. Why don’t you just go ahead and file, Sam?”

  “Uh, Becky, don’t you think I should at least discuss it with Jack? I don’t think the answer is to blindside him like that. What purpose would that serve?”

  “Sometimes the element of surprise can work in your favor,” she replied. “It gives you the power initially. We both know that Jack is all about power and control. In most cases, I’d agree with you, but not with him. Think about what I’m saying, okay?”

  “I will Bec. I promise.”

  chapter 20

  Over the next three days, Slate summoned me each day to come by. Each day I texted back that I was unavailable.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him. I missed the hell out of him. I was still smarting from that whole “this isn’t what we’re about, Sunny” speech. He was actually right. Knowing that, I needed to distance myself just a little bit, so that I wasn’t left picking up the pieces of my heart.

  On the fourth day, I got a phone call, not a text message this time from Slate.

  “What’s up, Diamond?” he asked. His voice was terse.

  “Hey Slate,” I said, “Just doing some domestic shit here, you know? Gotta keep my hubby happy.”

  I could almost feel his scowl over the phone.

  “Well, you’re not doing shit to make me happy, babe,” he said flatly. “Maybe I need to do some trolling to see what I can do about that.”

  I wasn’t going to play this game with Mr. Twenty-Six-Year-Old Biker Hottie. That was for damn sure.

  “Do what you’ve got to do, I guess,” I sighed.

  “I will, babe,” he said, doing his best to enunciate the word “babe.” I heard the silence of his ended call.

  I guess that was that. It was over. In Slate’s words: we appeared to be no longer active. I wasn’t going to piss and moan about it. I’d promised myself that from the get-go.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d miss the great sex and the mind-blowing orgasms, but I had to face the reality that this was all that he was willing to give me. And I wanted more. I wanted it from Slate, but I’d likely be old and gray before that ever happened. He’d made that perfectly clear to me on more than one occasion.

  If nothing else, I now knew that I was capable o
f enjoying great sex. I knew that I yearned for intimacy and closeness. That was something that neither Jack nor Slate was willing to give me. I certainly wasn’t going to act like some over-the-hill matron that was all dried up. At least Slate had given me the self-assurance that I still had some good years ahead of me in that arena. He’d made me feel sexy and attractive. Plus, he had taught me so much. I needed to take my mind off of him because already I felt an emptiness knowing it was over and that I’d never had a choice in that.

  I decided to go back to work. I wanted to dance. There were other clubs in Indy; clubs where I’d never have to worry about running into Slate or any of those fucking OMC club members. I was going to start looking immediately.

  I’d started back with my Pilates and kick-boxing classes at Foxy’s. Vonda was tickled to see me again.

  “You look fantastic, girlie! My sister was flipping out when you quit Jewels, you know? She said you were one of the best. What was up with that?”

  “Oh, you know, just got tired of living a secret. I was afraid my hubby would get wind of it eventually and then I’d have hell to pay.”

  “I hear that,” she remarked, nodding her head. “Well anyway, sweetie, it’s good to see you back here.”

  I worked out extra hard all afternoon. I had tons of frustration and conflicting emotions gnawing me up inside. I needed to deal with them constructively. I was exhausted by the time I pulled into my driveway.

  It had been over a week since my last conversation with Slate. I checked my cell phone and a wave of disappointment swept over me when I saw that I had no text messages or voicemails. I suppose that he’d moved on to someone else. Perhaps it was Garnet.

  I erased his text messages and voicemails. I changed the name on his contact number from Slate to “Asshole.” It somehow made me feel a bit more in control.

  I shoved all thoughts of Slate and Garnet from my mind as I grabbed clean underwear and pajamas from my dresser and hit the shower. I took a nice, long, cold one.

  Later, as I sat in front of the television munching on a salad and sipping a glass of wine, the local news ran a story about several secret indictments being handed down by a federal grand jury which may implicate several members of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club in racketeering and conspiracy.