Bounty

by Aubrey St. Clair

  “Let’s be honest, Copperhead. If you had to work with some scrub who just got trained in the last twenty-four hours on this mission, you know they’d fuck it up. You’re gonna run this better on your own.”

  “Totally on my own?”

  “I can run air support. That’s it. We can send in ass.”

  ‘Air support’ and ’Ass’ being the colloquial terms for logistical support from far away. They can listen in, pipe information to me, help me get money and resources.

  “And this,” and he hands me a new phone. “Encryption on that baby is military-grade. You can finally text me anything you want.” He laughs. “Just makes sure you lock it if there’s even a chance someone else might get their hands on it.”

  I nod and pocket the phone. “This is gonna be dangerous as fuck,” I say, half to myself and half to him.

  “Yeah, but that’s what you signed up for,” Vicente says. “This is the game, and the prize is huge. Worth it.” He looks me up and down. “You got this.”

  “Yeah. I’ll just take him into custody.” I’ve done it before, of course. Even a few times overseas, where we didn’t have jurisdiction. It’s kind of part of my job description.

  But never someone as high profile, as well-armed and well-defended, or as dangerous as Devlin Sullivan.

  “Yes, I want you to take him into custody,” Vicente confirms. “Remember, as soon as you bring him to a consulate or embassy and give us a ring, only then can we send people in. I can even station them in the city on the ready. But they can’t help you before that.”

  “Alright. So I will have backup for the transportation portion. Just not the actual capture.” The bag itself. Dragging Boston’s biggest gangster to some podunk embassy in Costa Rica.

  I’ll need guns. Lots of guns. And knives. Maybe even some explosives. And there’s no way I can fly on Devlin Sullivan’s private jet with those.

  I explain this to Vicente. “Well that’s what the ass is for. We’ll set up a drop so you can get supplies. And if you can’t take him, at least get this on him,” and he places a sheet of tiny stickers in my palm. “Just rub your thumb against one of these, and then against his skin,” Vicente says. “If nothing else, we’ll have a tag on this bastard, and as soon as he shows his ugly mug stateside, we’ll have him.”

  I don’t bother to ask how what looks like little hardened paint dabs can possibly be used to track a person. Who knows the kind of shit the FBI has now — I myself use little chips, wedged into places. Not surprising they have something even more sophisticated.

  “Okay, they might not notice these, or a few zip ties, but I’ll definitely need the weapons once we get there…” and we spend the rest of the afternoon planning out materials, what I’ll need, how Vicente can get them to me even if I don’t have the cell phone, making a list and planning various routes depending on which of three possible cities I’ll wind up in. Setting up drop zones, planning where the backup will be in case of emergency.

  I’ve got some semblance of a plan, now. With any luck, I’ll have April’s father in custody by tomorrow night. Hopefully nobody will get killed. Especially me.

  Time to rest up before my flight in the morning.

  I meet April at the chain-link fence surrounding the tiny airfield that I suppose belongs to her father. Or, at least, is controlled by him.

  It’s a struggle to keep cool, so much is riding on my performance. She can’t know I have more details about her dad than she likely does, or that I know where we’re going. She can’t know I’m planning anything.

  And the last thing in the world she can know is how I truly feel about her.

  Even if we have to pretend, for the sake of her father’s men who are watching, that we are on friendly, even intimate terms.

  I text Vicente the location of the airfield and details about the planes and the workers, any information that might be helpful later if this ends up coming back stateside. Any evidence I can get him may prove to be useful in the future.

  I can’t help the stab of guilt as I dispassionately text Vicente about April, right as she strides towards me, looking radiant and sexy as fuck in a sundress.

  It’s yellow, and not quite fully opaque in the late-autumn morning sunlight. I can see the outline of the soft curve where her legs meet, just make out a panty-line.

  A sundress in Boston…

  We’re definitely headed south, and April must know that. Or maybe one of her father’s men just made wardrobe suggestions?

  I want to reach for her hand as we stride side-by-side to the plane, but I resist. I clasp it into a fist and open it flat, over and over, keeping it busy and away from her.

  The agents guarding the onramp staircase to the little jet search me thoroughly. I expected this, but I wasn’t quite prepared for how much they would take from me on the promise that I would get it all back when we returned to Boston. They take my phone, of course, and my second phone, and the case of what looks like small toiletries but includes zip-ties, a knife that looks like a toothbrush, and a little aerosol can of what is actually pepper spray, but looks like spray-on deodorant.

  Plus, all my actual toiletries, which is a little annoying. Also my watch, and the ring that I wear on my right middle finger to commemorate my father. (And punch people with a jagged edge.)

  April mouths “I’m sorry” at me while they continue to bag all of my possessions.

  She has no idea.

  They take my baseball cap, my shoes, and literally all of my clothes (aside from what’s on my back) and my belt.

  As they take it from me, my mind flashes back to the moment of cinching it around April’s wrists.

  Guilt and arousal wash over me. I don’t know what I was thinking. I lost control, is all. And I think a part of me wanted her, not just bound and trussed up for my pleasure – although it was fucking hot, but also I wanted her to feel powerlessness, again, but for it to feel pleasurable. I wanted her to enjoy it. I wanted that feeling of not being in control to be associated with something good so that it wouldn’t haunt or scar her forever.

  We’re never completely in control. But fearing that loss of control, becoming terrified of it — that’s a recipe for disaster. The first step in becoming an obsessive, repressed control freak.

  I don’t know if all of that was running through my mind at the time or is just some post-hoc rationalization. Maybe I was just a horny, selfish monster who wanted to tie her down and do what I pleased with her. Do to her what she pleased, too.

  I have no doubt that she enjoyed it, even if it wasn’t… good. Morally good, that is.

  She screamed when she came. She begged me for it. At least I have that to hold onto, even through the guilt.

  I glance at her as they bag the belt, and we lock eyes.

  My heart rate skyrockets.

  Fuck.

  I take a few deep breaths to calm it. I don’t want to look suspicious. They finish patting me down, and decide, after flipping through it, that I can keep my spiral notebook. With the tracker stickers in them.

  Thank god.

  When they’re done I try to laugh it off.

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding,” I say to April. She gives me an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry,” she says, out loud this time, but tries to keep her voice as light as mine was. With only the briefest, flickering glance at the men flanking us, she takes my hand. Her palm feels clammy and dead in mine, her fingers stiff and unsure.

  Just for show, then.

  Of course.

  Again, she mouths “Sorry.”

  She needs to stop apologizing.

  It’s torture sitting on the plane next to her. Her dress looks fantastic with the bright sun steaming through the abnormally large jet windows. I want to caress her skin, it looks so soft, but I’m resolved not to touch her beyond what is strictly necessary to trick her father. To keep up the pretense. She doesn’t deserve to be taken advantage of any more than I already have, any more than I absolutely have to.


  But April never does do what I want or expect. When the plane begins its ramp up to takeoff, she grasps my hand on the armrest, pressing her head back into the seat and closing her eyes.

  I freeze and hold perfectly still. I let her keep my hand until we’re near cruising altitude.

  Eventually she lets go, and lets out a nervous breath and small giggle. “I don’t know why I still get a little nervous,” she says. “It’s stupid. I fly a lot.”

  “You like to be in control,” I say, “it’s understandable.” And I file away that precious detail, keep it safe in my collection of gorgeous/adorable/amazing things about April Fitzpatrick.

  Embarrassed, she stands to visit the restroom, maneuvering past me to the aisle without giving me a chance to stand up. I’m treated to a perfect view of the tops of her thighs as she wedges past, a view of the soft curve of her sex, nearly in my lap, outlined through the sunlit dress. She’s perfect.

  I’m frustrated. I want to press a palm to her, under her skin, and kiss her neck until she’s grinding into my hand, begging for it with her hips.

  Nope. That’s fucked up, Liam. I pinch my eyes shut to snap out of it, and reach for a fucking crossword. I hate crosswords.

  This sucks, but I gotta keep my eye on the prize, and that’s not April’s pussy. The prize is the best bag of my career. And then I’ll remove my presence from her life for good.

  She takes a while in the restroom. What’s she doing back there? Maybe tending to her cuts? They’re not super visible, even with the minimal clothing. Maybe she’s putting makeup on them so her dad won’t see?

  Eventually, enough water, tea, and free champagne makes me need to pee, too. Hopefully there are two restrooms back there.

  I make my way down the aisle, suddenly struck by the plane devoid of other people. I’ve never been on a plane on my own like this. Her father’s agents are in the aft section, the two attendants are hovering by the cockpit, shaded from us by a curtain. It’s been just the two of us back here.

  The awareness of that fact makes me freeze in my steps. And then there’s April, emerging from the bathroom. She locks eyes with me, and gestures with a finger.

  Come here.

  22

  April

  Again we can use the pretense of canoodling to talk.

  There’s a few more things I think I need to cover before Liam meets my father. Things to warn him about, for his own protection.

  The fact that we’ll be crammed in the back together, away from prying eyes, is something I’m choosing to ignore.

  Sure.

  As he makes his way back towards me, the way he looks at me — raking his intense gaze from my head to my toes — it’s as if my dress goes with it, clawed straight down to my feet. And I realize I cherish the fact that he’s undressing me with his eyes.

  I know it’s bad. I know I should stay out of his life, that we need to just get through this meeting with my dad and part ways, for his own good.

  That there’s no way he’s still into me, even if his body still desires mine.

  He’s a man, after all, and I have tits. And let’s be truly honest — I know the sex we had after the attack was amazing. He couldn’t have faked that kind of animalistic pleasure.

  But I need to stop dwelling on that.

  By the time he reaches me, I’ve already started this off on a bad foot, if only in my mind. I’m turned on just looking at him.

  “Liam, I have to talk to you,” I whisper.

  He puts a finger to his lips, that plump, gorgeous, bottom lip, and waves his other hand in the air to indicate that they could be listening. He gestures again, this time pantomiming writing.

  It’s like we’re in a movie. I nod, once, and hunt in the back area where stewardesses keep food and stuff, looking for a pen. He darts back to his seat and grabs his spiral notebook that he brought.

  I find a blue pen, and he hands me his notebook, which seems to have only a few pages written in it, and in some language I don’t understand.

  “Wow. Is that Greek?” I ask.

  “Just the letters,” he answers cryptically.

  “Okay,” I say, and I begin to write on a fresh page:

  1) Dad is VERY Irish.

  He points to the word Irish, and then himself, and nods.

  I add:

  Don’t fake being more Irish than you are. Downplay.

  He nods again, and the edges of a smile, playing across his lips, are beautiful to see. But this is serious.

  2) He’ll have looked you up and know everything about your life. Be honest, and play dumb.

  His eyes crumple in brief concentration as he reads, and then he just looks worried and a bit confused.

  “Well, that part should be easy,” I say aloud, and he lets loose one bark of laughter. I resist the temptation to touch him. He doesn’t want that. Instead, I write the most difficult part.

  3) Do not mention my mother.

  He shakes his head solemnly as I continue.

  That’s for me to deal with.

  He nods and puts a hand on my shoulder. Almost immediately, he snatches it back as if scalded.

  “Sorry,” he whispers.

  I want to tell him there’s no need to be sorry for touching me. Ever. But I guess that’s where we are.

  4) And tell him EVERYTHING you saw the night of the attack. Don’t hold anything back. Even if you think you’re protecting me, or yourself.

  “Guess we’ll have to tell him what I did to you after, hmm?” his voice, grave and low, is startling and cognitively confusing after these last few minutes of focused silence and furious whispering.

  I guess, given what I just wrote, that there’s no use in trying to keep this part a secret. (I mean, I’m not totally convinced we’re actually being eavesdropped upon, but Liam’s fear isn’t outside the realm of possibility.) But it’s still uncomfortable to mention sex… well, my dad won’t press on it, that’s for sure. Way too awkward. But no reason to for us to lie if it comes up.

  Wait.

  “What do you mean did to me? You saved me.”

  “And then I… I assaulted you all over again.”

  “What?”

  “I should never have done that to you after a night like that.” I’ve never seen such pain on his face. He looks utterly devastated. Not at all the cocky smirks and quick smiles I’ve been used to, or even the set, efficient expressions he’s been wearing lately.

  “Liam –”

  “It was so wrong. I don’t know what happened, I just lost control. The adrenaline, maybe, I don’t know, some kind of crazy impulse… I’ve never felt like that before. April, I’m so sorry, I —”

  “Liam, stop. You didn’t do anything to me. With me, maybe. For me, even.”

  “What?”

  “I decided just as much as you did. I wanted it just as much as you did. I begged you for it, don’t you remember?” The memory of being spread out for him, aching, craving his cock — it sends a zing of heat through me, pulsing from my pussy up to my nipples.

  I pull him back into the lav. I thought we didn’t need to hide this conversation, but fuck if I’m letting my bodyguards listen in, or even the stewardess. The bathroom is bigger and much nicer than the ones in commercial jets, that’s for sure.

  Liam considers me carefully, five inches from my face. “But you were vulnerable. You weren’t truly in your right mind.”

  “Well then, neither were you!” I realize I’m shouting but I don’t care anymore. “Don’t take my agency from me. Don’t you dare. Not now.”

  “I took advantage of the situation.”

  “Who’s to say I didn’t take advantage of you?”

  “You didn’t want —”

  “Does this feel like I don’t want it?” I grab his hand and bring it under my dress to graze against my lacy panties, between my legs, where I’m already wet again. Just from standing near him, watching his lips, remembering his tongue on me. Remembering the wanton begging.

  He�
�s frozen in shock, his fingers gently pressed in a line between my lower lips, triggering a response in me I can’t quite control. A little uptick in my hips, my hands go to his shoulders, and now I’m taking my pleasure from him, riding on his fingers ever so subtlety.

  Oh my God.

  I step back, off of his hand.

  “I wasn’t… sure…” he trails off.

  He’s so wrong. Can’t he see, I’m the one flinging myself at him? I have been all along. How much I want him, how much I like him, it’s insane. It’s almost embarrassing.

  “Listen to me, Liam Copperhead. Don’t you dare take this decision away from me. I wanted to fuck you that night. I want to do it now. And if… if you’re into it,” his body certainly seems to want it, even if logically he doesn’t love me, “then I’m ready for you.”

  “I don’t understand.” He does seem truly baffled.

  “Does this help clear things up?” I drop to my knees and start unbuckling his belt, twisting apart the button. “Say yes,” I remind him. “Like I did. Remember?”

  I said yes many times the night he fucked me.

  He looks down at me, eyes full of wonder.

  “Yes,” he breathes, and I untuck him from his pants. He’s hard as a rock again, and this time I get to examine him up close.

  He’s gorgeous. Perfectly shaped, huge, stiff as a rod but plump and soft at the tip. The perfect slight curve upwards for hitting the g-spot.

  I bend over his manhood, hovering my lips right at the tip, and slowly flick a tongue over the pink, twitching tip, eliciting a throaty moan from him. Even the tip of his cock is bigger than I’ve ever seen, so big that it’s almost hard to fit it in my mouth. I give it a few more wet licks, hot, slow. Teasing him, breathing over him, feeling the blood rushing under my hands, making him harder and harder. His cock leaps with each stroke, a sharp intake of breath hisses from his teeth.

  “God,” he moans.

  “Mm hmm?” I respond, and the vibration makes him jump again. Then I pop my mouth off of him, and he groans in protest.

  “Please,” he says. And now he’s the one begging me.