Hate F*@k: part two

by Booth, Ainsley

  We both groan when he gets the angle right and surges into me. He fills me right to the point of gasping. Pleasure isn’t the right word—I’m still aching from the night before, and in this position he feels bigger than ever before. It also feels different. Hotter, rougher, and more intense. So good.

  I never want him to stop.

  He slowly drags in and out, his ragged breaths matching my own as I press back against him on each thrust.

  “Mine,” he says so quietly I barely hear him. The single word is as erotic as any kiss or caress, and a fresh flood of my arousal lubricates his erection, making it easier for him to fuck me. He repeats the word, a little louder this time, and I cry out when he grabs my hips, hard, and drives even deeper than before.

  “Don’t stop,” I beg.

  He doesn’t.

  His brutal rhythm makes my eyes water and drives my pulse into my throat.

  I love it.

  I need it.

  And I’m so damn close, but he’s fucking me against the door in his office.

  Coming is easier said than done. As if he senses that I’m riding the edge and can’t get high enough, he slows down. He squeezes my hip, then shoves his hand under my shirt and cups one breast as he leans over my back.

  “Please make me come.” I say it quietly, but then he tweaks my nipple and I gasp his name, louder this time.

  “Hush, beautiful.”

  “Shut up and fuck me,” I gasp, the command roaring out of me in a very un-Hailey-like fashion.

  He does just that, stroking my breast and using his words to add that something extra I need to the perfect penetration that’s gotten me so close. “You’re mine, Hailey,” he growls in my ear as I press my lips together to keep from screaming as I come hard.

  As soon as I finish spasming around him, he pulls out and jerks himself off against my ass, the wet slide of his hand on his cock and his increasingly fast breaths the only sounds in the room as I stand there, bare-assed and shaking, leaning against the door.

  The hot, wet splash of his come hitting my lower back is a surreal cherry on top of the angriest sex I’ve ever had. It’s made worse by the fact that I think the anger was all one-sided.

  I slide a glance over my shoulder as he wipes me up with something. His undershirt. At some point he took off his jacket, which is on the floor, and now he’s bare-chested.

  I turn around and wiggle back into my pants, trying hard not to touch him.

  Why does he have to be so disgustingly beautiful? All chiseled muscle. And deep in the middle of that perfectly carved chest is a heart. Black and brittle on the outside, but there’s a tiny part of him that calls me his.

  Damn him. I can’t handle being his.

  “We done here?” I pour as much disdain into those three words as I can muster. Turns out, I can muster a lot.

  His head snaps up at the ice in my voice. He stares at me for a minute before turning and going to a closet in the corner, where he pulls out a dress shirt and puts it on. “Sure. I should get to work. Give me a minute to wash up and I’ll get Tag to escort you home.”

  “I can find him.”

  He nods, not looking at me. “I didn’t use a condom. I’m sorry. If you need something…”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Thanks for asking. I’m on the Pill. I assume all of your secret affairs put you in the high-risk category, so—”

  “I’ve never done that before,” he says, cutting me off, but he doesn’t match my pissed-off tone. “I get tested. I’m clean.”

  I sigh. I’m really mad about the lack of a condom. Cole would never put me at risk, and I could have told him to stop. I would have if I wasn’t protected against pregnancy. “I’m sorry. I trust you.” It takes all my effort to force myself to add something that will push him away. “With my body, anyway.”

  He stiffens, and I turn away. It’s time for me to leave before I do any further damage.

  “Hailey.”

  I look back at him, keeping my hand on the door handle. I am leaving, no matter what he says.

  But he just steps close enough to hold out a hard plastic card. “Take this. It’s a pass card to the office. It works on the elevator and in the stairwell. Access to both floors. If you ever need…”

  I stare at the unmarked white card that tells me he trusts me with everything. My heart cracks. “I can’t take that.”

  “I can’t let you go unless you do.” He presses it into my hand, his fingertips grazing the inside of my wrist as he flattens his palm against mine. “Up to you if you ever use it.”

  “You already gave me your apartment key,” I whisper.

  “So you’ve got some options.”

  I wish I didn’t know a dozen ways I might need those options some day. I stare at our hands, just barely touching. Cole’s entire world between our palms.

  —four—

  Cole

  “That was really uncalled for,” I spit at Jason as I storm back into the conference room. I’m talking about the stunt he pulled by asking me about her when she was right fucking there, but from the look on his face, he doesn’t care.

  I don’t care about him right now, either.

  Waiting until Hailey cleared out of the building was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I have no idea how long it will be until I can see her again, until it’s safe to bring my shadow into her light, even in secret, and now I’m pissed.

  “How long you took to get rid of her? Yes, it was.” Jason scowls at me, but since we need to stay on the same side today, I hold myself back from punching him. Just barely. “I thought you said you’d handle it. She says you were with her last night.”

  Last night. Ten minutes ago. “She’s none of your business.”

  “No,” he barks, taking me by surprise. I know he’s not pleased, but the look on his face is murderous. “She should be none of your business, for her sake. And the sooner you remember that, the better it will be for her.”

  I stare at him, pulse pounding. He’s not wrong. “Well, maybe I need to reconsider what business I’m in, then.”

  “Right now?” My best friend and business partner slides his usual calm mask into place and smirks at me. I want nothing more than to punch that smarmy look off his face. “Sure. We can discuss that right after we figure out who murdered Anabeth Fletcher.”

  I twist to glare at Wilson, who just hunkers down behind his computer and doesn’t say anything.

  Jason continues as if I haven’t just threatened to quit. “Tag is going to stop and talk to the medical examiner on his way back. Hopefully he can get an exact time of death.”

  I take a deep breath. Focus. “Fletcher didn’t do this.” I say it as a statement of fact, but none of us know for sure.

  Jason frowns. “Unless he’s the world’s greatest actor, no. I was heading home when he called me, already in my car, so I was there fast. Ten minutes after he woke up, maybe? And you guys all got there fifteen minutes after that. And I didn’t see anything that made me think he knew what the hell was going on.”

  Jesus. A man wakes up next to his dead wife, a gun in his hand…if you have our number, you call it. You don’t call 9-1-1. Not if you’ve got enough money or power to know better.

  I wish we’d had more time to clean up the scene. But no sooner had I arrived than the police were knocking on the door, and I only had one option. I wiped down the gun and picked it up, dropping it as soon as the uniformed officers came through the bedroom door.

  Our client didn’t need to be arrested for the murder of his wife. I spared him from that. I can’t spare him from the months of rumors and speculation, but I could keep him out of handcuffs this morning, so I did.

  “Then we need to dig into their backgrounds, figure out why someone would want Anabeth dead.” I lean forward, bracing my hands on the coffee table. “Brian had me escort her to a few things last year. He never gave me a reason, and at that point, I was just happy to make the contacts. We need to ask him why.”

  Jason nod
s. “We’ll go over there later today. Once we know more.”

  Wilson clears his throat and the screen flickers to life. He’s got a macro running on that laptop that auto-fills a fancy looking presentation with data from a number of databases he shouldn’t have access to.

  Shouldn’t have access to is like catnip for Wilson.

  So Anabeth’s deepest, darkest secrets scroll across the wall.

  “That’s it?” Jason shakes his head. An abortion when she was twenty-two. A few parking tickets. An audit five years earlier that carried a small tax penalty. “So this isn’t about her.”

  “Not unless she was leading a double life we don’t know about.” Wilson’s voice says it all—not likely.

  I frown. “What about Fletcher?”

  We already know his dossier from when we accepted him as a client. None of us need to look at the screen. Jason makes a beats me face. “We took him on as a client because of who he knows, not who he is. He’s on the Education and the Workforce committee. Not a threat to anyone. Might be a good future leader, but that’s two or three election cycles away.”

  “Huh.” Wilson squints at his screen and types a few quick keystrokes, then another round of lightning-quick taps. “Well, two months ago he started making noises about an anti-sex slavery bill. It was shot down by the party leadership staff. Twice.”

  “What? Why?” Jason asks the question that’s on both of our minds. That sounds like an easy bill to support.

  This is our area of weakness. None of us are Washington insiders. It’s an advantage because we’re truly non-partisan. On the other hand, parsing shit like this makes all of our heads hurt.

  “Searching…hang on.” A few more key strokes, then he stops and stares at the screen. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “The poor bastard.” Wilson narrows his eyes as he punches a finger at the keyboard. The large screen flips to a projection of an email account. The recipient is Fletcher’s chief of staff, an experienced Hill veteran.

  Is there any way to get Fletcher out of the way? Something that might remove his wife as an option, too?

  I stalk around the table and stab my finger at the sender’s email address on the screen: syst34@xmail.com. “Who in the hell is this?”

  “Hang on…” The email zooms to the corner of the screen as Wilson brings up a black search box and starts typing. IP addresses whiz by on the screen until one flashes and stops.

  “Jesus Christ. The email was sent from a server inside the Russian embassy.”

  We all curse at the same time.

  “Wait. Look at his history. Fucking hell, this motherfucker gets around. The Turkish embassy. Iranian. Practically everyone except the Chinese.”

  Well, no shit. Nobody asks the Chinese embassy if they can just hop on their wifi and send murder plot emails from their Hotmail account.

  I look at Jason. He looks at Wilson. “You sure? This isn’t some teenager pranking?”

  Our ex-CIA hacker doesn’t even blink. “Nope. These emails were legitimately sent from those locations. I don’t see anything else that interesting, so maybe he slipped up. Hopefully there’s more—maybe in code…it’ll take me an hour or two to read through all of these.”

  I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at Jason. “Time for you to call the puppet master.”

  He looks back at me blandly. He’s always so sure he’s on the side of good, no matter how fucked up things get. I haven’t had that confidence in years—the primary factor in my decision to leave the SEAL teams.

  I still don’t really understand why Jason left with me. He’d been tapped for the secret squirrel, black ops team. Although we play at that, most of the time we’re exactly what we seem to be—fixers, up-and-coming bachelors of Washington society. Professional assholes.

  Not superheroes. Not even anti-heroes.

  Nothing heroic about what we do, even if there’s a shadowy organization that keeps telling Jason we should keep doing it.

  And I’m the number one asshole who does it, without an ounce of belief.

  No wonder Hailey wants nothing to do with me—she can see my true character.

  But right now…this might be one of those moments when the other side of what we do might actually make a difference. Too late for Anabeth Fletcher. Hopefully not too late for her husband.

  “First, call Tag. Tell him to pick up Fletcher and bring him here,” Jason says. “He can stay with me while you two figure out what someone might want Fletcher to lose his seat in the House.” He rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. “And yeah, I’ll go make a call.”

  He disappears to his office. This is the deal. He’s the only one who talks to his PRISM contact.

  Project Responsible for International Security Measures.

  It sounds so…reasonable. And compared to the forces of evil in this world, it is. But the powers-that-be who formed the alliance are ruthless. They wouldn’t care about an individual murder. Not of Anabeth Fletcher. Not of a hooker who made the mistake of saying no to Morgan Reid six months ago.

  My stomach turns at all the blind-eyes that have been turned in the name of international geo-political stability.

  But if the take down of Representative Fletcher is a lead domino, intended to start a chain reaction that culminates in World War III…that, they care about. That, we can demand support on.

  And if this turns out to be nothing? Then they’ll turn a blind eye to the justice we administer.

  — —

  We wait four excruciating days before making our move.

  Word came back from PRISM that they were concerned, but had no immediately relevant information to share. Whatever the fuck that means. So we did our thing.

  Wilson read every single email he could find. We talked to people. Found out that Fletcher’s bill was shot down after lobbyist intervention. What lobbyist? No one would say.

  Tag gave Kendra what we had. She said it wasn’t enough, and she was right.

  So now I’m waiting in an alley a few blocks from his house in the early evening. There aren’t any cameras nearby. Tag dropped me in a visual dead zone, and he’ll pick me up again in the same spot in a different vehicle.

  Wesley Perry, Fletcher’s snake of a chief of staff, is walking toward me. Face down in his smart phone, because he’s an asshole and unaware of his surroundings.

  It gives me a decent amount of pleasure to yank him into the dark alley and send his phone flying toward the brick wall. “Oops.”

  “Hey!” His fists come up too late. I’ve got my forearm pressed against his neck, up into his chin. He scrabbles his hands against me, his eyes wide with fear.

  Good.

  “Two options here, motherfucker. Talk or die, got it?” My breath puffs in his face.

  He kicks at me and I step back, letting him trip himself. Down he goes and up I drag him, slamming him against the bricks again, my fists holding him so tightly his coat tears at the seams. The rip makes me grin.

  “Next thing to break is your face.”

  With a whimper, he presses his legs together and my nose tells me why he’s crying. He’s pissed himself.

  Of course he has.

  “I haven’t even hit you yet.”

  “Don’t hit me,” he says, his eyes pleading for mercy.

  “No, I’m definitely going to hit you. I’m going to leave you battered and bruised, so you never forget that I’m more terrifying than the asshole you’ve been working with. Who is he? Because I’m not scared of him.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Wrong answer, Wesley.” I drive my fist into his guts. “Try again.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he gasps.

  “So you didn’t exchange emails with syst34@xmail.com? Because I know that you did. And I don’t like being lied to.”

  He groans as I thump him against the wall again, but he still doesn’t talk.

  “Is there any way to get Fletcher out of the way
?” I recite the email from memory. “And you responded. He needs to be disgraced. Ruined forever. Maybe he could off his wife.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers, which is pathetic if it’s true. I don’t fucking care.

  “But she’s dead, isn’t she? An innocent woman. You did that. Who were you talking to?” I release him, and he staggers towards me, putting his hands up. I jab twice, quickly, before delivering a roundhouse to his jaw. It’s barely fair.

  Good thing I don’t believe in fair.

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Wrong answer.” Another jab to the gut. I’m done hurting him now, because I’m not a murderer, but I don’t have a problem bruising them up when I come across them in an alley.

  “I think he goes by the name Andre. I heard him answer his phone that way once.”

  “Where did you usually meet him?”

  “The Mall. A coffee shop near the Hill sometimes. I haven’t seen or heard from him since Anabeth—”

  Blood sprays the wall as I thud my fist into his jaw. “Don’t fucking say her name.”

  He sags against the brick, and I step back, my chest heaving.

  Ten seconds pass. Thirty. The chill of the cold February night is getting to him. He’s been pummelled in an alley. Any second now…

  His shoulders slump, and I lean in, gripping his jaw in a painful hold. “Physical description. Anything you remember. I want it all. Give me everything, and you leave here alive.”

  He spits out more than I expected. Enough that when he’s done, and I’ve whispered a promise to make the injuries permanent if he doesn’t quit and find another job in another city doing anything but power-play politics, I saunter out of the alley, leaving him standing.

  More than he deserves.

  I’m getting soft.

  I shove that thought away. I know why. I don’t want any thoughts of Hailey in my head while I do what I’ve gotta do.

  Tag pulls up ten seconds late and I get in. My hands are freezing and my knuckles hurt, but I’ve got what I need. As soon as we pull away, he gives me even better, unexpected news, as he hands over a tablet.