“He gave his permission for me to go to Virginia with Taxi.”
“Fuck,” Doozer breathed out.
“I thought you had my back.”
“I do have your back,” he said. “But that doesn’t make you leaving me any easier.”
“I’m not leaving you, Marco.”
“What would you call it?”
“A business trip,” I said. “For two months.”
“A lot can happen in two months.” He pulled away and stalked into the bathroom.
I bit my lip and leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he washed up. “It’ll go by faster than you think.”
“What about after?”
I sighed. “After training is done, you mean?”
Doozer nodded
“We’re gonna have to play those cards as they’re dealt to us. Are you okay with that?”
He dried his face and shook his head. “This is all gonna suck, baby, but I do have your back and we’ll figure it out. But please don’t expect me to be happy about it.”
I nodded. “I get it. It’s not like I’m looking forward to being apart from you, either.”
He closed the distance between us, leaning down to kiss me gently. “Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. I just want to hold you and forget for a few hours.”
I stroked his cheek. “I love that idea.”
He smiled and took me back to bed.
CHAPTER TEN
Trouble
DOCTOR FENTON’S OFFICE, like most of what I’d seen of Quantico so far, was unremarkably plain. Bookcases and framed credentials lined the standard-issue beige walls. A few potted plants and some muted lighting attempted to soften the space, but if you’ve been in one government appointed therapist’s office, you’ve been in them all.
“How was your flight?” Doctor Caroline Fenton asked from her cozy looking chair.
“Fine,” I replied softly. I was lying, of course. It was a seven-hour flight from Portland to Dulles, with a three-hour layover in Chicago, plus an additional one-hour drive to Quantico. We arrived at the academy at midnight, which meant it was three o’clock in the morning according to my body. I was wrecked. I’d barely slept, hadn’t even had the chance to unpack my duffel bag, and here I was under the microscope of Quantico’s chief psychologist at the ass crack of dawn.
“If you’re jetlagged I have a wonderful tea I can make you,” Doctor Fenton said, pointing to a small tea station in the corner.
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” I said.
“You let me know if you change your mind,” she said, sweetly. Doctor Caroline Fenton was beautiful and looked to be in her mid-thirties. “I can’t seem to drink enough tea throughout the day.” She pointed to what looked like a freshly poured cup on the small table beside her.
“Is the tea part of it?” I asked.
“Part of what?”
“Your test,” I replied.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Doctor Fenton said.
“The test to see if I’m psychologically fit to perform. Is whether or not I say yes to the tea a part of it?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “There’s no test. We’re just here to talk.”
“You mean, we’re here to determine if I’m mentally stable enough to handle killing a person at the behest of the federal government.”
Doctor Fenton patted the folder sitting on top of her desk. “Agent Davis’s dossier on you says you’re highly intelligent and speak directly. Seems accurate so far,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, yeah? What else does it say?”
“That you are slow to trust people but are extremely loyal once you do. Is that true?”
I shrugged.
“Miss Palmer. I’ve known Agent Davis since he was a recruit and I’ve always known him to be an excellent judge of character. I agreed to meet with you personally at his request because I understand the time-sensitive nature of his training program. Even though you don’t know me, I’d like to ask you to trust me.”
“Trouble. Call me Trouble.”
“Yes, of course,” Doctor Fenton said warmly. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been more uncomfortable in my life,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Believe it or not, I too was once a fresh-faced recruit like you. There were even fewer female students in the academy back then and I was terrified my first day here. My first month, if I’m being honest. But soon enough, I felt like I’d been born and raised here.”
“What changed?
“I lost an eye and the hearing in my right ear during a training accident,” Doctor Fenton replied casually.
“What?”
“Yup,” she said, removing her glasses and pulling her long blonde hair back to reveal a scar running from her ear to the corner of her eye. “This one’s glass,” she said pointing to her right eye.
“Holy shit,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry, I—”
“That’s okay,” she said, shrugging. “If the accident had never happened, I’d be a field agent instead of a therapist, and I wouldn’t trade what I do for the world.”
“Can I ask what happened?” I asked.
“I took some friendly fire in Hogan’s Alley,” Doctor Fenton said, putting her glasses back on. She was stunning. Even with the scar, which was barely visible, especially behind her hair and glasses.
“Where’s Hogan’s Alley?”
Dr. Fenton smiled. “Hogan’s Alley is one of our facilities here at Quantico. It’s our very own small town within a small town. We use it for field training purposes. We can simulate everything from car chases to hostage situations. It was during one of those exercises that a fellow classmate discharged his weapon in close quarters. The slug ricocheted off the floor and struck me in the face.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I was lucky to be alive, but no longer fit for field duty after that, so I switched gears and studied to become a counselor for the bureau.”
“And now you’re the head of the entire department?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you ever wish you were a field agent?”
“I used to, in the beginning. But I love what I do more than anything and can’t imagine doing anything else now.”
“Wow,” I said, now in complete awe of this beautiful blonde bombshell badass.
She leaned forward, seeming genuinely interested in what I had to say. “What about you? What’s your superhero origin story?”
“I’m definitely not a superhero,” I said.
“You certainly have a cool superhero name,” she said. “How about we start with that? Did your club give you the name?”
I nodded. “Cowboy. The president of the first club I rode with, Bikers for Kids.”
“Bikers for Kids?”
“It’s a charity club that raises money and awareness to prevent the cycle of child abuse and neglect,” I replied.
“It sounds like you’ve said that a few times before,” Dr. Fenton smiled.
“You learn to let those words come out quickly and easily when dealing with the public. People have a hard time trusting bikers, but if they know you work with kids, they relax a little bit.”
“What type of work did you do with Bikers for Kids?”
“Toy drives, in-person visits, fundraising. Stuff like that.”
“Did you find that type of work rewarding?”
“I did,” I said, shifting in my seat.
“Are you uncomfortable talking about your work with Bikers for Kids?” Dr. Fenton asked, softly.
“More like uncomfortable talking about myself at all.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Plus, I never think about my time with BFK as work.”
“It sounds like it must have been extremely hard work. Physically and emotionally. You strike me as a sensitive person, and I can’t imagine you didn’t take your experiences with those children home with you.”
“I suppose
Taxi mentions my father in that file.”
Doctor Fenton nodded sympathetically. “I understand he passed away when you were quite young.”
“No offense, Doc, but it’s a little early in the day, and our doctor patient relationship to go there,” I said.
“Fair enough,” Doctor Fenton said.
“Maybe someday I could read the biography Taxi’s written about me,” I said, pointing the folder on her desk.
“I hope you don’t feel like it’s an invasion of your privacy. I asked Agent Davis—”
“Taxi,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt, but Taxi only wants us to use our club names when talking about each other. The first rule of undercover work.”
“Of course,” she said. “I asked Taxi to formulate his initial impressions of each team candidate so I could get up to speed as quickly as possible. Normally, we’d have an intake interview before training even began, and then I’d be able to get to know and evaluate you over the course of twenty weeks. But we don’t have that kind of time.”
“I get it.” I sighed. “It’s just kinda creepy, that’s all.”
“I’ll be happy to make a copy for you after our session.”
“Really? That’s not classified information or anything?”
“I think we’ll be okay,” she said with a wink. “Can we return to the topic of your time with Bikers for Kids?”
“Not much to tell,” I replied. “What do you want to know?”
“From what I’ve read, and what you’ve said this morning, I get the impression you enjoyed riding with them. Why did you quit them and join the Burning Saints?”
“It’s not quite like that. I didn’t quit BFK. I was a patch over.”
“What’s a patch over?”
“Sometimes, a trusted member of an MC is allowed to transition from their club into another club. Sometimes entire clubs do it.”
“Is that sort of thing done a lot within the biker community?”
“The biker community? You make us sound like a voter demographic,” I said with a chuckle.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
My chuckle turned to a laugh. “I think you’d have to stab me with that letter opener to offend me.”
“Let’s hope our conversations stay puncture wound free,” Dr. Fenton said, steering the conversation back on course. “You were explaining being a patch over.”
“Yeah, it’s not super common, I guess, but both Cowboy and Minus thought it was a good idea, so I was cool with it.”
An eyebrow raised over the rim of Doctor Fenton’s glasses. “Simple as that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’d simply let two men trade you like a baseball card.”
“It was nothing like that,” I protested.
“Then if it was your decision, I’d love to know why you made it?”
“Why is it important for you to know that?”
“I’m more than happy to answer that question, Trouble, but I’m afraid I would need to bring up a topic you’ve requested to address on another day.”
“My dad?”
Dr. Fenton nodded.
“What does my dad have to do with who I ride with?”
“I suspect he has a great deal to do with many of the choices you’ve made, not the least of which being here at Quantico, training as a sniper.”
“The training as a sniper bit isn’t lost on me,” I admitted.
She smiled slightly.
“Riding with BFK probably has something to do with the fact I never want a child to ever feel like a burden, especially during the holidays when it’s painfully evident they have nothing.” I picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on my jeans. “Patching over to the Saints is more complicated.”
“Oh?” Dr. Fenton hummed. “How so?”
I squirmed in my chair for a few tense seconds before blurting out, “I fell in love.”
* * *
Doozer
Life without Trouble was literally becoming painful. Every morning I’d wake with a swollen cock, hard enough to pound railroad spikes. Of course, I wanted to be pounding Trouble, but with her gone, my only current options were my hand, and one of the strippers from last night’s party that were no doubt passed out in various places within the Sanctuary.
Kitty’s birthday bash was last night, and although Minus had tried to steer the club away from strippers, Warthog elegantly pointed out, “It ain’t no Kitty party if it ain’t no titty party,” so we acquiesced. Of course, stripper parties usually ended in orgies and last night was no exception. Silicone and glitter not quite being my thing, I escaped to my room with a bottle, wishing I could call Trouble.
I drank myself into oblivion instead, and after hauling my ass out of bed this morning, I nearly rammed my dick into the side of the shower as I stepped under the water. I was gonna have to take care of this myself.
Taking my cock into my hand, I slid my palm up my aching shaft, dropping my head back with a groan. I thought of Trouble’s perfect lips wrapped around my throbbing dick, the hot water serving as a substitute for her tongue. I stroked myself faster as I imagined her taking me deeper and deeper into her mouth. My thigh muscles tightening as I quickened the pace. My mind flooding with memories of times Trouble had happily sucked me off. Kneeling, with her eyes locked on mine as my cock filled her greedy mouth. As Trouble’s fantasy blow job continued, I pumped my cock harder, bringing me closer and closer to the edge until I finally exploded. Imagining Trouble taking every drop into her mouth as I came.
Finally, I could start the day with a little relief.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Trouble
BY WEEK FOUR, life at Quantico had settled into the kind of rhythm a blacksmith falls into when hammering a sword into shape. In this scenario, I was most certainly the hunk of iron. Repeatedly heated up and hammered. Bashed into shape until I began to resemble something even I didn’t recognize.
Every day, after morning chow, I’d meet with Dr. Fenton for one hour. We’d talk, I’d cry, then I’d get pissed off at her for making me cry. She’d tell me that it wasn’t really her that I was angry with and yada, yada, yada. Dr. Fenton always looked pleased at the end of our sessions, and would say encouraging things like, “Thank you for your honesty,” and “You’re doing great,” but the sessions with her were like going through an emotional meat grinder.
However, much to my surprise, I found myself looking forward to our talks. I’m not sure if it was due to her training, or something about her specifically, but Dr. Fenton had the ability to crack me open like a walnut, while still making me feel safe.
After the morning’s emotional pounding, I’d join the team for course work, which was usually led by a guest instructor. One day, we’d learn from an explosives expert about identifying types of bombs and I.E.D.s in the field. The next day, it would be a medic teaching us how to do C.P.R. Every morning it was something new, and another section of both my brain, and notebook filled up. After that, the team would have lunch together in the mess, then head off to the field training location of the day.
This was always the most exciting and nerve-wracking part of the day. Three days ago, I found myself harnessed into a rig that simulated being submerged in water while trapped inside a vehicle. The rig and I were plunged into a pitch-black swimming pool filled with nearly freezing cold water and I had only a multi-tool to free myself. Despite being terrified, I managed to complete the exercise within the allotted time, and without drowning.
Today we were running drills in Hogan’s Alley and I was in the hot seat. More specifically the “God Seat,” a term used by snipers to describe the shooter with the highest vantage point. I was positioned on top of a building made to look like a New York brownstone. My teammates, Tackle and Boots, were down the block, waiting outside a mock coffee shop. Taxi, along with the rest of our team, were observing silently from an unknown location.
Tackle, Boots, and I were
running a training scenario in which we, the blue team, were acting as undercover agents making a large drug buy from a new supplier. The drug traffickers were played by seasoned Quantico instructors who held every possible advantage over us. The red team were seasoned veterans who knew every inch of Hogan’s Alley like the back of their hands, and they took no mercy on us. These exercises were child’s play to them, and so far, they’d handed our asses to us every time we went up against them. I was determined not to lose to them again.
My orders were to spot and identify any incoming forces and take them out should they engage first. I felt confident about the spot I’d chosen and a clear scope all the way down to my team. If these drug-running assholes tried anything, I was ready to light them up.
“Blue leader. A black SUV is heading your way, approaching from the west,” I said into the mic sewn into my collar. Our clothing was wired for sound enabling us to communicate with one another via wireless mics and earpieces.
“Copy that, Jehovah,” Tackle replied. “Confirmed, a bogie is headed our way.”
Tackle was the senior member of our team in all regards. He was the oldest, the first to be recruited by Taxi, and the one we looked to as our leader, whether he liked it or not. He rode with the Killing Jokers out of Florida, who were as old school as they came. He never talked about how he came to be on Taxi’s team, but I got the feeling it was for reasons more personal than business.
“Shit, man. An SUV? There’s no telling how many guys could be in there,” Boots said with a groan.
“Yup,” Tackle replied.
“Don’t worry, boys. God sees you and loves you very much,” I said, keeping my rifle trained on my team.
The SUV pulled up to the spot where Tackle and Boots were waiting, and four bad guys got out. One of them was carrying a metal briefcase.
“I have eyes on the package,” Tackle said.
“You’re right on time,” the red leader said, casually approaching my team.
“And you’re late,” Tackle said.
“What can I say, traffic this time of day is a bitch,” he said, motioning to the empty streets of Hogan’s Alley.
Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5) Page 9
