by C. L. Black
Cat did too remember. It was what triggered yesterday’s shouting match. Her mom said, “No more fucking perfume.” Her mom had made it a point to tell her all about the mysterious ailment known as Burning-Mouth-Syndrome or BMS. BMS afflicted Miss Christi and many millions of other woman. The slightest scent from perfumes, candles, even cleaning products caused them tremendous pain. There was no known treatment or cure—only avoidance of the triggers, which varied from one person to the next. The countless doctors were useless. Nothing helped.
“That right!” said Danielle smartly, more than a hint of skepticism clinging to her lips. She looked to Miss Christi with subtle concern. Turning, she scowled at the subject. Looks like a supermodel, sits like a guy, acts like a not-so-little-brat bitch. Yup, she’s a real princess all right. This is going to be one fun summer. “Liar.”
“Fuck you, bitch!” Catherine strutted toward the door, her arms crossed, like a bully itching for a fight. She stopped only inches away and waited. “Well?” The princess insisted Danielle get the door. With her back to Catherine, Danielle advanced and opened it. As she did, Catherine leaned in close to Danielle’s ear and whispered, “Bitch!”
“Not yours, princess!” Danielle’s response came quick. I felt that hair. Deep breaths. Steady girl. Their game was definitely on.
As they walked out to the car, Danielle stayed vigilant, ready to chase the subject down if she tried to run. Miss Christi had warned her, “Sometimes they run, dear. Most are too confused. They usually cry.” A lot. Danielle had packed an extra box of tissues. She pulled the door then assisted Miss Christi’s entry into the Mercedes.
“Oh, Miss Danielle! These flowers are truly lovely. Thank you so much, dear.”
“You’re most welcome, Mum. I have the other two bouquets up here with me. Knew you’d want to hold those yourself.” After securing the safety belt around her employer, Danielle carefully closed the door. Over the warm black roof she said, “I’ll get yours in a second, princess.” The car had functioned as her mobile operations base for the last twenty-three hours. She was prepared to make it so for most of the next twenty-four.
Catherine was tapping her foot impatiently when Danielle—No, she’s more of a Dani—came ’round and opened the door. “Hey, blondie, what’s with all the flowers? You two dating?”
“Please get in, Miss Black.”
Catherine almost crushed the bouquet as she plopped. Twenty-one red roses sat between them, placed neatly in the center of the rear seat.
“Want me to buckle you in, princess?” Danielle reached for the lap belt. Please.
“Hey! Fuck off!” Catherine pulled the belt away then yanked the door, slamming it shut, nearly crushing Danielle’s nervous hand. Her face still glared as she asked Miss Christi, “Hey, what’s with all the fricken flowers?” Pretty. Nice.
“Please buckle up, Miss.” Danielle stared into the rearview mirror while starting the Mercedes.
“Shut up and drive the fuckin’ car. Bitch!”
“Sure you don’t need some help? Well, do ya, baby?”
Click!
Danielle would have opened Miss Christi’s window, but the bullet-resistant windows didn’t go down. Instead, she engaged the ventilation system’s special feature, concerned the all-too-pungent perfume Catherine had overdosed herself in was causing Miss Christi great discomfort. A powerful blower sucked in the subject’s smelly fumes from around Miss Christi. The system also filtered the air, passing it through a canister of activated charcoal before returning it to the cabin.
“Is that better, Mum?”
“Yes, dear, much. Thank you.” Miss Christi sat back as they drove off. Soon they were on the Custis Memorial Parkway heading east in the direction of Reagan National Airport. “It’s a wonderful day to begin our journey, don’t you agree, my dear?”
“Yeah. Sure, whatever.” Catherine didn’t give a shit about the weather. Her entire world was sitting in her lap. The weather down there was always hot and steamy. Their world, for the last two weeks, had been accessible only through her tapping thumps.
“To whom are you communicating, dear?”
“Huh? Nobody you know.”
“Are you sure, dear?”
Catherine lifted her head and turned to Miss Christi. “Positive!” She resumed her blind texting: WTFRU
The Client
The Mayflower, 09:04 local
Jane entered the opulent dining room expecting to be sacked. She stood at the entrance for a moment scanning for, the client. Eight years was a bloody long time.
She spotted, Uncle Pete, on the far side sitting in the corner. Never for once had she believed it was his real name, but it was the only one she knew. His back was up against the wall, partially obscuring the mural of an English country fox hunt. Same old Pete. He had drilled it into her head. You need to see them coming. She chuckled to herself, did a discrete chest pump, and continued her death march. Head high, old girl. Her stomach growled when she passed the enticing breakfast buffet and neared her destiny. He looks older.
The client was forty-seven and slightly overweight for a guy six foot. Said he played some football in college: backup QB for Harvard. Class of 83, or so he said. She had googled him the month before. There was no record any Pete Long ever went to Harvard. There was no record any Pete Long ever bloody existed.
Earned his Harvard degree in political science then added a PhD in human failings, as he liked to call it. Said he reported indirectly and very covertly to the new secretary of state, the new and recently divorced Ms. Rodwell. His official title within the department of state was Director of Human Relations. It was all a white cover for his clandestine service role operating within the guise of the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS).
He was reading today’s copy of The London Times. Krump’s arrival in Berlin with the two freed British journalists was the lead story. A photo showed three women deplaning from Krump One. The headline touted Krump’s pivotal role in mediating their release. He pretended not to notice the Cougar heading his way. He didn’t get or look up.
“The food here’s wicked good. You’re late. What kept ya?” He still spoke with a blue-collar Boston dialect. He’d lived in DC for close to twelve years. He wore Brooks Brothers, still drank Bud—Bud Select when they had it—and hated Mexican food. As for fun—not lately. “Can you believe this Krump fucker? What a load of—Christ, Cougar, you look like crap.”
Same old Pete. She scanned his plate. One thick sausage link with two puny potatoes, arranged as cock and balls. It was code. We’re being watched.
“Right. Only place in this bloody awful town that offers one a proper British breakfast.” Jane set her things in the empty chair then backtracked direct to the buffet. With purpose, she built a plate, heavy with scrambled eggs, two plump English sausages, and two scoops of the pan-fried potatoes, then scanned the room for threats. She saw only one, a tall slender temptress, sitting alone, staring. She arrived back at the client’s table to see, same old Pete eyeing the red and pink, sticking partially out of her shoulder bag.
“Coffee?” The waitress poured, leaving the pot.
“Some wheat toast, dry.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
Jane growled back, “It’s Miss!”
“Excuse me, Miss!” She left.
“Rough night, Cougar? I mean, Miss Jane.” He laughed.
She growled.
Pete sensed neither Cougar was in the mood for his games. “That what I think it is?”
“Bloody brilliant, you are.”
She reburied, KK’s card, then slid the red envelope across the table.
“Need a favor from your old mates by the river.”
Mates? Without looking, he covered the envelope with his napkin and moved it into his lap. He lifted the unsealed flap and tilted. The photos slid partway out. They weren’t the one’s he was expecting. He smelt trouble and looked up.
“Play nice, Cougar. They know me here.” He discreetly covered the envelop
e with his napkin and hoped for the best. “Where are they?”
Their waitress had returned with, “Your toast, dry,” and, “More coffee?” She recharged both cups. “Anything else, Miss?”
“Thank you, no, sweetie.” She put on a warm smile. It departed with the server. “Have access to a video.” She paused, allowing Pete time to review the glossy intel. “Forget the one in—”
“Pink.” Pete had interrupted. Something was very wrong. She hadn’t completed the weekend’s assignment. “Well?”
No response.
Still eyeballing the glossy handful in his lap, he said, “You mean Booby Barbie? The one all knotted up like a pretzel?” He couldn’t help but grin. All the same, he was dancing on a razor’s edge. His best operative hadn’t been right since Dubai. After last night, he was pretty sure he knew why. Just the same, this Jane had managed to brighten his mood. And he’d never caught an actual Tiger by her tale before.
“Right. She’s the Countess Kristin von—”
“Krump. Yah, Jane, I know. Sole heir to Papa’s fortune and Europe’s kinkiest lesbo party girl. What else? Oh yah, spoiled debutante and current favorite of the French paparazzi.” He rotated “KK,” trying for a better angle. “Heard you two were dating.”
“Smashing. So, you do know her, then?” That faux smile was back.
“Na. Well, just what I see on the Internet.” His stained teeth were impossible to ignore. “Hey Janie, remember—”
“Yes, that.” Her left index finger directed him back to point. “The other three.”
“In the hoods?”
“Right. Need them ID’d.”
“Nice outfits. Hey Jane, you in any of these?”
“Hardly. Kept their faces shielded. Video’s been sanitized as well.” She reached for the small jar of strawberry jam. KK’s favorite. “The engagement took place aboard Krump’s G-five-fifty. I believe there was a fifth. Probably the one with the bloody camera.”
“Did the vinyl doll keep you engaged last night?” There was a long loud pause as he pondered the scene and his options. He had backup, within shouting distance. Too messy, he thought. He needed to stall. “Yeah. No problem. I’ll have it verified, but…” He flipped back through the kink show. “Hey!”
“Yeah. What?”
“How’d you get these?” He held her in an eye-lock. “Miss Smith?”
“Can’t say.”
He blinked. “Yah, sure.” Pulled one and studied its date stamp. “I’m 98 percent sure of your other bondage model, the one in black latex. This is really weird. Hey, who gave you these?” He set the photo of Catwoman on the table so she could see it clearly and waited.
KK? Or was it Elsa?
“Your old girlfriend. She’s back, right? Figures. Anyway, why’d ya cancel, this time? Pretty last minute, even for you.” He showed the photo again and gave a puzzled look. “Well?” He was done playing the memory game.
She growled. “Jet lag.” It was more of a reason than he gave her last month. She quickly shifted his interest to her plate. In went a fork-load of eggs. She reached for her knife.
“Easy, Cougar, you’re not sacked. Not yet, anyway. We took the subject to another show.”
Thanks, mate. “‘We’?”
“Don’t ask. You’re welcome, by the way. Told her you were still tied up with another client.” Pete grinned. “Wasn’t exactly thrilled by your stand-in, what with the big buildup I gave you. I’ll tell you, Miss Smith, clothes on, she’s one pushy you-know-what.”
He’s stalling. “Wouldn’t know.” Bored, she started counting his fillings. One, two…
He shut it, leaned forward, and said, “Listen, Cougar! I stuck my dick out big-time to get you here!”
“Said thanks.” She showed him Jane Smith’s perfect pearly whites.
“Just don’t blow me off again. Understand?” He sat back and waited…and waited…and waited some more. “Well?”
“Sorry!” She stabbed his puny sausage. “Couldn’t be helped.”
“Whatever. Tried to get her over here for a quickie. Someone needs her rubber fix.”
“Smashing. Couldn’t make it?” She brought his meat to her lips and sucked.
“Na. Said she has a meeting at eleven.” He got a bad feeling. Something or someone wasn’t right.
“Pity. I was so looking forward to meeting your little slut.” Off went the tip of his sausage.
Pete twitched, but didn’t say a word. She must know we sent Snow. He checked his Blackberry. His operative still hadn’t checked in. Wow, the way she stabbed my meat. Why’s she so pissed? Better give her some time to cool down. He reviewed the photos again.
It always made him a little uncomfortable to see her with a knife. Any knife—in her kill hand, especially when she was in a bad mood. Judging by how quick his sausage went down her throat he knew she was really, really pissed. He’d seen his Cougar like this before. His right knee began to ache.
He hadn’t seen her in six months. Gained a shitload of weight. Those tits are huge.
“So, what went wrong this time? The Council’s gonna want an answer…Jane?”
This Jane didn’t have the answer. Only Katrina GoodKnight had that answer, and she wasn’t at this meeting.
He watched her spread a half jar of Smucker’s. He had trusted that Jane with his life, once. But so hadn’t at least five other guys he could name—all dead guys. Back in the early nineties, he’d witnessed her Tiger carve up that sausage too. Real bad, evil sausage. He came real close himself, Once. Christ, that was a life time ago. I hope she didn’t—
“Pete. You okay, mate?”
“Me?”
No, her mate wasn’t okay. Denial, repression, disassociation, and, apparently, regression. She had all the symptoms of a split. His best operative was MIA. That meant her BFF, Tiger69 aka Katrina the KAT was loose in the wild. He needed to get the KGB’s man-eater back in her cage and his Cougar whole. But how? Last night’s brilliant plan hadn’t gone any better than the first, the one gnawing a hole in his lap.
“I see you brought an old friend.” She pointed to the long-legged temptress in red.
“Huh? Yeah. Mom’s idea. It’s just in case. So what happened last night? It was that damn bar-girl again, wasn’t it? Is she okay? You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“Said I was sorry. Tell your bitchy politician Mistress Sterling will make it up to her.” She paused, stealing another bite of the wheat toast smothered in, KK’s jam. “Next week?”
“Great. I’ll set it up.” Is Snow dead? A big lump swelled in his throat. He grabbed his coffee and hauled back. He needed to get up and go. Go up to room 869 and—he couldn’t let Jane go up with him. Too risky.
Who knows what kind of a mess her Tiger left this time? No, better keep her here until the rendezvous with Mum and the new kid. But Pete needed to be somewhere too. He had a rendezvous with a KAT of his own. Plans… Nothing ever goes to plan. He needed a Plan B. So didn’t Jane.
“Boris, is she really dead?”
“Huh, what? Yah, kid, she’s toast. Why?”
Kid… “No reason. What’s the word on Mum’s new kitten?”
“Beats me, Mistress Sterling.” Pete knew plenty. But, he wasn’t about to share any of it with whoever was sitting in that seat. Not until he was sure, Mistress Sterling was still his KAT. He noted the time, and decided to give her another go. “Hey, Janie, do you remember Paris? What year was that?”
Ninety-three… Bloody hell.
Katrina’s Comeback
Room 869, 09:29 local
Natasha lay in bed, sobbing. The door opened.
“Katrina’s come back. Hold me tight, my love. Once more. Please.”
Her arms opened as her long-lost love neared. “You came back.” She felt Katrina’s sweet sticky lips. I need to tell you. Wait! Don’t go away. Stay. Please, Mistress; I love you.
“Yes, my sweet. I’m back. I came back for you. Promise you’ll not fall asleep this time.”
She
felt Katrina’s pull. She hugged tight and let her mistress lick away the tears, much as she had the night before. This time something was very different. This time Katrina had shed tears of her own as she got up and started for the door.
“Look what you’ve done. You’ve made Miss Jane all wet again. You know what this means, don’t you, my sweet beautiful princess?”
Natasha’s face went pink. “Yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. The wine…makes me so sleepy.” She raced to stop her lover. They embraced. “Please, Mistress.” Standing on tiptoe, Natasha stretched to kiss those, juicy red lips. “I’ll wait for you, my love.”
Jane Sterling had checked her now-familiar face in the mirror by the door—the same mirror as Katrina GoodKnight had many times before. This time, though, it returned a most unfamiliar sight—her youth. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem so old. She looked back at the reason, still in the bed, and said, “My love, your mistress left you a little present in the dresser, top drawer. Go see, my princess.”
Confused, Natasha ran and pulled the drawer. “How beautiful.” She lifted her gift and turned to show— “Katrina, come back.”
Tell Me Peter
The Dining Room, 09:30 local
Still eyeballing his old Blackberry, Pete talked, “Na. Anyway, we spotted your Catwoman here.” Tap, tap… “At a charity luncheon… Berlin? Day before Christmas? With your German Barbie doll and her Papa—” He eyed her kill hand in motion.
Bloody hell. “Sorry.” She dropped the blade and refilled Pete’s cup while he stared at her. “And?”
“Thanks.” He emptied half. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He looked like hell. “Guess who was with them?” He sounded it too.
“Won’t happen again, mate. Promise. Who?”
“This is total bullshit, Jane. It’s the fuckin’ Brits. They activated your old BFF, didn’t they, Tiger?”
“One mustn’t kiss and tell, Peter.” Tiger… “Katrina’s dead mate. Didn’t you hear?”
“Dead?”
“Dubai.”
