Man in Queue

by Shandi Boyes

  A hiss parts my lips when the taxi driver takes a corner so sharply my brain collides with my throbbing skull. I honestly don’t know what the perp hit me with. It had to be something significant as I’ve been fading in and out of consciousness the past two hours.

  From the quickest flash of silver I saw before I was knocked out cold, I was suspicious of the vacuum cleaner, but the man who assaulted me was waif-thin, his frame feminine. He could barely lift the vacuum, much less strike me over the head with it.

  That’s how I know there was a second assailant—that and the fact I heard two voices when I was moved from my office to the alley outside. I don’t know why they needed to move me. There is nothing in my office but paperwork, files, and a whole heap of surveillance images. . .

  My inner monologue trails off as a disturbing thought enters my mind.

  Fuck.

  My wooziness doubles when I drop down low to snag Regan’s purse off the cab floor. I slide open the zipper with force, not the least bit worried about its squeals of protest. Unappreciative of me manhandling her belongings, Regan snatches it out of my grasp. I barely get out half a protest when she thrusts her cellphone into my hand, proving she knows me better than anyone.

  After giving her a quick smirk in thanks, I slide my finger across the screen. When it requests a lock code, my eyes drift to Regan.

  “Zero, zero, zero. . .” She swallows numerous times in a row at my stern glare before forcing out a final, “Zero.”

  The deep gash in my brow stings when I arch it high. She hammered me for not having a passcode, yet she has the most generic one there is.

  “It’s better than none,” she grumbles under her breath while I dial a number known by heart.

  Uneasy about having this conversation in front of Isaac’s lawyer, I twist my torso to the traffic streaming by the taxi we’re sitting in. Although I trust Regan, I don’t know how deep her loyalty to Isaac runs. I also don’t want to put her in a compromising situation.

  Theresa answers my call a mere second before it goes to voicemail.

  “Send a crew to HQ. I believe our operation has been compromised.”

  Theresa fumbles something out, but Regan’s deep gasp drowns out what she said. It is for the best. My head is pounding too severely to deal with a verbal slinging match with the devil’s spawn who wears Prada.

  “I was jumped at HQ before they moved me into the alleyway. The perps wouldn’t have done that unless they were seeking something significant at my location.”

  Theresa’s deep sigh exposes she understood my coded response. “It’s our target. I guarantee it. He knows we’re on to him.”

  I murmur in halfhearted agreement. This feels like something Isaac would do, but it’s not sitting right with me. I trust my gut, and it’s warning me to remain vigilant. Until I work out what its caution pertains to, Isaac will merely remain the top man on my list. He just isn’t the sole listee.

  “I’ll have men directed there now.” Theresa coughs as if pained to ask her next question: “Are you injured?”

  “Not enough for you to worry.”

  She laughs, more amused I wrongly think she cares than charmed by my dry humor.

  My eyes stray to Regan when Theresa’s second question comes out more sincere than her first, “Will you be in tomorrow?”

  I take in Regan’s wide eyes, quivering chin she’s trying to control with a scowl, and clasped hands. “No. I’ll take a few days off. My head is thumping like a bitch.” Not as much as my heart, but I won’t tell Theresa that.

  Theresa’s disdainful groan is the last thing on my mind when I stretch my empty hand across the cracked leather dividing Regan and me. I hold it out palm side up, leaving Regan with the decision of whether she wants my comfort or not.

  I exhale the big breath I’m holding when her sweaty hand slips into mine two seconds later. My heart does a weird thump when her head comes to rest on my shoulder a few seconds after.

  See? What more proof do you need? She wants this. Even scared—and perhaps a little peeved—she can’t deny me or my support.

  I can give her both; I’ve just got to work out a way I can do it without compromising Theresa’s investigation. Theresa wants Isaac—as we all do. When I hand her her man, her vendetta against Regan and Dane will stop. It’s that simple. . . I just wish it wasn’t taking so long.

  Isaac is clever at hiding his steps. Unfortunately, I’m not one hundred percent convinced he’s the only person covering his tracks. The woman beside me is beautiful, smart, and highly intelligent. If anyone is qualified to keep their client out of trouble, it is her.

  Recognizing I’ll never ease my confusion or jealousy by siding with the bane of my existence, I say down the line, “Call me if you need anything. . .”

  Theresa’s laugh is the last thing I hear before she disconnects our call. After pulling Regan’s cell from my ear, I stare down at Theresa’s number on the screen. My finger hovers over the delete button, but for some reason, I can’t erase it. What if tonight ended with me blacking out from more than just a concussion? Regan knows nothing about my life or the people in it. If she didn’t find me tonight, she would have believed I stood her up after our naughty weekend. I don’t want that.

  She means more to me than just a random hook up, so the last thing I want is for her to believe that’s all she is. I’d rather be busted in a lie than have her think she means nothing to me. For that reason, and solely that reason, I hand Regan her phone with Theresa’s number still stored inside. If I disappear off the face of earth, she’ll have a way of discovering what happened to me.

  Regan remains quiet the rest of our trip to the hotel. She doesn’t speak a word when I hand the taxi driver an extra-large tip to cover the cleaning bill for the droplets of blood in the back of his cab, or when I request a midfloor room at our hotel. She doesn’t utter a single syllable until we enter our room nearly twenty minutes later. Then, it’s like a word explosion.

  “What’s going on? After the incident in my apartment, you wouldn’t let me check into a hotel room. But here we are—in a fucking hotel room after you were attacked! You’re bleeding—a lot! You said they took your gun, then you called some mysterious female who seemed more concerned about herself than you. Who calls a whiny two-faced bitch for help when they’re in trouble?! Not anyone smart!”

  I can see she has so much more to say, but thankfully, my cupping of her jaw steals her words.

  “We’re at a hotel because it is the only place I feel comfortable having this conversation. You’re here with me because you’re one of a few people I trust. They did take my gun, but I don’t need a weapon to keep us safe. . .” I wait for her to see the honesty in my eyes before adding on, “. . . I also had no choice but to call my boss. The men who attacked me wanted something. If I didn’t give her a heads up, and they found what they were looking for, my position would be in jeopardy.”

  My first sentences ease the heavy groove between her eyes, but my last one put it straight back in place. “Why would your position be in jeopardy? You were attacked. Even if the assailants stole a truck load of gold bricks under your watch, you aren’t to blame.”

  “That is true. . . under normal circumstances. My boss is anything but normal,” I reply, giving the only excuse I can find.

  Things are more complicated than that. If Theresa’s hunch is right, and tonight’s escapades were performed by someone in Isaac’s crew, I have a shit load more than just my position at stake. If the internal affairs department, or someone more highly ranked than Theresa, finds out about my interactions with Regan in the leadup to our operation being infiltrated, they’ll assume corruption. If they assume corruption, guess which way their fingers will point first? I’m a sitting fucking duck, waiting to be shot.

  “If your boss isn’t doing things above board, you need to report her. Or even better, sue her,” Regan suggests, following me into the tight yet spotlessly clean bathroom. “You won’t believe some of the payouts I wi
tnessed during law school from employees suffering severe emotional distress after workplace incidents. You have rights, Alex. Use them.”

  My eyes roll before I can stop them. What is it with people citing “severe emotional stress” to me today? I’m not fucking stressed. I’m angry. Furious. On the verge of hunting down the men responsible for Regan seeing me like this and snapping their fucking necks. Then I’ll go after the real culprit—the master behind the minions. If this is Isaac’s doing, I’ll make him pay.

  I stop scrubbing blood and dirt from my hands and face when Regan places a three-finger serving of whiskey on the vanity. I was so caught up unjumbling my confusion, I didn’t notice she had exited and reentered the bathroom. That is unacceptable. It shouldn’t matter what is happening, she should always be on the forefront of my mind.

  Although I appreciate her trying to ease the fury blazing through my veins, I can’t drink; I’m on the job. When I tell Regan that, she replies, “You can drink because you’re on leave—remember?”

  Her eyes drop to the blood-stained vanity when I stand my ground. I’m not being stubborn. I’m keeping on my toes. Regan’s threat and my attack occurred too close for this to be a coincidence. There is something I’m missing, but for the life of me, I can’t work out what it is. It is clear our relationship is being watched—the evidence Theresa presented yesterday morning proves this without a doubt, but I’m hesitant to believe the only eyes on us belong to a woman.

  I’m drawn from my dark thoughts by Regan’s deep swallow. Her massive gulp was compliments of watching a droplet of blood drip off my chin and roll down the vanity. The contrast between the white sink and my blood is a vivid reminder on how quickly someone’s life can end. One bullet can change everything. I’m just fortunate tonight was not my night.

  Feeling the heavy sentiment in the air the same as me, Regan seizes the glass of whiskey to throw down the burning liquid with one quick swallow. After slamming the empty glass back on the vanity, she locks her eyes with mine. She doesn’t say anything; her eyes just drift over my face before stopping at my beard that looks more reddish than usual compliments of the blood mottled throughout it.

  “I can do this,” she mutters, more to herself than me.

  With a yank on my shoulder, she spins me around to face her. She steps forward until I am crowded against the sink. When she scoots to the left to snag a washcloth off a glass shelf, her breasts scrape my arm. It is only the briefest touch, yet the violent storm swarming us evacuates.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  She wets the washcloth before carefully dabbing it on my right temple, ignoring me, her focus determined.

  The more blood she clears, the closer we become.

  Within minutes, there’s barely an inch of air between us, and I’m hovering on the brink of insanity. I can’t have her this close to me and not touch her. I’d rather face corruption charges than give up the crazy, unimaginable sensation that forever bristles between us.

  She’ll be worth losing everything for, because she is worth everything.

  I sweep my fingers down Regan’s hips slowly, a teasing touch that is so soft, it’s hardly registered. When she fails to protest, I drop one of my hands to the slit in her skirt and glide it up her thigh. As my fingertips graze her swollen cleft, her head falls forward, bringing the tip of her nose resting against mine.

  I brush the back of my hand down her panties, loving that they moisten under my touch. She calms down as much as she ramps up, my touch dispelling her worry as quickly as it entices her excitement. We breathe as one for several minutes, the angry tension in my veins exchanged for a more enjoyable one.

  Once Regan’s panties are damp enough to cling to the folds of her pussy, she murmurs, “We shouldn’t be doing this. You’re hurt.”

  Her breathless words spoken with worry shouldn’t turn me on, but they do. It means she cares for me, which also means she needs this as much as I do. I want her to know she’s not responsible for what happened tonight just as much as I need confirmation of it. She wasn’t in the alleyway because she knew of Isaac’s plans. It was a coincidence. Wasn’t it?

  “Why were you in the alley tonight, Rae?” I ask as my fingers strum her dampened slit.

  With her eyes on me and her throat purring, Regan answers, “I was working.”

  I rub her clit with my thumb, circling it in a way that drives her crazy before slipping her panties to the side to inch two fingers inside of her. Her pussy clamps around my stationary digits, wordlessly begging for them to move while also notching them in a few millimeters deeper.

  Although this isn’t an interrogation tactic I’ve used before, I’m excited to test it out. People are most honest when they’re blinded by lust. You can’t get any rawer than this. My fingers are in her tight canal, my thumb is on her clit, and her beautiful green irises are boring into mine. She’s exposed and vulnerable—the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her.

  “You were working? What case can you work on in an alley at 1 AM?”

  Regan’s breaths rattle when she replies, “It’s a business venture. A new nightclub. Construction started last month. I was on my way home when I found you.”

  My stomach fills with heat from her reply. She’s being honest. Numerous blueprints and cash transactions have been added to Isaac’s file the past four months. It was earmarked as expenditures for a new operation in the Ravenshoe area.

  Although my woozy head had me taking the long route to discover what two plus two equals, Regan’s confirmation helps me see things more clearly. The dungeon-like room I’ve been working out of the past six months is across the street from a bunch of buildings Isaac owns. If he’s planning to turn one of them into a nightclub, Regan’s admission makes sense. She works for Isaac. She goes where he goes. . . unless she’s with me.

  “So you were with your boss tonight?” My interest can’t be contained—neither can my jealousy.

  “Uh-huh.” She swivels her hips, unappreciative of the stillness of my fingers. “We crunched numbers for hours.” With a seductive smirk, she squeezes the walls of her pussy, hugging my stationary digits. “A true accountant would have creamed his pants by now.”

  “We both know I’m not an accountant—”

  “Just like we both know my thoughts on numbers men.” Regan’s brow is as high as the confirmation in her tone.

  I stare at her in shock. She’s aware of the afternoon I pretended to be a doctor?

  When her brow rises even higher, as if to say, you bet I do, my heart rate triples.

  It is lucky my fingers are in her greedy pussy and my thumb is circling her clit, or she’d have me by the balls. It is also fortunate she doesn’t scare easily. This is the exact reason I’m willing to fall onto a knife for her. She’s not just the woman I’ve been seeking the past five years. She’s the one I’ve been searching for my entire life. She gets me—bad points and all, yet she’s still not running.

  Bottle me up as this brew is done!

  “Stand back, baby; I want to see your face.”

  My breaths come out even harsher when Regan does as requested without any hesitation. She licks her lips when I adjust the angle of my wrist, so I can hook her pussy to my hand as it’s never been. I can take her even deeper now, but I still want more.

  “Lean your back against the wall and rest your foot on the toilet.”

  With the bathroom being small in size, Regan can do as requested without my hand breaking contact with her glistening slit. Thank fuck – as my fingers haven’t stopped pumping in and out of her the past five minutes, meaning her moans have ramped up a few decibels.

  “Now open up your shirt. I want to see those gorgeous tits.”

  Her wide eyes glide over my sweaty forehead, down my inflamed cheeks and across my bristle-covered jaw before she does as requested. Her delay didn’t stem from her concern I’m too injured to participate in a vigorous activity. She needed time to work out whether she wants to gift me the reins or not.<
br />
  Her quick removal of her blouse proves she does, but her demand two seconds later reveals it is only a partial share. “Your turn.”

  With a smirk, I grip the back of my shirt and drag it over my head. Because I’m reluctant to remove my fingers from her snug canal, my shirt puddles around my wrist, hiding the enticing visual of her bald pussy being claimed by my fingers. Caught up in the wickedness of our exchange, I remove my fingers from one warm hole, dump my shirt on the ground, then stuff them into an equally inviting location.

  Regan balks for the quickest second when her seductive taste coats her tongue, but the husky purr vibrating my fingertips two microseconds later makes up for her shortage of eagerness.

  “You taste too fucking good not to share.”

  Stealing her chance to misread my comment—or hear the slur of my concussed head—I lunge for her mouth. As our tongues share her delicious taste, I toe off my shoes before tackling the belt holding up my trousers with the assistance of my erect cock.

  With Regan’s help, they’re soon dumped on the sparkling clean floor beside our intermingled shirts.

  “On or off?” I ask Regan after dragging my mouth from her kiss-swollen lips to lower my eyes to her fitted skirt.

  When she peers at me, confused, I elaborate, “We’re taking this show into the shower. On or off.”

  Her teeth graze her bottom lip, torn. She loves the idea of being taken so hard and fast, she doesn’t have time to remove her clothes, but she doesn’t want her prized possessions getting ruined in the process.

  “Tick tock, Rae. My dick is aching for you.”

  My comment makes her decision on her behalf. Her leap into my arms starts the process of her skirt being removed, so I add a few tugs to help it along.

  By the time I switch on the shower faucet, it sits in shreds on top of my trousers.