Taken By the Force

by Lyla Sinclair

  Joe stepped forward and shook the cop’s hand. “I’m Joe Gates, the manager. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a girl who works for you—Anastasya Petrova.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong club. No one by that name works here.”

  “Are you sure about that? I’ve been told—”

  “You know how strippers are, Detective. They come, they go. They change their names. All I can tell you is that I haven’t hired anyone who goes by that name.”

  The detective glanced around. His eyes settled on me. “And you—?”

  “She’s our new accountant,” Joe interrupted. “I was about to show her the ropes.”

  I nodded and kept my mouth shut. The detective peered into my eyes for a moment and I was afraid I saw recognition there, then I remembered I’d been wearing freaky alien contacts when he saw me. Surely, even a police detective couldn’t know it was me under the bald cap and facial prosthetics.

  He looked back at Joe, obviously suspicious of him. I thought I saw a muscle twitch in the detective’s jaw. But instead of confronting Joe, he turned abruptly and headed for the door. “Thanks for your time,” he said. And he was gone.

  “So what do you think’s going on?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I hope I got him off our backs,” Joe replied.

  “Do you know the girl he was talking about?”

  “Well, I didn’t hire anyone by that name because your brother has done all the hiring. And I mostly know them by their stage names or nicknames, so maybe I know her, maybe I don’t. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to have a picture to show.”

  “Maybe he really does have the wrong club,” I said, secretly wishing I could have one more chance alone with the dreamy detective. I promised myself that if an opportunity as great as last night’s ever presented itself to me again, I was taking it. You only live once and I hadn’t done much living.

  I also decided that next time I was visited by the cop in my fantasies, he’d have Detective Webb’s face.

  *

  Rick

  By that night, I’d had it. I’d spoken to Danny’s wife Shelly on the phone and there was no change in his condition. I’d been around enough accidents, shootings, and hospitals to know the score. Doctors didn’t like to give percentages and there were always those freaks who stayed in comas for months and woke up fine, but I knew from experience that, in all likelihood, the Danny we knew was gone forever. He’d be dead, brain dead, or have his brain so scrambled, he wouldn’t know which way was up.

  Shelly tried to be brave when we spoke, but I could hear the tears in her voice. When I hung up my cell phone, I sat in the car and cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a little kid.

  Danny had been my friend, my partner, and my responsibility for two years. Shelly was six months pregnant with their first child.

  So, I was going rogue. If it was the last thing I did before they took my gun and shield, I was going to bring Danny’s shooters to justice.

  Those were the thoughts repeating over and over in my head as I waited in Anastasya’s dressing room for the Mistress to finish her last show. Lucky for me, there was a small alcove directly behind the door, with hooks for hanging coats, or G-strings, or whatever strippers hung up. It was deep enough so that the door wouldn’t hit me and tip her off to my presence before she got all the way inside.

  Her platform boots were nice enough to warn me when she was coming down the hall. I tensed as I waited for the knob to turn. She walked in and shut the door, heading for a robe that was thrown over a chair at the dressing table. I stepped out of the alcove and turned the lock just as she reached for the snap at the front of her skirt—if you could call it a skirt, considering it only covered the back of her.

  She saw me and froze.

  “I just need to ask you some questions,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t scream for help. “I’m Detective Rick Webb. I’m a cop.”

  Her breathing quickened. I couldn’t help but watch those breasts move up and down with each breath. I had a quick fantasy of squeezing them in my hands and sucking on the nipples I hadn’t gotten to see. But I reminded myself that wasn’t what I was here for.

  “Well, make yourself comfortable then,” she said, motioning to the couch that sat against one wall. Although the dressing room wasn’t fancy, she was definitely the star around here. All the other strippers got dressed in one room together down the hall.

  I walked toward her. I’d noticed when she pointed at the couch, her hand was shaking. She knew something. Maybe she hadn’t been at her apartment because she was shacking up in a secret location with her boyfriend and his brother. Why else would she disappear by day, then show up here for work at night?

  I stopped a few inches from her. “I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”

  “However you like it,” she said seductively.

  Did she really think flirting was going to make me forget about a shooting?

  “I need to ask you about your boyfriend,” I began. “Byr—“

  “I told you before. I don’t have a boyfriend.” She took a deep breath and those breasts seemed to jump up and say “Hi!” “But I’m holding tryouts tonight.”

  Before I knew what she was up to, she lifted her hands toward my face, running them up my jaw and back behind my neck. She caressed the hair at the nape of my neck and a shiver—the good kind—shot through my whole body.

  I breathed in deeply as my brain swirled in confusion. She didn’t have that stripper smell—none of that fake vanilla-cinnamon, or that musky, flowery scent I’d experienced many times in my horny younger days. This one smelled more like homemade sugar cookies, or girl-next-door.

  Then she pressed her body against mine and the sensation of her voluptuous softness molding itself against my chest was nearly irresistible. My eyes were closed. When did that happen?

  I forced them open and looked down at her. Her lovely, long eyelashes rose to reveal the snake eyes underneath. I remembered why I was there.

  “Okay, look, you’re very attractive, but that’s not why I’m—“

  “Let me see if I can make you forget why you’re here for a few minutes more,” she said.

  She had my crotch in hand and my dick was rock hard in my slacks. As she worked at my belt and pants button, she pulled my face down to hers and pressed her lips against mine. The feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her… I lost control.

  With one hand, I held her head still while I plunged my tongue into her, fucking her mouth like I wanted to fuck her hot little pussy. With the other hand, I grabbed one of those audacious tits and squeezed. I swear I could feel the blood rushing from my head down to my dick and all I could think about was relieving the crazy raging lust the Mistress had stirred up in me.

  My zipper went down and before I knew what she was up to, she’d pulled herself from my grasp and was on her knees. I looked down in time to see her tongue snake up my shaft from underneath and circle the tip. She ran her fingernails over my balls and I jerked and nearly came. But I took a deep breath and held on because I didn’t want this to be over yet.

  I was mesmerized by the full lips that encased my dick and the beautiful breasts heaving below. I felt something brush my leg and realized she had her hand in the front of her G-string. She shuddered.

  The thought that she was getting off by sucking me off was too much. I felt a surge and pulled out just in time to spray come all over her chest. I watched as a drop ran down into her cleavage. I was panting like a racehorse.

  Then, suddenly, she melted down onto the floor and I was afraid she’d passed out. Her eyes were closed. I knelt down and lifted her onto the couch, then patted her cheek lightly. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Hmmm?” She said without opening her eyes.

  “Did you pass out?” I asked.

  “Mmm…no. That was just really intense.” She opened her eyes and the alien was back again, which was enough to shock me into reality. I remembered Danny and
Shelly, and why I was really here.

  I felt like a jerk. How could I get so carried away with some space whore?

  I zipped my pants and grabbed some tissues from the dressing table. When I handed them to her, I was glad she wiped away the evidence of what an ass I was. Then she slowly rearranged herself into a seated position.

  “Well…that was…unexpected,” I said as I noticed her G-string was now slightly crooked—probably from having her hand down it. I shook the image out of my head and tried to remember how to question a witness. “Is Byron here in town?” I asked.

  “Byron?” she repeated.

  “Byron Ivanov,” I clarified, in case she knew a lot of Byrons. Her parents had been Russian immigrants, after all. “Your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she replied. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

  Any remaining heat I felt toward her drained from my body. She wasn’t cooperating. I glanced down at the multi-colored handbag I’d seen earlier when I came to wait for her. The initials “A. P.” were stitched there in black.

  “Aren’t you Anastasya Petrova?” I asked, already knowing the right answer.

  “No. I’m sorry.” She sighed like she actually meant it. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not the woman you’re looking for. I’m only substituting for—“

  “Okay, grab your stuff. We’re going down to the station.”

  “But—“

  I took her by the arm to lead her away. When she realized my intent, she reached down and snatched up her purse. Now there was no claiming it didn’t belong to her.

  Substitute, my ass.

  “Wait, my real clothes are in the office—“

  “You can put them on when you get back.” I didn’t want to have to deal with the manager, bouncers and security guards, who would know I couldn’t make her go with me and likely realize I wasn’t even a Vegas cop.

  I walked quickly as she struggled to keep up. Luckily the common dressing room at the back was nearly empty and the couple of strippers who were changing in there didn’t notice us. I had her out the back door and into my waiting car within a couple of minutes.

  As I drove out of the parking lot, I looked across at her. She sat still, clutching her purse like she was in shock. From the report, Anastasya didn’t sound like a shrinking violet. This had been too easy. What game was she playing?

  It didn’t matter. I’d cracked tougher nuts than her. I just needed to get her alone where she felt vulnerable and scare the shit out of her. When I laid things out, she’d decide Byron wasn’t worth a jail sentence.

  I glanced at her once more and saw a tear trickle down her cheek. Crying? What the fuck? Did she think I was born yesterday? She was going to learn damn soon that I wasn’t the guy to try out her Oscar-worthy performances on.

  But I had to give it to her. Her vulnerable act was damn convincing for someone dressed as an alien dominatrix.

  I blew out a chuckle and drove toward the safe house.

  *

  Andrea

  Okay, I needed to pull myself together. If I didn’t talk some sense into this cop, I was going to be unmasked as a stripper and a CPA in front of everyone at the police station. And what if he got pissed off when he found out he was wrong? What if he found something to charge me with? Maybe stripping or prostituting without a license or something. Did they need licenses in Vegas?

  Of course, I hadn’t taken any money for the blow job, but, regardless, it was a stupid thing to do if you wanted to prove to someone you weren’t a star whore.

  I was way out of my league here. The only laws I knew anything about were the tax ones. But I was pretty sure a determined cop could find something to charge me with if he really wanted to.

  That’s what I got for thinking I could take a walk on the wild side and be someone besides boring old me. I wiped the embarrassing tears from my cheeks and decided to reason with Detective Webb.

  “Will you please listen to what I have to say?” I asked him calmly.

  “Sure,” he said, as he pulled up to a stop light. “I’m dying to hear what you have to say.”

  I took a deep breath. “If you take me to the station, we’re both going to end up really embarrassed.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m not Ana whatever. I’m Andrea Pearson, a CPA from Minneapolis.”

  He burst out laughing, but his fun was cut short when the light changed and the car behind him honked. “Is that what you’ve been cooking up so quietly for the last five minutes? Thinking up a name with the same initials as yours?” he asked, as he put his foot on the accelerator. “A CPA, really? In that get up?” Then he nodded toward my purse.

  Shit. That was the bag Kenny gave me for my birthday. Not my usual style at all but I couldn’t return it because it was monogrammed, and the strap to my old purse broke the day I got laid off. I couldn’t believe I had the same initials as the person Webb was looking for. If Kenny had only sprung for a middle initial, maybe this would be cleared up already.

  “The initials are a coincidence. It’s a long story, but that Ana girl didn’t show and they needed a last minute substitute,” I tried again.

  “And it stands to reason that when your stripper doesn’t show, you call Accountemps. Come to think of it, that’s what we did for the captain’s bachelor party at the station.”

  Very funny. It occurred to me that he would seem completely handsome, witty, and charming if he wasn’t running me in for a crime I didn’t commit.

  “Listen, you’re going to look really stupid when you find out who I am.”

  “And who is that again?”

  Was he testing me to see if I remembered my “alias”? “Andrea,” I replied. “Andrea Pearson.”

  “So, I guess you have a Minnesota driver’s license with that name on it?”

  “Of course I do,” I said, unzipping my bag.

  “Wait.” He grabbed my arm, then let go when he pulled up to the next light.

  “Okay, go ahead. Slowly.”

  That’s when I remembered I didn’t have my wallet. Joe had advised me not to take any valuables into the dressing area, so I’d pulled my wallet and cell phone out and left them in the safe room.

  “Oh shit!” I said, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t have them. It’s not safe to take valuables into—“

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said smugly.

  He pulled into a parking lot and parked in front of an apartment door. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “We’ll stop at this safe house for a while and see if we can get it sorted out.”

  Safe house? What was this? A mafia movie? But it sounded better than getting taken to a busy police station. Maybe I could think of some way to convince him I wasn’t Anastasya if we stayed here for a while.

  “Stay in the car,” he said. He came around to my side, glanced around the quiet lot, then opened my door. His hand remained on my back as he escorted me inside.

  As we walked through the door, I was assaulted by the smell of stale cigar and menthol. The same smell my grandfather’s place took on after my grandmother died.

  “Safe houses are a lot nicer in the movies,” I said as I looked around at the well-worn furniture. At least the place was neat, but it didn’t make sense that the “safe house” was some old man’s apartment. “Whose apartment is this?” I asked.

  “What makes you think it’s not mine?” he replied.

  I sniffed at the air again. “I think you’re too young to use that much Absorbine Jr.”

  He chuckled. “It’s an old friend’s place. He’s out of town.”

  Cold metal pressed against my wrists. I looked down to find he’d handcuffed me in front while I was distracted. My heart jumped up into my throat.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to pull my wrists apart to see if I was really restrained.

  “Insurance.” He pushed me down onto the couch, which was so springy, I fell over onto the cushioned armrest. I
never knew I used my hands to help me sit before. I pushed with my shoulder, struggling to sit up.

  Webb ignored me, as he pulled out his cell and walked into the kitchen.

  “Fulsom. It’s Rick… Yeah, I know. I talked to Shelly. Any more leads from the BOLO? Yeah… They’re in Vegas? Okay, call me back when the photo’s confirmed. Thanks.”

  Whatever this was, it was obviously much bigger than a license to strip. I couldn’t believe after a couple of days in Las Vegas, I’d gone from mild-mannered number cruncher to suspected…what? So far, all he’d accused me of was being someone’s girlfriend. Surely that wasn’t a crime here.

  But if that’s all it was, why was I in handcuffs?

  When he came back into the room, I asked, “If this is so important, why are you alone? Where’s the rest of the force?”

  “That’s a good one—a ‘star whore’ asking me why ‘the force’ isn’t with me.” He took his jacket off and laid it over the back of the couch. “As far as you’re concerned, baby, I am the force.”

  Hmm…he’d avoided answering me. Instead, he pulled me up from the couch and took me into the bathroom.

  “Get those contacts out. I want to look into your eyes when I question you.”

  I lifted my shackled hands and removed the contacts, one at a time. I threw them into the trash can under the sink, since there was no way I was ever posing as the Asaj Mistress again.

  This time when I looked into his eyes, he sucked in a surprised breath. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I would have understood him acting that way while looking into my alien eyes, but not while staring into my regular blue ones.

  But with our gazes locked, I had the urge to grab his shirt collar and pull him to me for a kiss. My lips quivered. I tried to hold still.

  After what felt like a long, awkward pause, he took me into the living room and sat me in an ancient recliner. He went to the kitchen and came back with a chair. He set it in front of me, then flipped it backwards, and straddled it.

  “Where is Byron Ivanov?”

  “I don’t know a Byron Ivanov. Or any other Byron, come to think of it.”