by Thea Frost
But another part of me feels hollow. I want more. I want to see him again. Learn who he is. His name, his past. I want to understand why he has those walls. Why others fear him. Desire him. I want to pierce his mystery.
I let myself into my new apartment. It's only my second time here. It's tiny, but that's fine. I don't own anything, after all. The keys were in the discharge envelope along with a copy of the lease, made out to Bryce Fischer, a falsified signature already on each page.
It's tiny, but after my previous residence these past six months, it feels luxurious. One bedroom with a closet filled with pre-selected outfits, a cute kitchenette, a living room that barely accommodates a couch and an old TV. But it's mine.
I lock the door. Let out a deep breath. I'm home. I try out the word. Find that I like it. Drop my purse on the kitchenette counter and kick off my shoes. Imagine inviting my sexy stranger in, try to picture his face as he takes in my little corner of the world. Laugh. It's like trying to imagine a tiger in my living room.
I stretch and decide to take a shower. I take my time, allowing the scalding hot water to rinse the night off me. I turn my face from side to side under the jet, and the heat reminds me of his touch, the fire he kindled in my core. I was just fucked against an alley wall, I say to myself. I was just fucked by the most insanely gorgeous stranger. I say the words to make them more real, but already the encounter is starting to feel like a dream. Surreal and impossible, the stuff of fantasy.
I turn off the water and look down at my hips. My skin is red from the heat, but I can make out the small bruises where he held me. His grip was so strong. Like iron. I shiver as I remember how easily I lost control. Submitted to him. I can't do that again. Not once I start my job tomorrow.
I dress and sit by my sole window and stare down into the street below. I feel so out of place. I'm not Bryce Fischer, but in some way, this identity is more real than who I used to be. I'm all alone. I'm cut off from my past. I don't know what the future will bring. I sit there and gaze into the dark. Try to divine the future. When they offered me this chance, back at the academy, it seemed so exciting. An honor to be considered. An adventure. But I didn't think my life would feel like this. One big lie. I know I'm sacrificing myself for the greater good, but I never expected it to feel so lonely.
Finally I sigh, close the window, and force myself to go to bed and try to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be the biggest day of my life. I lie there in the dark, and my sexy stranger's eyes haunt me. His devastating smile. The mystery held in his eyes. That pain, those walls, and then that moment of true tenderness.
My cell phone wakes me two hours later. The phone is as new as the apartment, and was in the discharge envelope along with my apartment and car keys. Nobody knows my number but my handler. That's why I jolt awake and immediately grab it.
"Hello?"
"Get dressed. You're starting tonight." It's Blake. My only connection to the real world, to my past, to the truth. "Come to the office for your briefing. Hurry."
"Now?" I squint at the alarm clock on the dresser. Two sixteen in the morning.
"Yes, now," he says, voice annoyed, and hangs up.
Excitement and fear run through me. Something's happened. Plans have changed. Looks like I'm not going to get to wait till dawn. I stand, stretch, and get dressed. Bryce Fischer is supposed to be elegant, so I shimmy into stockings, matching black lace bra and panties, a pencil skirt, and a white button-up shirt. I grab a black overcoat and pause to check my reflection in the mirror. I'll do my makeup in the cab, I decide, but I look good. Professional. Attractive, even. One last deep breath, then I open my front door. It's time to go to work.
*
The 'office' is a rented room in a bland commercial building. Realtors, architects, accountants and the like rent space here. Fluorescent lights hum. The carpet is dingy. I head up to the third floor, and knock.
Blake opens the door and ushers me inside. He's in his mid-thirties, a hard man who's made it clear we're not friends. Dressed in a rumpled suit, he could be a third-rate mortgage broker. Instead he's a highly placed member of the police force. My handler. My boss. My only contact with the real world.
"What's going on?"
I step inside as he closes the door. He's made no effort to furnish the place.
"Word has come in that your target is brokering a new drug connection tonight." He sits behind the desk and crosses his arms. Blake might have been handsome, once, but a receding hairline and too many beers have spoiled his good looks. "It's the perfect opportunity for you to introduce yourself."
My mind races. "And how am I going to do that?"
"We've been putting out rumors these past two weeks that a major new player is entering the city. Your target will have heard. When you appear, just introduce yourself. The quality of your product and your identity's real family connections should do the rest."
He makes it sound so easy. "Are you going to finally tell me who my target is?" I've spent the past six months wondering. Trying to guess. Failing miserably.
He nods and slides a manila folder across the desk to me. "All the details we have are in here. Destroy this once you've read it." He opens his briefcase and takes out a holstered gun. It's a Colt Anaconda, not the kind of weapon a police officer would carry. Which, I guess, is the whole point.
"You've got thirty minutes to get to the location. Be willing to walk away. That willingness is what will convince our target that you're for real. Don't push too hard. If he asks how you heard of the deal, tell him a friend of yours in prison told you. Your training should help you handle the rest."
I nod.
He takes out a small bag of white powder. "Here's your sample. It's the real thing, medical grade. Tell him you can provide a monthly amount of thirty kilos starting in one month's time. You won't reveal your sources, but when he investigates you, he should discover your identity's family connections with Columbia."
I nod again.
"Good." Blake stands. "Remember: this is the real thing. Once you're out there, you have no backup. You're on your own. Confidence is key. Now get going, and good luck."
For a second I feel like he's going to give me a hug, but that's ridiculous. I buckle on the holster. Drop the bag of powder into my briefcase. Take the folder. And leave.
I might never see Blake again. If this deal goes bad, I could be dead within the hour.
I catch a cab and give the driver an address five blocks from where the deal is going down. Then I open the folder. It contains the information on my target. The man I went to jail for in order to earn credibility. The man I dropped out of the police academy for. The man for whom I've sacrificed my whole life. All so I could present myself as a convincing undercover cop.
All so I can get close to him.
Earn his trust.
And then decide if he's still one of the good guys, or if he's gone rogue.
Because my target is also an undercover cop. This much I already know.
I open the folder and drink in the information. Jack Deckard. Graduated from the police academy in '99. Six years as a state trooper. Then he underwent special training. A year later, in '06, he went undercover. Two years later he delivered his first big arrest. In '09 he delivered three more arrests. Nothing for a year. Then a major crime boss in '11. Things got a little heated and he disappeared for six months, then returned and in '13 he delivered four more major crime figures.
My eyes skim the text. Jack was now one of the most highly placed crime bosses in the city, but his handlers were growing suspicious. Every arrest he'd delivered had only served to help him move up the criminal ladder. Nobody who was useful to him had been arrested. Only competitors. Enemies. Obstacles.
Then, earlier this year, a detective was killed. He'd been investigating one of Jack's major allies. Jack was becoming harder to communicate with. Had stopped responding to the meeting requests.
His handlers were worried. Looking back over his career, despite his stunning success
es, it was possible to think he'd gone rogue right from the beginning. Had been using the police to destroy his enemies, and in doing so had become the most powerful criminal boss in the whole city.
I try not to gulp. Jack Deckard was a legend. His records in the police academy hadn't been beaten in over sixteen years. In part, his success was what encouraged me to accept the undercover offer. To drop out of the academy. To go to jail on false trafficking charges. To ruin my reputation so as to gain credibility in the criminal world.
Now I'm going to investigate him. Get close to him. Learn his darkest secrets.
I turn the page, and see his photo.
I nearly scream.
It's him, my sexy stranger. A younger version, fewer tattoos. His hair longer. But just as devilishly handsome.
I'm going to see him in twenty minutes. The man I just fucked. The man I just begged to make me come.
Everything falls into place. Everything clicks. No wonder people in the bar feared him. No wonder he commanded such respect.
I can't do this. My skin crawls with panic. I can't investigate him. I can't convince him to treat me like an equal. How can I, with his cum still inside me, the bruises he left still on my flesh?
I grab my phone to dial Blake. My heart is racing again, adrenaline burning through my veins. All my sacrifices. All my work. Ruined by one moment of crazy lust.
My finger hovers over the dial button. I stare into Jack's eyes. Even in a photo, I feel like I can see his pain. The walls. He's hiding something. The man I just met has secrets.
My job will be to uncover them.
To learn the truth about him, whatever that may be.
And I realize that I want to. Oh so very much. I want to get close to him. Earn his trust. Discover everything about him.
I lower the phone. I've come so far. I've done so much. I can't back out now. So what if we fucked? I told him my identity's name. Who's to say Bryce Fischer doesn't like to get fucked by strangers? Who's to say I broke character?
I put the phone away. Resolve hardens within me even as my excitement grows. This will be the biggest challenge of my life. Jack's no easy target. He's trained in every technique I know. He's wary. He's been undercover for almost a decade. Wicked smart. Lethally dangerous.
I take a deep breath and close the folder. I can do this, I tell myself. A memory of his green eyes appears in my mind. His lips. The stubble across his jaw. That perfect body. I feel heat flare in my core again. Oh god. What have I gotten myself into?
*
I get out of the cab and smooth down my clothing. I'm going into a high-risk situation, but something I learned in prison time and again is that projected confidence will carry you through even the scariest encounters. So I lift my chin. I tighten my grip on my briefcase, and after ditching the manila folder down a storm drain, I head toward the private parking lot where the deal is going down.
My steps echo off the walls of the alley. I'm aware of the gun holstered at my shoulder. Of how dangerous this is. My first live field operation. My first time truly stepping into the shoes of Bryce Fischer. Daughter of Malcolm Fischer, notorious drug dealer and convicted felon who agreed to back up this persona in exchange for reduced jail time. Bryce has a social security number. A driver's license. A criminal record. An apartment and a car lease. Everything I need to convince a suspicious criminal mastermind that I really am who I say I am:
A criminal.
I hear voices as I approach the corner. My pulse begins to race. I swallow, take a deep breath, and step out into view.
Immediately a man lifts a gun and trains it on my chest.
I ignore him. He's the hired muscle.
Instead, I stare at the two men who are looking me over. One is thuggish, short, with a shaved head and sunglasses. The other is Jack Deckard. My heart skips a beat. He looks even hotter than he did at the bar.
Jack's wearing a suit. The contrast with the immaculate elegance of his outfit only heightens his dangerous aura. Makes him sexier. He stares at me, and his gaze is cold and assessing. Oh, those smoky green eyes.
"Wrong turn, lady." The hired muscle motions with his gun. "Get out of here."
Time to show some confidence. I ignore the gun. "I'm here to offer you a better deal." I pitch my voice to carry. My eyes lock on Jack. There's no recognition on his face. Could he actually not remember...?
"What is this?" The man he's dealing with scowls like he's tasted rancid meat. "You gotta be kidding me."
"I'm Bryce Fischer. Malcolm Fischer's daughter. I've inherited his connections. I'm making a play to enter the market. Here." Moving slowly, I pull out the white bag, and, not giving anybody time to react, I throw it in a careful underhand to Jack.
Who catches it easily.
The other dealer blusters. "I don't care who you are. Miggsie, shoot the bitch."
The muscle tightens his finger on the trigger. I force myself not to tense. Not to look away from Jack, who tears open a hole in the baggie, dips his finger in, and tastes.
The muscle hesitates. He's on Jack's turf. He won't shoot without Jack's go-ahead. And Jack? He's remaining quiet.
The dealer's scowl deepens. "What? You for real? You going to listen to this ho?"
"How much?" Jack's voice is cold.
"Fifteen thousand a kilo." I try to match his tone. His detachment. There's something scary about the way he's looking at me. Like a stranger. A potential enemy. I fight the urge to blink, to look away.
"Fifteen - you crazy?" The other dealer tears his sunglasses off. "She's lying to you, Jack. She won't deliver."
I walk past the muscle, right up to the two of them. Eyes locked on Jack. Never wavering. I give him a soft smile. "Oh, Jack knows I've got the goods." I can't help it. I can't resist. I'm feeling dangerous. Mad. On the edge.
Jack hefts the baggie. "Fifteen thousand a kilo. You know this will go for double that on the street? This quality, maybe more."
I give him a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm looking to enter the market. I'm willing to pay the price."
"Forget this," says the other guy. "Miggsie, come on. We're out." And he strides away, leaving the two of us alone.
I can barely breathe. I keep my chin up. My shoulders back. Jack is still cold. Larger than life. I'm alone in the urban jungle with the most dangerous tiger there is. His expression is almost cruel. He studies me with his piercing eyes, and I ask myself: Has he gone rogue? Or is he still one of the good guys? Is this an act, or for real?
"Bryce Fischer." He says the name as if he hasn't heard it before. "Malcolm Fischer's daughter."
"The same. I just got out of prison." The words come easily. I'm playing a role. The role of my life. "I'm looking to pick up where my father left off."
He hefts the baggie. "Are you willing to do what it takes to get my business?"
I don't hesitate. "Anything."
Hunger enters his eyes. I suddenly feel like I'm back at the bar. Vulnerable. Desirable.
"All right. Come on." He moves to a black car with tinted windows. "Get in."
I hesitate. Where he's going to take me? His closed expression tells me nothing.
I almost shy back, but then I remember: confidence. If he's still true to his undercover origins, he won't harm me. So I get into the passenger seat and close the door. The car is expensive. Black leather interior with walnut paneling. The engine rumbles to life with a sound that's almost sensual, and we roll out of the parking lot and into the street.
I hold my briefcase and stare straight ahead. How is he not talking about our earlier encounter? Should I bring it up? Or should I be grateful he's treating me professionally? It's better for my assignment. Best to pretend it never happened at all. I need to earn his trust, but as a business associate. Not as his lover.
We drive for ten minutes in complete silence. The tension in the car is almost unbearable. We pull up before an expensive high-rise apartment building in Midtown. As I get out and look up, I realize just how expensive. Just how exclusive.
Jack hands the keys to a valet and walks ahead of me into the lobby. Marble is everywhere. Expensive art. I follow, feeling lost, feeling out of my league. Is this appropriate? Would the real Bryce Fischer follow?
We ride up the elevator in our continued silence. I'm growing more uneasy. As the floors flicker by, I can't take it any more. I finally turn to him. "Mr. Deckard. Jack. About earlier tonight -"
"Not yet." He doesn't even look at me. I open my mouth, then bite my lower lip. He's so in control. So assured. I face forward again. Wait.
We get out on the twenty-eighth floor. He leads me down the hall to his door. Unlocks it. Enters, leaving me to follow. His apartment is gorgeous. I see expensive brown leather couches. Massive framed photographs of the city fifty years ago. It's very masculine. Sparsely furnished. The kind of understated decor that speaks of a tremendous amount of money.
I stop a few steps in. Jack would never bring a real business associate - especially not a new one - to his personal apartment. Warning bells are starting to go off in my head. I feel like a fool. Of course he remembers who I am. Of course he knows he fucked me hours ago. And that one act, that one moment of ecstasy, is going to cost me my entire project.
He walks into the center of his apartment and then turns to me. He stands in the shadows. Masculine. Dangerous. His expensive suit doing nothing to contain to contain his raw, animal magnetism. "Come here," he says, voice cold like steel. I step forward, moving before I can even think. Throat dry. He removes his jacket, tosses it on the couch. Unbuttons a cuff, and begins rolling up his sleeve. Doing so reveals his perfectly muscled arms. Those dark tattoos. "Put down your briefcase."
He doesn't ask. His gaze is level, his voice firm, even slightly menacing. I don't know what's appropriate. I put down my case.
"Now turn around. Place your hands on the wall."
My heart is a rubber mallet, pounding on my ribs. Is he going to frisk me? Fuck me? I don't know. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. I turn and put my hands on the wall.
Jack steps up behind me. Stands close. He begins to pat me down. His large, strong hands move across my back, then around to my front. God, I want him to fuck me again. Take me hard with that amazing cock of his. His hands cup my breasts, and for a brief moment I feel him squeeze them. I gasp, but then his hand closes on the holstered gun. Before I can react, he draws it free.
