by Gayle Riley
She turned around, arms still crossed against her chest, face still burning red with anger and embarrassment.
“Nolte, you’re a real special kind of asshole. I would be surprised if any women are touching themselves thinking about you these days.”
She walked past him and out of her office. She turned. He was still standing there.
“Are you coming or not?”
He shook his head slowly, smiled, and said something under his breath.
“What?” she snapped at him. “Is there something that you want to tell me?”
He finally walked out of the office and straight toward her. “You talk real tough for a rookie.” He wagged a finger in her face.
Her first instinct, which she just managed to suppress, was to grab his finger, snap it off, punch him in the face, knee him in the nuts, throw him to the ground, then pummel him some more. She had the strength and the skill to do it.
They rode the elevator down to the garage in silence. She didn’t want to look at him. But out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help noticing that he was smiling. What a fucking prick!
They stepped off the elevator and into the parking garage.
She couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “I’m not surprised you got divorced. What woman would be able to live with you?”
“You talk a lot of shit, Kowaski. Just give me one night alone with you. I’ll make you see things you never imagined.”
She shook her head in disgust. “Give me the keys,” she said.
He tossed them to her without argument. That surprised her. But he had probably had a nip or two while he was out.
“I love a woman that knows how to take charge and get behind the wheel. You probably like being on top, don’t you?”
She stopped walking and glared at him. “If you say one more thing to me, swear I’m going to fucking shoot you.”
He smiled and put his hands up in the air, playfully. “That’s fine. I’ve survived gunshots before. Just don’t go to HR. That’s the shit that can kill a guy.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. She looked up to the heavens and shook her head. It was useless. There was no hope trying to be serious with this asshole. The Bureau had broken him. Years ago. Left him as a shell of a man. She was just gonna have to deal with it.
They got into the car and drove out of the garage.
“Find anything new on your Russian overman?” Nolte asked.
“It’s called an investigation,” she answered. “Remember when you used to do that? Remember when you used to wait until after five before you started drinking?”
“Is that one or two questions?” he asked.
“What?”
“Do I remember the days when I used to do investigations? Or do I remember the days when I didn’t get drunk before 5 p.m.?”
“Nolte,” she said.
“What?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Chapter 2
Nolte might’ve been full of shit. But he wasn’t lying when he said he loved a woman who enjoyed getting behind the wheel. These days, he tried to do as little driving as possible.
He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. His trusty bottle was there. Whiskey. Dewar’s. The bottle was half empty. But unlike most days, he hadn’t yet dipped into it. This Kowalski, 25-year-old, blonde, green eyed, very curvy rookie, made him feel some sense of duty. It was something he hadn’t felt in a while. But something about her enthusiasm and her naivete, reminded him of himself when he was younger. Gun-ho. Ready to chase down bad guys. Take on the big cases. Turn the evidence over to the Big Boss. Then head back into the field and do it all over again. That’s how he had been until he learned just how things functioned within the Bureau. It didn’t take long before he got frustrated with all the internal politics. The ideological battles.
As they exited I-276, he rolled down the window and let the breeze blow through his disheveled hair.
He turned towards Kowaski. Her eyes were focused on the road. He smiled. She turned to him. He looked away. They was something so cold and about those green eyes.
He couldn’t help wondering, not that it really mattered to him, not that he was interested in getting involved with a woman these days, but he couldn’t help wondering what kind of man she went for. He couldn’t help wondering what was she really like when you got her to let her guard down. He had never seen her like and he wondered if he ever would. He had never seen her drunk. And he had only seen her laugh once or twice. And they weren’t even deep laughs. Just brief chuckles.
He had the sense that there was something deep inside of her haunting her. Something keeping her from truly living. But who was he to pry? Was he some kind of life coach? Or relationship counselor? Definitely not! He couldn’t help feeling that his life was falling apart. And he had been forced to admit, after months and months of denial, that his family was falling apart. Cindy wanted the house, kids, car and $15,000 a month. Basically, she wanted everything he had. That’s how acrimonious things had become between them.
But beyond the material things what really pained him was that she wanted to severely limit the amount of time that he got to spend with the kids. Eight and six years old. Tommy and Taylor. They were going to court next week. His lawyer was sucking him dry. And he seriously doubted whether or not he would end up actually doing anything positive for him.
The bitch! She wanted to limit his visitations to once a month. Was he really that much of an embarrassment? Was his presence really that detrimental to Tommy and Taylor?
He sighed heavily and look out the window with sad eyes. A young couple pushing two strollers came out of a restaurant. They turned to each other, smiled, and kissed on the lips.
He sighed heavily again. That used to be them. He and Cindy. Everything was going so well. He was a rising star in the Bureau. She had quit her job as a teacher to stay home and take care of the toddlers. He earned enough. And he was sure that within a few years he would be earning a lot more. Everything seemed to point in that direction. But then, what had happened? It is all gone wrong.
He lost his cool. Beat up a witness. And if that wasn’t enough, when he got home, completely drunk, he had taken out more frustration on Cindy. He had never done anything like that before. He had never imagined that he would be capable of such violence. It was something that he would always regret. He was still haunted by the pictures of her bruised and bloodied face. He was lucky not to have been arrested. But he had been demoted within the department. Put on probation. All eyes were on him.
The next time he messed up, would be the last time.
But what had gotten him into trouble in the first place? It was his love of the job. His love of hunting down the bad guys. Protecting American citizens. That’s what had gotten him in trouble. At least that was part of it. At least that was what he liked to tell himself. There was probably more to it than that. Much more. His ego. His obsessive need to prove himself.
It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy a stiff drink before everything had started to fall apart. But these days, things were very different. A sort of nihilism had taken over his worldview. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He had grown numb. The injustices that used to keep him up at night, which would make him spring out of the bed in the morning, full of blood rushing through his veins, hard cock throbbing in his pants. All that was gone. And what was left in its wake? Nothing but questions, doubts, insecurities. If he couldn’t be a cop, what was he good for? Nothing. Might as well drink, might as well destroy his liver and brain cells. Without the passion for this job, there was no point in going on living.
But recently the presence of Kowaski, had made him ashamed to be so defeatist. To be so weak. He could feel some of that old desire beginning to burn with him. He just hoped that he hadn’t already screwed things up too much.
“I think he’s meeting a couple models tonight,” Kowaski said.
“Great. I just wish we had cameras in the hotel room. I’d love t
o see some of that hot action.”
She turned to him with a sly smile. Then she fixed your eyes back on the road.
“What?” Nolte asked, raising an eyebrow. “We got cameras in there tonight?”
Without turning to him, without saying anything, Kowalski nodded up and down, slowly, a satisfied smile slithering across her face.
“Damn!” Nolte said. “I’m impressed.”
“Wow! What a day this is! I’ll remember it forever,” she said. Her sarcasm burned his face. “I actually impressed the great Mark Nolte. It’s all downhill from here.”
He looked at her in silence. What a bitch, he said to himself. But she was tough. She didn’t take shit from anybody. Didn’t apologize for her attitude. He liked that.
“I never took you for the voyeur type,” Nolte said. But now that I think about it, you gotta get your sexual kicks from somewhere, right? Don’t we all?”
Kowaski didn’t answer. Didn’t turn towards him. But he could see frown cross her features. He loved when she got angry. It sent his imagination running wild in so many directions. She was probably a wild animal, an untamed, wild beast in the bedroom, kicking and screaming, biting and clawing, fucking and wild bucking like a bronco.
He could feel his cock beginning to tingle in his pants. He reached down and squeezed it.
Kowaski turned towards him, eyeing his face, then shifting down to the bulge in his crotch. She quickly turned back to the road. Her face turned even redder.
He smiled, confidence flooding through him.
“If only you knew, Kowalski. If only you knew.”
“Didn’t I tell you that I was going to you?”
“Well, I’ve got something hard and stiff that needs to be shot.”
She shook her head. “You don’t ever stop, do you? Everything is just one big dirty joke to you. Isn’t it?”
“I just don’t know how to act around you. The young girls do that to me sometimes.”
“Well, the old guys creep me out sometimes.”
“Who you calling old? Thirty-seven is old to you?”
“Not necessarily. But on you it is.”
“Didn’t I tell you that you talk a lot of shit, Kowaski? A lot of shit.”
“Yeah, I know. What are you going to do about it?”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
She turned down a side street and cut off the engine.
“Why are we waiting here?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled a pair of binoculars from under the seat. Moments later the back door of building opened. A man with a briefcase exited. He walked past their car and raised his hand in the air. A black car stopped in front of him. The door opened. He got in. The car zoomed off. Kowaski turned the key, revved the engine, and they were off.
“Is that your Russian lover boy?”
She nodded up and down. “Yeah, we’re gonna get this bastard. Sooner or later. I promise you that.”
He looked at her and nodded approvingly. He loved her attitude. Her determination and grit. It reminded him so much of his younger self. His better self.
Chapter 3
Sergei rubbed the leather briefcase on his lap. He could only imagine what was in it. They never told him. Maybe they were empty. Maybe this was all just a test. Moscow’s way of playing with him, trying to determine whether or not he would be loyal. Whether or not they could trust him with an important mission.
He had never imagined living this type of lie. Just a few years before, he’d been a struggling actor, good-looking, charming, a real lady killer, but not very good at his craft. He never liked attending acting or preparing much for his roles. He preferred to just show up and wing it. That hadn’t gotten him very far.
Despite his lack of acting success, shortly after his 30th birthday, he had come to the attention of Russian intelligence agents. They must have seen his usefulness. They would send him to the United States where he would move in and out of politically connected circles. He wouldn’t do it as a diplomat, but rather as a heartthrob Russian actor. The government had funded films that he stared at. None of them were that good. But that made sure that journalists and critics were afraid to write anything but glowing reviews about the films. Once that work had been done, his cover was complete.
He would be paid handsomely in his state-sponsored mission. And even so, everything he wanted—food, drinks, hotels, women—would be paid for. He wouldn’t have to worry about toning down his party lifestyle. That was a great relief to him. All he really wanted was to lead a carefree, playboy life. And that’s exactly what they had offered him. It was almost too good to be true. And according to his doting Russian mother, it was in fact too good to be true. She had begged and pleaded with him before he got on that plane to DC. Don’t trust them, she’d said, crying, pleading with him. It never ends well. Never.
His mother had always been a worrier. So, he didn’t take her words that seriously. But 18 months into his mission, he had begun to notice that some of the other Russians who worked for intelligence agencies were no longer around town. And nobody had heard from them back in Russia. Where had they gone? It was a question that made him tremble. A question that made him regret ever getting involved with this life.
He was 33 years old. He should’ve made more out of himself by now. But this was the life he was stuck with. At some point, he hoped to return home, return to the party scene in Moscow, with stories to tell and money to burn, women hanging off his arm. He looked forward to that. But for now, he would continue living this playboy lifestyle, moving in and out of important circles.
How much longer could this go on for? He wasn’t sure. What if his mother’s words turned out to be true? Would his desire to live the high life, the playboy, fast life, come back to haunt him?
The car swerved quickly. He lost his balance. The briefcase fell from his lap.
“Fuck. What are you doing?” he said to the driver.
“That car. The black one. With the two cops. It’s following us again.”
He turned around. He could see the car turning the corner, about 20 feet behind them.
“Don’t worry about that. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you sure, boss?”
“Don’t call me boss,” Sergei snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Sergei shook his head. He was about to say don’t call me “sir” either but figured it wasn’t worth it. Boss. It was the kind of word that got people killed.
The black car. With the two cops. It had been following them for the last… he wasn’t sure. But he had first noticed it about three weeks ago. FBI. He feared. Maybe some special Russian investigations’ division. Tensions between the two countries had grown over the last couple years. That damn election. The Americans were still complaining about it, at least half of them were, still accusing Russia of having plotted to undermine the losing candidate’s campaign.
He shook his head. Those silly Americans, he thought. They go around the world meddling in everyone’s elections. And now they expect the whole world to feel sorry for them.
But politics wasn’t his game. Drop offs and pickups. That’s what he did. Socializing with DC’s elites was what he did, as well as rolling in expensive beds with models and actresses and more than a handful of women who were neither.
He was still waiting for the next part of his mission. When would things get serious? He wondered. This couldn’t be all there was, could it? No, at some point they would require a decisive action from him. That thought kept him up at night, sometimes and sometimes it woke him up in the middle of the night, sweating as the images of former spies with their brains blown out came back to him. Those were the pictures he had been shown in Moscow just before taking off. They were a reminder that if he ever tried to take the money and run, attempting to start his life over again, they would come after him. They would find him. They would kill him.
He had gotten the message. But he wouldn’t allow himself to think a
bout that. It was probably just posturing anyway. Those pictures might’ve been fake.
Sergei turned around. The black car was gone. He smiled, rested his head back in the seat and closed his eyes. A smile crossed his lips. Diana and Caroline. Two buxom California beauties. Models, actresses, whatever. He looked forward to seeing them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to leave the hotel room. They would order food and booze and a little bit of the white powder. They would play. They would sniff and snort, suck, lick, and nibble. He looked forward to it.
These days, he didn’t want to play with anything less than two women at a time. He had the stamina, the muscles, the big driving cock. Two women at one time. It was easy. Lick them up, then dick them down. All in a day’s work for a Russian playboy. The American girls loved his accent. They also loved that he would get rough with them, a little bit dirty with them, slap them around on the ass, across the face with some choking and spit spitting, for good measure. Sergei loved pushing women past their limits and seeing what they were capable of enduring. He loved it. It got his blood boiling and his cock throbbing in his pants.
The car pulled to the curb. The driver got out, came around and open the door.
When he walked into the hotel lobby, he saw two women at the front desk wearing short skirts and heels. He smiled. One blonde, one brunette. Diana and Caroline.
“Ladies?” he said in his deep gruff voice.
They both turned and smiled, batting their lashes, playing with their hair. They both had huge fake breasts that looked like they were screaming for air, begging to be set free, sucked and nibbled. He would take care of that in due time. They had all night to play.
He went up to the brunette Caroline, hugged her, squeezed her ass and kissed her on the cheek, looking over her shoulder and winking at the blond Diana. She stared back, lust and jealousy in her eyes. He let Caroline go and opened his arms wide for Diana. He squeezed her tightly. Her huge silicon breasts felt so nice against his chest.
“I can’t wait to fuck you,” she whispered in his ear. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your cock.”
