Pretty Boy

by Tara Oakes

  My mouth drops open as I nearly explode with the mixture of sensations he’s giving me. It’s almost too much, overwhelming.

  “Tell me another man has been inside you, has made you come as hard and as many times as I can and I promise I will never try to bury my cock inside you again.”

  I feel the all-too-familiar tingling over the skin of my arms, my neck, and know I’m breaking out in goosebumps at the mere mention of what he’s capable of.

  I bite my lip, silently begging for more of the delicious torture he’s inflicting on me.

  “Tell me, Princess. Tell me if I’m right and no other man has done any of these things, because deep down you know only I can.”

  There’s a tightness to my chest, my lungs struggling to fill themselves enough to keep me from passing out as I want desperately to tell him exactly what he wants to hear, to tell him the truth.

  His hips begin to grind deeply, tormenting the answer from me.

  “No one. There’s been no one.” I gasp aloud, a traitor to myself.

  He pauses, his body stiffening at the confession.

  “Just say the word, Jess. Say the word and I’ll rip these stockings off and pound your pussy so fucking hard. It’ll be just like it used to be.”

  I feel my neck arch up into his mouth and feel the plumpness of his lips nearly pressing on mine. His free hand massages the back of my head, lifting it closer to him just as his forbidden words begin to unravel my sense of resolve.

  And then, like a bubble bursting, his cellphone rings.

  We both freeze, caught somewhere between the erotic haze and shock. I can see the conflicting impulses in his eyes, but not for long, before he releases me to fall back down to the plush leather seating.

  “Yeah, Gibson here.”

  He avoids my eyes as he turns to take the call.

  I curse myself as I take stock of my mussed appearance and unsatisfied need. Yeah. It’ll be just like old times, I shake my head in silent self reprimand, and I want no part of it.

  ~*~

  “Why the hell are you so pissed?” Chris whispers as we’re led down the painted cinder-block corridor.

  There are no windows, no natural light at all, not that there’s much left outside this time of day anyway. The only light available to see the generic-uniformed prison-guard ahead of us is from the blue-tinged fluorescent bulbs housed in the ceiling above. It’s harsh on my eyes and makes everything look sallow and dull, not that I’d expect it to look differently, being a maximum-security federal penitentiary.

  Still, though, I can’t imagine being held here day after day with nothing but these depressing walls, their peeling paint, and the artificial shadows. Perhaps the most disturbing thing about our journey is the echoes.

  Everything from the slight jingling of the officer’s keys attached to his belt, the muffled static through his walkie-talkie, and even our footsteps cause an unnatural reverberation.

  I can feel Chris keeping pace with me as I anxiously try to out-pace him and leave him behind. It’s been awkward, at best, since we landed at the small local airstrip. It was an all-too familiar scene of him passively acting confused as to why I would be upset at being placed on the backburner for his work. How many phone calls had interrupted us during our relationship? Too many to count.

  We may not be dating any longer, and what happened between us on the plane should never have actually transpired, but once again… his phone rings and I’m tossed aside. That being said, since I’m so used to having been put in that position by him, why am I so angry at this time?

  Sure, I’m angry with him for doing it… but I’m angrier with myself. I was certain I’d gotten past the little games he likes to play; was done being the little toy he could take off the shelf and play with whenever he was bored. I thought I was strong enough not turn in to a cat in heat when he touched —

  Ah! Stop! I tell myself.

  I swallow hard and straighten my shoulders. What’s done is done. I am strong. Just because I stumbled a bit does not mean I’m going to let myself turn back into the weak-kneed little love-sick puppy I once was — the one who would tolerate him treating me that way.

  Not anymore.

  “Well? Are you gonna tell me or are we gonna play games, Princess?” His whisper is almost loud enough for the guard to hear as we slow down, approaching the very last steel door at the end of the corridor.

  I narrow my eyes and shoot him a stern warning. This isn’t the time or the place for this crap. He may be used to isolated hallways and dreary buildings like this. He probably sees them often in his line of work, as they clearly don’t faze him, but I’m not.

  I need to focus, to concentrate, before the walls that feel like they’re slowly closing in on me drive me over the edge. I’ve never been a fan of confined spaces, and I’ve usually been able to mask it, to cope with it; but the deeper we venture into this labyrinth of a prison, the faster my heart beats.

  Loud metal screeching fills the shrinking space as the heavy door is opened for us to pass through, only to reveal another door no more than a few steps away. My breathing hitches at the sight of the metal bars that separate the two doors, and they too are unlocked for us to pass. Chris takes the lead and hands over his service weapons before holding his arms out to either side, so another officer can scan over him with some sort of device.

  There’s a small beep as the electronic wand passes over his hip, and it startles me to the point that I jump. The motion catches the attention of all three of the men who eye me curiously.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Chris winks at me as he casually hands over the bronze FBI badge that set off the mini alarm. I’m next, standing still as the balding man waves the wand over each of my limbs before he nods to the two of us.

  “He’ll be brought up shortly, as soon as we arrange an escort,” the balding corrections officer informs us as the inner door is finally opened.

  I smile at him, and walk cautiously through the threshold to the small interrogation area. Is it even politically correct to call this an interrogation room? Visiting room. The new title seems to sit better with me.

  I feel a touch of warmth on my lower back as Chris urges me to take a seat in one of two chairs that are on our side of the lone table in the room.

  Loud, moving metal scrapes against the floor as the door is closed behind us, sealing us inside. Ironically, whatever control I may have been exercising over my hidden phobia has now vanished.

  I actually yelp and my eyes begin to search around the room wildly. I feel a light sweat break out over my upper lip.

  Chris’s lighthearted demeanor changes swiftly, and he realizes that something isn’t right with me. I feel the weight of his eyes, which only serves to hasten my breathing.

  “You don’t need to be here, Princess. Really, I can handle this.” He turns me so that I have no choice but to lock eyes with his concerned stare.

  I shake my head. “No. This is all because of me. I need to know why he’s doing this. I’m staying.”

  Chris exhales in frustration, “Why do you always have to be so stubborn?”

  “Get it from dad,” I answer trying my best to add a little levity to the situation.

  Back when we were a couple, Chris had called me thickheaded on more than one occasion when I flat out refused to listen to him. After the first time I brought him to dinner to meet my parents, he’d told me he finally figured out where I got my stubborn-streak.

  “You can say that again,” he mumbles under his breath. I know Dad and Chris were never fans of each other, but I always thought they had some sort of … mutual respect for each other. Doesn’t stop either one from making a smart-ass comment about the other, though.

  I close my eyes and steady my breathing, eager to have this wave of unease pass.

  “Do you remember the first time we spoke?” He breaks my train of thought.

  My eyes instantly open. Is this a joke?

  “How could I forget?” I roll m
y eyes. “You interrogated me in a room kinda like this one.”

  I wave my hand at the walls that surround us as an example.

  Chris laughs. “Well, you were associating with a murder suspect, who also happened to be the Ol’ lady of the vice-president of one of the largest motorcycle gangs in South Carolina.”

  I cross my arms defensively. “You and I both know Lil’s wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  It’s true, Lil’s, one of my best friends from college had indirectly been responsible for bringing Chris and I together.

  “Sure, I know that now. But we had to investigate. You, though …” he stifles a mixed laugh and groan, “You were as nasty and mouthy as a spitfire. What is it you said to me? Oh yeah. You’d have my badge taken away by morning and have me tied up in misconduct charges long enough to forget what got you there in the first place.”

  I feel my cheeks flush at the mention of out first encounter. Chris had been assigned to investigate the Chisolm charter of The Slayers, MC. My friend Lil’s is now married to a member of that gang’s rivals, the Kingsmen. A crazy twist had brought Lil’s into the investigation when the President of The Slayers had been murdered.

  Lil’s was dangerously close to facing murder charges and was even picked up for questioning one afternoon while we were out to lunch. I got taken in along with her and that’s where I met special agent Christopher Gibson for the first time.

  He was rugged back then, having been undercover with The Slayers for nearly two years, building his case. He looked the part, with his unshaven stubble and longer hair. There was a certain grit to him then, one that’s managed to disappear over time as he’s left that investigation in his past.

  One thing that hasn’t left him though — the cockiness that he manages to exude so easily when he’s playing bad cop.

  He tried everything he could think of, said everything he could say, to try to get me to turn on Lil’s and give him some information that would help his investigation.

  I may not be a part of Lil’s world, her biker world, at least, but I have enough loyalty to never rat out a friend. Chris learned that the hard way that afternoon.

  After I’d had enough of his manipulating and condescending offers to “help me out” because he was “on my side” and didn’t want to see a “poor innocent little thing like me get caught up in some bad shit”, I let loose and let the most vile threats fly out of my mouth.

  I didn’t know Chris at all back then, and didn’t yet know how much my fiery side would turn him on, but I got my first hint of it when I finally told him he could either arrest me right then and there, or I was walking out the door to call the governor’s office and let them know how I’d been treated. He was a golf buddy of my dad’s, after all. On my way out the door, passing Chris as he stood defiantly, I noticed the massive erection growing between his legs, direct evidence of the power I had to affect him.

  “What can I say?” I smile condescendingly, “You bring the best out in me.”

  Chris’s shoulders quake with mirth at my statement. “So, you still raising hell hanging around MCs?”

  He’s being a jerk, now.

  “Yeah, I’ve got my Harley parked outside. I’m a regular ol’ biker bitch,” I huff.

  His eyebrow arches. “Testy. Lil’s know you have such a high opinion of Ol’ ladies?”

  I look away. “I haven’t seen her in a while.” I’m not sure if it’s the judgment he’s casting on me or my own guilt, but I feel the need to explain myself. “She’s been busy, I’ve been busy. She’s got her hands full with the new baby, and she opened a bakery. I’ve got dad’s campaign….”

  My voice trails off and I inspect my recently polished fingernail, looking for some nonexistent imperfection.

  “I get it. It wouldn’t look so good if the daughter of a respected senator was palling around with the wife of a thug.” Chris’s tone is harsh. “Gotta keep up appearances, right?”

  I bite my lip. How dare he!

  “You know better than anyone I don’t give two shits about appearances! I dated you didn’t I?”

  He can’t deny it. “You got your kicks bringing around your little bad boy—“

  Just as I’m about to rip him a new one for even insinuating that I’m that shallow a person, the thick metal door opens once more to add a third person to our group.

  Chris and I both immediately end our little spat to focus on the more important issue, when the man at the heart of the blackmail photos is escorted in.

  I haven’t seen “Nicky The Fish” Faciolo since his trial. The case was a huge turning point in Chris’s career, and more than a little responsible for the added pressures that put a strain on us as a couple. Chris was the star witness for the prosecution, as his undercover work with the Slayers inadvertently led him to the strip club owned by Nicky.

  Back then, dad was nowhere near considering re-election and I had a lot more time on my hands. I made it to court every single day of testimony and was by Chris’s side the day the guilty verdict was read, mere hours before Chris was given a huge promotion because of it.

  I was lucky, though. The Prosecution had a strong enough case without my own testimony to nail this son of a bitch to wall and send him away for twelve years of hard time.

  The slouching, hunched-over man shuffling his way in under double guard bound with wrist and ankle restraints is a far cry from the man I last saw smirking at the defense table as his fate was read to him in the jury’s verdict.

  Back then, he was sleazy looking in his tacky suits and greased back hair. He looked like every stereotype of the quintessential gangster. His gold pinky rings and heavy chain bracelet were hard to miss. So was the handful of similar-looking goombahs that piled into the courtroom every day to sit behind the defense table.

  Dark sunglasses, dark imported suits, hell, some even worn those retro-style fedora hats that Al Capone used to wear.

  There was no doubt, that Nicky was “connected”. If nothing else, it was just his demeanor that gave off the whole “gangster” vibe. He may be missing the Armani suit, the gaudy gold jewelry and the posse of friends as I watch his approach, but he still has the same smirk, the same aura.

  He’s still an asshole.

  He nudges the metal chair to be able to sit opposite us and rests his chained hands down in front of him as if he were merely attending a business meeting. A business meeting that he was fully expecting, judging by his reaction to us.

  “Well, if it ain’t the Bureau’s finest,” he nods to Chris, “and my employee of the month,” he turns his attention to me. “How you doin’ sugar tits?”

  I somehow forget all about the small confining room we’re in and whatever discomfort it may have caused me earlier as my rage starts to build down deep.

  “I was never your employee! I would never work for such a slimy snake like you!” I spit.

  He seems amused. I’ll bet this is the highlight of his week, actual human interaction with someone other than a guard.

  “See, that’s not how I remember it, doll.” He chuckles. “You came into my establishment, looking to dance the pole. I remember our little interview very, very well.”

  I’m sure he does. He nearly forced himself on me, before we were interrupted by one of his sidekicks, but not before he had thoroughly inspected the goods.

  “Seems to me that things kinda got crazy that night, before I could pay you. You’re still owed one night’s salary. I’m a little short, seeing as they don’t let me carry cash in here, but I can always pay you in trade. You look like you ain’t had some in a long time … let Nicky take care ‘a that for ya, darlin’”

  “Enough bullshit, Nicky!” Chris interrupts. “You know why we’re here.”

  The felon holds up his hands, “Relax, there, kid. Don’t get yourself all worked up. If you’re still tappin that, then we can share. I remember how skilled she was on a pole. I’ll bet she’s got some hidden talents in that tight ass of hers, let her show me how she works my pole.”


  I barely have time to register what’s happening as Chris jumps out of his seat and lunges across the table for the inmate who taunts us. He picks Nicky up by the shirt and pushes him back until he’s slammed up against the hard cement wall behind him.

  “I said, that’s enough!” Chris’s teeth are clenched and the thick vein on the side of his neck begins to protrude. “You don’t even look at her, you sorry piece of shit, you look at me! You listen to me! ‘Cause I’m only gonna say this one time, give you one shot to cooperate before I have your ass sent to the box for longer than you ever thought imaginable. No visitors, no yard time, no TV, nothing. Just you, your sick imagination, and your thoughts day in and day out with not so much as a fuckin’ cockroach to keep you company. “

  I stand, watching the interaction between the two as this power play unfolds. Chris is much taller and broader than the smaller man being held high in the air with his feet dangling.

  I watch as the cockiness drains from Nicky’s eyes when he realizes the full weight behind Chris’s threats. When a man has his freedoms taken from him and is thrown in a place like this, he probably holds on to every little piece of independence he can. Chris is promising to strip the man of any and every bit of sanity he must have left.

  I’m not sure what to do, so I do nothing. Chris is in his element; this is what he deals with on a daily basis. I let him do what he does best.

  “I don’t got much to tell you, Gibson,” Nicky manages to get out, his words coming out choked.

  “Then you better make it good,” Chris releases his hostage and Nicky falls to the ground, unable to straighten his legs in time to support himself.

  I watch as his ass hits the hard cement floor and cringe, knowing it must have hurt. Chris turns his back to the prisoner on the floor and grabs the nearby chair Nicky occupied before Chris got him in his clutches.

  Chris swings the chair around, setting it down hard enough for the impact to echo as the chair slams against the floor on either side of Nicky’s legs, trapping the orange-jumpsuit wearing inmate underneath.