Spying With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  Though I guess if he’d taken my punch he mighta been in a worse state, and we both know it. For now we’re breathing fast and I’m bleeding. He’s just working out I’ve over-stepped lines in more ways than Katie. I coulda killed him.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Whoa. You crazy fuck!”

  “Whoa yourself. Stop dissin’ the lady.”

  “Man. You got it bad! If you ever land me a punch like that, you’re dead meat and swimming in the canal. Job or no job.”

  I’m breathing like a boxer but acting like a brain-dead thug. I see Rocco’s somehow got a split lip badge for his trouble—that means my ass will be fried come morning.

  The noise of the door slamming makes us both look up.

  “Yeah. Pair of crazy pricks, shoulda known! What the hell?” Havana stares and her eyes are laser-hot, she’s ready to flay our hides. Our guilt is the big, fat, silent partner in the room too.

  “Gentleman’s disagreement,” I say.

  She punches the wall. See, I’m not the only one with anger management that needs work. There’s a dent on the gym wall now—only room in this place that’s plasterboard, not rock. She’s lucky—her fingers would be fractured otherwise.

  “I hate this shit! Civilians. Bring a girl on board and everybody loses the plot.”

  “Havana. You lose more plots than a memory-lapsed script team.” Sometimes my best lines come in the tensest moments. Though she’s toe–to-toe and breathing fire at me for the slight.

  “Fuck off, Dan. I so hate your guts right now!”

  “See,” says Rocco. “She’s gonna screw up too—Hav wants you so bad she’s gonna blow us wide open.”

  “I don’t! I hate his guts.”

  Rocco does crazy face. “Like I said—probably has a photo under his pillow more nights than she’ll admit, and that’s as super-disturbing as it gets.”

  Now I’m the one grabbing Hav off Roc. What a night.

  “Done here,” I’m yelling. “Let’s get the hell gone, and why we all here at two in the morning anyhoo?”

  She grunts, shrugs. “Knew you’d end up chewin’ one another’s ears off. Civilians—toxic. It’s a proven curse. I’m gonna talk to the boss.”

  Roc and I both shout as one. “Don’t. Deal with it. Keep it tight.”

  Rocco’s watching her and a light bulb flashes in my dense brain on why Rocco gets his junk in a funk all the time with me. It’s not about me—it’s about the woman watching.

  A-ha!

  “Want me to walk you back, Hav? See, Bullet, some of us know how to treat a lady.” Rocco says.

  I squash my itch to out him, but I’ve caused more than enough harm for one night. “Great that you keep offa porn channels long enough to learn manners. Help him clean up that split lip, Hav?”

  She’s a shit-hot female agent. She’s also our resident medic. Ironic for someone with zilch empathy and the bedside manner of a cobra.

  Rocco’s staring me down, not moving. She’s tugging his brawny biceps and his voice is quiet. “Danno. Don’t screw us all. She’s civilian—toxic, remember? Don’t cross lines.”

  “Copy that. Message received. As if I would.”

  But most things are toxic in this job. More lines have been crossed than a celebrity coke party. I let my temper go—I never do that. Roc’s a pal and the wit feud is usually a game. Why not here?

  He’s right, I’m getting this messed up. But the thought of him, or any man, touching Kate—especially her lowlife father—sends me punch-crazy. Loco douche wild.

  Rocco and Hav cut out while I bench press. Nothing heavy or I’d have to use a spotter—just enough to keep my mind occupied. But it doesn’t take edges off. The sharp corners of this pain-in-the-ass mission remain brutally jagged and the wounds bleed fresh.

  Chapter Eight

  Kate

  For somebody who had very little sleep, I don’t look as much of a troll as I rightly should. My room is small, with a metal bed, no window and minimal comforts, bar a small, spartan shower room.

  So the supreme starlet duvet set is incongruous, with its silver gray sateen and piped splendor—but I’m reveling in that random touch of pamper. It’s the nicest thing that happened yesterday and I won’t forget Warbie’s gesture.

  And if my nose is right he’s also behind what’s got me dressed and ready for breakfast in record time. I already smell food. I splash water on my puffy eyes in the doll-sized basin, and even opt for make-up commando. I have lipstick and a few supplies but really, what’s the point?

  The delicious aroma of hot French toast tempts me and brings me out of ‘dad brood’ mood. I’m already planning toppings, and I don’t know my way to the kitchen. It’s truly that good.

  I’m hammering on my locked room door by the time somebody comes. It’s one of the guys from yesterday’s rescue—can’t remember his name, but I think it’s Salchow. As in triple? The thing the skaters do? Either that or I heard wrong.

  “Hi, you taking me for breakfast? All these doors and corridors are exactly the same. No idea where to find the food.”

  “Then let me show you the way,” says the guy, allegedly known as Salchow. He’s über tall. With a polar-white smile and crystal bling blue eyes that stare me out.

  I glance away. “What’s your name?”

  He’s handsome, in a male-model manner—not in an all-man Dan way. But with the same agent-esque chiseled looks fit for a boy band gone badass. A dark boy band that does crazy things with guns. My mouth dries at the image.

  “It’s Falco. From the Norwegian Crime Squad, but my FBI buddies named me Falcon. I’m team climber and I aim to soar—rise like a bird. Then I swoop! In more ways than work.” He smiles. Again with the staring. He’s like a male robot chatting up a lady robot, and I don’t want to do droid dating anytime soon. But I find myself robot-smiling back out of politeness.

  “Here is the refectory, as requested. Want me to stick around in case you need directions again?” Stare, stare, intense ruddy stare. I’d give him the bird, but he may pull a gun on me. “I know this place backwards to frontwards.” He’s being serious. Not a glimmer of sarcasm in his clear, blue eyes that I swear could drill me through the wall.

  I touch his arm in a chummy fashion. “That’s sweet, Falco the Directions King. But I’ll be fine. My stomach now has the sat nav manual.”

  He touches my arm. Ick. Kinda too familiar. “Make good with the fork, Katie. Today we have a fine breakfast selection.” He smiles at me.

  “How did you know my name?”

  “Heard Dan call you that.”

  “It’s Kate. Consider it a warning. Dan’s on his last chance too.” You’d think I knew karate or something, such is my stupid bluster. But there’s only one guy I kinda let call me by that pet name. He has tattoos that make my lips auto-pout without permission.

  I turn away from Ivan before he tries to stick English language words together like lumpy chunks of toddler Lego again.

  But in turning, I see a line of grim faces. It’s police line up gritty and hard-ass. They’re all glaring at me over the long refectory table as if I just puked in their pool party, and one of them is Dan. He’s no happier than when we last parted company.

  Oooh. Shit.

  “Good morning.” When in doubt slap on the cheery.

  Nobody answers. So I stare pointedly at Dan. At least I think it’s Dan. Somewhere during the course of last night he had a brawl with a pillow containing a bag of spanners. Or his bed monster got out and smacked him like a fucker.

  “Ooooh.” I wince, then draw in further comment.

  “Hey. Sleep okay?” he says grimly.

  “Better than you, by the looks.”

  He has got a bruise on his head, as well as a scar from the Tavi scrap, and I’m pretty sure his lip is swollen, and that’s not Botox. Speaking of lips, Rocco has the biggest trout pout I’ve ever seen. It’s lip legend. He’s more pissed than the Pissy King of the Piss Piranhas.

  “Nice makeovers, peeps.�
�� I know I can’t resist. “You doing this for reality TV? Or did the heavy weight poltergeists strike in the night?”

  Thankfully, Dan ignores me beyond a swift, silencing glare.

  Rocco pisses himself laughing. Told you he was super-pissy. I sense he’s just that kinda guy. “She’s so funny, maaan! So damn funny. Fuck. Somebody let me train her in body combat to pay for the comebacks.”

  “So what’s been happening here? Night raid gone wrong?” Is all I can find to say before Warbie steers me away from the table end—and trouble. It’s like a wake line-up with the worst mourners ever.

  “No night raid. Just grievances aired,” Warbie whispers. “Best not go there, Princess.” Then he raises his voice in a theatrical dazzle, “So my darling, you sleep well?” Warbie’s wearing a Greek flag bandana. Today, his black apron is covered with mini Spartan soldiers. If my gaydar’s not scored another bang-on hit I’ll go and do jazz hands while I shut the front door.

  “Love that apron.”

  “I know, dolly duck. Rocks like my charm.”

  “Do you have gay joke aprons for every day of the week?”

  “Now there’s an idea.” He grins. “I do have swim trunks in this print. I like a bit of flesh to wake me up for the breakfast run. Especially when I’m stuck with these long faces.” He does a theatre whisper behind a hand. “The boys are all out of chat and chivalry today. So it’s just you and me keeping the pep up. What’ll it be…Full English, Pancakes, French Toast?”

  “French Toast, s’il vous plait!” I’ve said it so fast I sound like a French Toast-addicted junkie with the DTs. But Warbie grins and wields his spatula like a fairy godmother—piling a glossy white plate with a stack fit to widen my eyes, as much as my belly.

  “I won’t eat all of these.”

  “Why not just try, girlfriend? I sense keeping your mouth filled might keep us all outta trouble.”

  “Charming. How do you know I don’t talk with my mouth full?”

  “Thought you were a lady, but do your worst. Surprising what a day of shocks and a good sleep can do for the appetite—fill your face ‘til it hurts, girl!”

  It’d be rude not to.

  Given that I cried myself to sleep last night after the devastating news I’ve been drawn here via duplicitous means to lure my bastard presumed-dead father to prison again, I’m pretty impressed at my own resilience and my new-found appetite. But I always was a comfort eater. After one bite of the toast, I’m smitten. I’ll have to count calories if I’m here for too long.

  “Wow. These are amazing.”

  So ignoring my refectory mates, I’m getting into the groove when Warbie turns up the radio for Xanadu just to piss the others off. I’m laughing openly as I lose myself in lip-smacking bliss. Cinnamon and sugar. One happy breakfast bunny for realz.

  * * * *

  “Can I sit?” Dan’s staring down at me. Lots of muscles in black cotton. I’m surprised to find him trying to cozy up, and feeling that he needs to ask me first. He is my captor after all.

  “You’re Sir’s deputy dog. Do you need to ask?”

  I look up at him as I stuff my third to last bite of French toast inelegantly into my greedy gob. More because I can’t than won’t speak, I don’t. But I munch just to squeeze his angry knobs.

  “You don’t need to be like this. We both know the way it works. You’re here because you’re super-important to every one of us.”

  Instead of arguing, I shrug and nod. Hoping I’m giving the impression I really don’t give a fig.

  “I’ll take that as promising.”

  I’d say ‘take it as you must’ but the toast isn’t chomped enough.

  “So…you get my note?”

  I’m still chewing. Note? Ah yes. A letter from Dan apologizing for all the shit he’s caused me. Quite nice handwriting too for a cop-slash-sharp-shooter-slash-lying-weasel-shithead. He said in the note that he recognized the error of his ways and he should’ve been straight from the off. Also said he should’ve been firmer with his superiors in expressing his view that I deserved not to be thrown into the deep end of the flaming pool of manure I was dumped into last night.

  I hold my hand over my mouth while I’m still eating. “You asking me to mark it out of ten? Handwriting was nice but spelling was iffy.” Like I say, this mouthful’s taking work. I intend to make him work too. I flick him a glance and nod, getting back to mastication station.

  “Do you accept my apology? That’s what I’m asking.”

  Toast is still being beaten into submission here. I chew the last piece, putting my hand and fork in front of my mouth to indicate there is a process underway. Then I swallow. Then I mainline some coffee to enable me to swallow yet again.

  “Damn, you like your chow.”

  “You’d better believe it. Okay—if it keeps your face on straight I’ll overlook yesterday as one of those awful days when it all comes down at once. I still think you’re a prize dick and you’re going to owe me favors for a lifetime, but it’s a start. You’re so not forgiven or anything.” My mouthful’s gone. My stomach is now overladen with eggy bread, so I take a breather. I pick up my mug and chug more latte. Wiping my mouth, I fixate on his bruises. “Who rearranged your face?” I point to indicate his face damage. “Or did you do that to yourself out of a guilty conscience?”

  He shrugs. Fuck, but my pussy notices when he does that. It’s so boyish. So adorable. I’ve just been reeled in with a turned-on zoink. I blame the muscle T and the muscles therein. Plus a face any woman would cream over. “Karma decided to make me pay for stuff.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t need to know. They both came off with wounds of their own.”

  I glance back, and from the grouch gazes I’m getting—start again and clarify—looks, that if they could, would incinerate me from the toenails upwards and leave nothing unburned all the way up to my hair follicles—it’s Havana.

  “She beat you up? She didn’t really do all that to you?”

  Dan makes a doh face. “As if.”

  “She hates me. She wants to take my face apart big time and feed my limbs to crocodiles.” I suspect not just my face. Lots of parts of my anatomy would no doubt end up in jars. As trophies. I’ve read about people like her. She’d probably frame-mount my skin. Then lick it.

  “She doesn’t. She just thinks she does. She doesn’t know what’s good for her,” Dan says, way too cryptically for my linking.

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time. Realized she has an admirer and she didn’t know. Or realize how good he’d treat her. They’d be damn good together. Instead of taking chunks outta me as displacement therapy.”

  “Now you’re being über-mysterious, and lying and hiding things from me got you in serious bad doo-doo before. I also shudder at the thought of you being anyone’s dating counsellor. Ever.”

  “Why do you never gimme a break, woman?” Dan sighs and scratches his arm. It drags my gaze to defined muscles that I’ve never noticed up close before—they’re hair-covered and strong, ridged. Watching makes me gulp. I’m thinking of other parts of his anatomy that might be wide in terms of girth and that gets me very hot and ready to combust with lust. The bulky watch strapped to his wrist looks as if any other man would need weight-training prep to adjust to wearing it.

  “So if she didn’t beat you up, who did?”

  “Leave it.” At that moment the most obvious perpetrator rises from his seat. A crown jewel shiner showing on his left eye, now that the light hits it.

  I stage whisper, “You and Rocco had a big ruddy ding dong—does the boss know?” I whisper. “You’re so in trouble when he sees.”

  Dan just fake smiles.

  “Don’t you have any sense? You should’ve used make-up. I have some concealer, I think that was in my pocket.”

  “Yeah. Right. Course. Used my Interpol Branded Color Me Beautiful boxed set. Maybe get my lashes done to divert attention.”

  I’m trying not t
o laugh, but it’s so hard that I ended up giggling, and everyone in the room looks over. “I have make-up,” I tell him. “You can both meet me in my room and I’ll get rid of the dings with Dior.”

  Dan stands. “The boss’ll have to deal. I’m not doing make-up even for you.”

  A voice behind us says. “Rocco, Draven. Boss’s office in five.” It’s Warbie who’s answered the phone on the wall, and has just received orders.

  “You’re in trouble,” I say as I watch Dan rise to go. “Told you. Make up needed—shoulda listened. Big trouble heading your way!”

  Dan releases a long low sigh. His coffee breath is remarkably enticing, for such an early hour in the morning. He definitely has good mouth hygiene and great teeth. Big tick. My pussy meows for a sunrise spoon sometime. Shit. Poor guy.

  Right now he’s going to his doom for a big old boss ding dong.

  “Rocco had it coming. Listen—can we talk later? Properly talk. In private,” he asks me. How can I deny a man going to the gallows one last sojourn?

  “Only if you and Rocco are planning a public second round. Or a big resolution scene with kissing. I’m backing him to win whatever way it goes.”

  He’s angry fit to burst but I’m bubbling with the thrill of the wind-up. “Fucking can it. See you later,” he spits out.

  “Not if I see you first.”

  He goes off. Mr. Hot Holster Wearer of the year.

  And I’m laughing along for several minutes after he’s gone. Like a total bloody lunatic sitting on my own and unadvisedly full of eggy bread.

  * * * *

  I decide to help Warbie with the dishes and tidy up chores. It’s not like I’ve got target practice or bollockings waiting. When I turn back, Havana and Rocco are gone, and when I bend to open the washer Warbie grabs me, a picture of rapture.

  “There’s gonna be shit to pay! What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall.” Warbie declares.