Justice in the Shadows

by Radclyffe

  “Happy now?” Rebecca finally muttered, her voice drowsy with contentment.

  “Mmm, I was happy before,” Catherine murmured, her hand in Rebecca’s hair, drawing the thick strands through her fingers. “Now I’m just downright pleased with myself.”

  “You should be.” Rebecca tried to move, and found that she couldn’t. Her muscles wouldn’t obey her. “Damn. You feel so good, and I still need to go out.”

  Catherine nodded, loving the way Rebecca sheltered in her arms, so unguarded, so very much hers. “Stay just a while longer?”

  “Well.” Rebecca eased onto her side, smoothing her palm down Catherine’s abdomen. The muscles flickered and danced beneath her fingers. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

  “Oh?” Catherine asked thickly, her mind already losing focus. She’d been aroused for so long, and now with Rebecca touching her, the need burst upon her, bright and hard. She ached. “What would it take?”

  “Just say please.” Rebecca’s hand stroked lightly between Catherine’s thighs.

  “Oh. Please.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sandy sat hunched on the edge of Mitchell’s bed, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in her hands, intently watching Jasmine sorting through the clothes in Mitchell’s closet. Mitchell stood across the room, her backside against the front corner of an oak desk, eyeing Jasmine speculatively, her expression a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Sandy divided her attention between surreptitiously studying Mitchell’s bedroom, which was almost as big as her entire apartment, and Mitchell herself. She’d rarely had the opportunity to just look at the young cop, and now, awaiting whatever magic or illusion Jasmine could create, she mused on the outcome.

  What would Mitchell look like as a man? She wasn’t tall—just a bit above average height and well built. Her shoulders were nicely developed, her hips and thighs toned and tight. That would help. But more than her body, there was her face. Chin and cheekbones boldly sketched by a few strong lines, large, deep-set eyes, a generous mouth. A visage that on a woman was called beautiful, on a man—handsome. Her dark hair, as close to black as hair could be, was just beyond short, and thick. Combed the right way—yeah, that could work. And of course, she doesn’t have to look like a guy; she has to look like a really good drag king. And the best kings usually look better than the average guy. Yeah, Dell can do that.

  “What do you think?” Jasmine asked, addressing Sandy as she turned from the closet with a pale blue silk shirt in one hand and a pair of dark trousers and matching jacket in the other. “Maybe add a tie?”

  Sandy studied the very nice suit. Yeah, Dell would look hot in that. She’d look just like the kinda guy who’d own this place, too—like one of those Center City business types who like to get blown on their lunch hour in a back booth at Woody’s. And totally out of place at Ziggie’s. She shook her head. “Too uptown. She’ll fit in better if she just looks like a boy version of herself.”

  “What do you mean?” Mitchell asked, uneasy.

  “She’s right,” Jasmine said, casting Sandy an appreciative glance. “We can’t just dress you up and expect it to work. You still have to be as naturally you as possible.” She put the clothes back. “Look. When you see a stranger on a bus or on the street, and you can’t immediately tell the gender, what do you look for?”

  “Breasts,” Sandy said immediately. “Or not.”

  “Item number one,” Jasmine agreed, giving a smile of approval. She perused Mitchell’s chest. “We can handle that.”

  Mitchell blushed and did not look at Sandy.

  “Whiskers.” Sandy’s eyes danced with amusement.

  “I am not pasting on a fake mustache,” Mitchell blurted.

  “I agree,” Jasmine affirmed. “Too much chance for it to come loose, especially if you’re kissing.”

  Sandy made a faint hissing sound.

  “Plus...” Jasmine continued unperturbed, “it’s hard to get beards and mustaches to look natural unless you have a lot of practice. We don’t have that much time.” She nodded to Sandy. “What else?”

  Sandy hesitated for just a second. “A cock.”

  “Yep.” Jasmine tilted her head in Mitchell’s direction. “Do you by any chance have—”

  “No.” The word came out sharp and hard. Christ, I don’t even have sex.

  “Let’s work on the clothes first, then,” Jasmine said, sensing Mitchell’s discomfort.

  “Can I look?” Sandy asked, getting up and crossing the polished hardwood floor to the double-wide closet.

  “Sure,” Mitchell said, resigned to having little say in the process.

  A minute later, Sandy handed Jasmine first a pair of soft, well-worn black leather pants, then a snowy white T-shirt, and finally a pair of scuffed black motorcycle boots with heavy heels and a wide strap across the arch. “Have you got a jacket to go with the rest of this, Dell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a bike, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sandy looked at Jasmine. “Well?”

  “The guys at the Troc will die of envy.” Jasmine laid the clothes on the nearby dresser and turned to Mitchell, her expression suddenly serious. “The first time or two you’ll need help wrapping your chest. It’s not as simple as it sounds because you don’t want the Ace to show under your shirt. Are you okay with me helping you?”

  “I...sure.” Mitchell shrugged, wondering briefly if it was really Jasmine—or Jason—asking, and then realizing that it didn’t matter. She trusted them both. “I do need your help.”

  “Uh, Jasmine,” Sandy asked abruptly, thinking about Mitchell being naked and another girl with her hands on her, “do you...uh...like guys, or girls?”

  “Girls.” Jasmine gave Sandy an appraising look. So that’s the way it is. “But I have a very steady girlfriend. Mitchell’s safe with me.”

  “Ah, jeez...” Mitchell pulled her shirt from her jeans and began to unbutton it. “Let’s just do it.”

  “I’m gonna get a beer. You got beer, Dell?” Sandy suddenly realized that she didn’t want to see Mitchell naked. Or rather, she did. A lot. And that was a good reason not to.

  “In the fridge. You’re not leaving, are you?” Mitchell was relieved that she wasn’t going to have to strip down in front of Sandy, but she wanted her to be there. Later.

  “Nah. I’ll hang out for a while.” She walked toward the door and said over her shoulder, “Have fun.”

  Jasmine opened the small duffle bag she’d carried into the bedroom earlier and extracted a lightweight white cotton Ace wrap. After that, she laid out several other items on the bed, then turned to where Mitchell stood shirtless. Keeping her gaze on Mitchell’s face, she approached with the Ace in her hand. “Raise your arms.”

  Mitchell complied, and Jasmine quickly and expertly wrapped it around Mitchell’s chest. She used clear porous tape to smooth down the folds.

  “Too tight?”

  “No.” Mitchell lowered her arms, flexed her shoulders. “Seems okay.”

  “If you have a problem with it slipping, next time we’ll use a little skin adhesive. But I’d rather not, because it itches.” She reached for the white T-shirt from the nearby dresser. “Let’s see how it lays.”

  Moving carefully, Mitchell unfolded the shirt.

  “Try to forget the Ace. If anything, you’ve got to expand your movements, not make them smaller. Guys take up a lot of space.”

  “Like cops.” Mitchell smiled and pulled on the T-shirt. “I’ve had plenty of practice acting like I’m physically bigger than I am.”

  “I know. That’s a big reason why I think this will work—you’ve already got the walk.” Jasmine ran her hand down Mitchell’s chest, checking for irregularities or telltale bulges. “Plus, you’ve got the looks for it. Your face was made for this.”

  “Like yours?”

  Jasmine smiled, surprised. Most people were shy about asking anything about her and Jason, preferring to invent prurient
scenarios about who and why she was. “I just got lucky with the face. Even if I looked like Vin Diesel, I’d still be wearing a dress.”

  “Well, I’m glad you look more like Charlize Theron, then.”

  “Why, thank you, stud.” Jasmine took Mitchell’s hand and drew her to the bed. “I made a call to one of the boys as soon as the meeting broke up, and he took me on a quick shopping trip. I didn’t figure you had any Jockeys.”

  “Just boxers.”

  “They won’t work. Too loose to secure your drag gear.”

  “I can see that.” Mitchell rubbed the back of her neck as she stared at the other items laid out on her bed. If she was going to do it, she needed all the equipment, but the array of shapes and sizes was daunting. “Uh...suggestions?”

  “Well, I got a few different ones, because I wasn’t sure which would be most comfortable for you. You need to wear one big enough to give you a bit of a bulge—that’s pretty much required for a drag king. But personally, I don’t go for the perpetually hard look. The packing dick is just for show—it won’t function, but it won’t look like a banana in your pants, either.”

  Mitchell picked up the pale pink packing dick in its clear plastic envelope and squeezed. It felt real. “No harness with this either, right?”

  “Nope. It’ll fit right in your Jockeys.”

  “Well, this one should do, because I’m not gonna need it to work.” Mitchell thought about Sandy’s accusation earlier. Does that include fucking one of them, too?

  “Uh—if you’re going out with the boys after a show, especially to Ziggie’s, you might want the strap-on. Some of the drag kings do pick up girls when they’re out clubbing. So you might want to at least look like you’re up for it.” Jasmine laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep them all then.” Mitchell kept her face expressionless as she unzipped her jeans and pushed them down over her hips.

  Jasmine turned and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the spacious room. Keeping her back to Mitchell, she remarked, “You’ve got an incredible view of the square from here. Of all of downtown, really.”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell replied as she pulled the leather pants up and settled herself. “Okay.”

  Jasmine turned. Mitchell stood with hips thrust slightly forward, a thumb hooked over the top of her pants, her fingers splayed across the leather pants, close to but not quite touching the subtle but definite swelling to the right of her fly.

  “Well, Mitch,” Jasmine said quietly, “I’m having a gender confusion moment.”

  Mitchell laughed a bit shakily. “Good. So am I.”

  “Ookaay.” Jasmine took a deep breath, wondering briefly how Sarah would feel about a full-out cross-dressing date. Mitchell, just beyond androgynous now, was Eros personified. “Time for the final touches. Bring that chair into the bathroom. I need good light for this.”

  A minute later, Mitchell sat, automatically sliding a hand up the inside of her thigh to cup her crotch, adjusting for the new position.

  “Good move,” Jasmine murmured, running her fingers through Mitchell’s thick hair. “Men and drag kings are fond of frequent manual dick checks.” She laughed. “Lest it disappear.”

  “Should be fun on the bike,” Mitchell muttered. The unaccustomed pressure between her thighs that escalated intermittently with every small movement was disturbingly arousing. Even more unexpected was the fact that she felt not just physically stimulated, but emotionally excited. Her entire body was tingling, and she couldn’t wait for Sandy to see her. Oh man. What if she doesn’t like it? Jesus Christ. What if she does?

  “Are you and Sandy an item?” Jasmine asked as she altered the arch of Mitchell’s dark brows with several adept strokes of the eyebrow brush.

  Mitchell met Jasmine’s eyes in the mirror. “No. Why?”

  “Just curious. She’s cute.”

  “Yeah. She is.” Mitchell grinned. “Major.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jasmine murmured, switching to a wider brush and picking up a dark shade of toner. As she accentuated the width of Mitchell’s naturally strong jaw, she added, “And she’s hot for you.”

  Mitchell twitched. Everywhere.

  “Hold still, Mitch.” Jasmine worked quickly, efficiently, subtly changing the balance of Mitchell’s face with a minimal amount of cosmetics. “You’ll be able to do this yourself with just a little practice. Are you paying attention?”

  “No.” Mitchell worked to steady her breathing. I’m trying not to think about Sandy. “You think?”

  “If you can’t do the make-up, I’m sure Sandy can. I’ll run through it with her later.” Jasmine dropped a dab of gel into her palm and rubbed her hands together, then massaged it into Mitchell’s hair. “Do I think what, stud?”

  “That Sandy’s...you know, interested.”

  Jasmine laughed. “I thought she was going to relieve me of a few body parts when she figured out I was going to be touching you, sans clothes.”

  “Yeah?” Mitchell shifted her hips, hoping to ease the faint and distracting throbbing. The conversation was not helping. “Frye warned her off me.”

  “That’s SOP, Mitchell. You know that.”

  Mitchell stared at Jasmine in the mirror. For just a minute, she’d heard Jason’s voice. Jason, who’d been with Sloan at Justice. Jason, who’d walked into a room with an unknown perp, unarmed and without backup. “You think she’s right?”

  “Frye’s a by-the-book cop and an A-one detective. She’s also your boss. If she’s noticed something going on between you two, you ought to be careful.” Jasmine patted Mitchell’s cheek. “The rules are there for a reason. If you’re gonna break them, make sure you’ve got a better reason, and be smart about it. Which means keep your eyes open when you’re with Sandy.”

  “There’s nothing going on.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jasmine walked around from behind the chair and held out her hand, then pulled the nouveau drag king to his feet. She checked Mitch’s beard shadow, ran her eyes over the hard muscled chest, let her eyes drop to the prominence of genitalia nestled in soft dark leather. Nice. “Do you want there to be?”

  “Want what to be?” Mitch was aware of the languid scrutiny, and unexpectedly, he got hard. If this keeps happening, I’m going to go nuts.

  “Something to be going on between you and Miss Cutie-Pie.”

  “Yeah.” It felt so good to say.

  “Well, then, stud,” Jasmine said, taking Mitch’s hand, “I think you’re about to get your chance.”

  *

  When she heard footsteps, Sandy looked up from the couch where she’d been nursing her second beer and rifling through a magazine about vintage cars. Jasmine walked into the living room with her arm around the waist of...Oh fuck, Dell. Look at you. You are so, so hot.

  “Sandy, this is Mitch.”

  Watts's words echoed in Sandy’s mind. You gotta be the person twenty-four seven, because if you lose it for just a minute, you’ll get made. And then...

  She stood, the beer bottle dangling loosely in her grip, taking in the face, the body, the almost-cocky grin. She couldn’t stop herself from checking out his equipment, and when her gaze dropped to the leather-clad crotch, he pushed his hips forward just a bit. Sandy bit her lower lip, holding in a small gasp of surprise.

  “Hiya, Sandy.” Mitch hoped his nervousness didn’t show. She hadn’t said a word, and he couldn’t tell if she liked it or not. Maybe she doesn’t go for drag; maybe she doesn’t go for girls any way at all. Christ, maybe she’s straight. Mayb—

  Well, if he’s my boyfriend, time to prove it. Sandy put the bottle on the coffee table and walked directly to Mitch, not stopping until her breasts nearly touched his chest. Wordlessly, she leaned over, plucked Jasmine’s hand from around his waist, took Mitch’s arm, and tugged him away a step. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. Long enough to get him to open his lips, long enough for her tongue to brush his. She felt him along the length of her body, the l
ean thighs, the flat chest and abdomen, the firm swell of his sex. But it was his lips that held her attention. They were gentle on her mouth, tender and careful in their explorations. Dell. Always so gentle.

  Mitch’s head spun wildly. He had imagined a lot of reactions when Sandy saw him, but not this. His first thought, before the incredible feel of her mouth drove every other thought from his burning brain, was that she was only kissing him because he was a guy. But then he felt her lips urging him to open, firm and certain and free, and somehow Mitch knew that this was not what Sandy did when she was with men. This was something special, just between them. Then he couldn’t think at all because his heart was pounding so loudly and his insides were turning over and his legs were shaking too badly to do anything but struggle to stay upright. And God, can she kiss!

  “So, boyfriend,” Sandy said calmly after she broke the kiss, “you promised me pizza.”

  Jasmine laughed, shaking her head in delight and admiration for Sandy’s aplomb. “Mitch, love, if that’s the way she asks for pizza, you might want to go for Le Bec-Fin next time.” She picked up her duffle and headed for the door. “Sandy, call me tomorrow at Sloan’s. I want to talk to you about dressing him. Unless you want me to keep doing it.”

  Sandy didn’t take her eyes from Mitch’s face. “I’ll take care of him.”

  I just bet you will. Jasmine let herself out, her soft laughter drifting back to them.

  “Is it okay?” Mitch asked quietly when they were alone. He still hadn’t moved, and neither had Sandy.

  “You look great.”

  “You okay calling me Mitch?”

  Sandy shook her head, exasperated. “You are Mitch. You have to be, or else you’re going to get your Boy Scout ass killed.” She took Mitch’s hand and squeezed. “You told Frye you could do this, and I’m starting to believe it. So do it, rookie.”

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  Sandy smiled a small, secretive smile. “Because you looked a little nervous, and that’s not how you need to look. You need to look tough and sure, and I figured a kiss would get you on track.” And because you looked so good I just had to.