by Low, Gennita
He’d made love with Mitchell. God, it was the most beautiful experience of his life. When the passion ebbed, he’d lain with her in his arms for a long time. At first, he’d thought she was asleep. When she finally spoke, she’d voiced his own thoughts.
“That wasn’t right.” She pushed to a sitting position, wrapping the sheet around her body. “We shouldn’t have done it.”
He’d sat up beside her and reached out to take her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn’t. The guilt crushed him. “What do we do, now?” he’d asked.
Her eyes awash with tears, she said, “You have to go.”
He’d nodded, got out of bed, dressed and grabbed his keys. Still, he couldn’t leave her like that. “Just so you know, I don’t regret making love to you.”
Shaking her head, she pressed her hands over her ears. “It was wrong, so wrong. Derek’s dead. We were just at his goddamn funeral.”
Remy pulled her hands away from her ears. “Look at me,” he said in a quiet but stern tone. “I don’t regret what we did, just the timing. You’re right. The timing was wrong. We both loved Derek. We were both hurting. Don’t hate me for needing comfort.”
She’d stared up at him, tears clouding her blue eyes. “I don’t hate you.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I hate myself for letting this happen.”
“No, baby.” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms, running a hand over her smooth back. “Don’t beat yourself up. Give yourself time.”
Time.
Over a year had passed. He’d kept in touch with Mitchell through email, texting and Skype, depending on where he was in the world. He’d been deployed several times and she’d been busy with her work with the NCIS at the Norfolk, Virginia, field office.
They’d grown closer in some ways by talking through their texts and emails. But they hadn’t actually seen each other since the night of Derek’s funeral. But that was all about to change.
In their last email, they’d agreed that if neither had a date on Valentine’s Day, they would not spend it alone.
Remy’s gut had been in knots since that message over two weeks ago. They’d been apart long enough for the grief of losing Derek to subside, and the guilt of having made love the night of his funeral had faded.
To Remy, a lot rode on this “date”. He’d been in love with Mitchell since before Brewsky died. That love had only grown stronger over the past year of separation.
His heart twisted as the phone rang on the other end. He counted five rings before voicemail picked up.
“Hi, this is Mitchell. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Mitchell, it’s Remy.” He had to clear his throat, it was so tight. “I just got back in town. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and I don’t have a date. Call me.”
As he hung up, he worried his message sounded too pathetic. Too late to change it. The message was on her voicemail whether he liked it or not. Now all he had to do was wait for her call.
For the next five minutes, he jumped at every sound, finally realizing he was being ridiculous. She probably had to work late at the office and she’d call him as soon as she could.
Rather than hover over his cell phone, he’d be better off grabbing a shower. If she wanted to meet that night, he wanted to be available.
Setting his cell phone on the counter in the bathroom, he turned the faucet handle to warm, stripped and climbed into the shower. Heaven was warm water and water pressure. After a good fifteen-minute soak under the pulsing showerhead, he turned off the water and stepped out onto the bathmat to check his phone.
No call.
Afraid she might leave her office and eat on her way home, he dialed her office number. Her phone rang seven times, before it rolled over to the operator.
“How may I direct your call?”
“This is Navy SEAL Lieutenant Remy LaDue. I’m trying to reach Mitchell Sanders, but she’s not answering. Could you connect me to her supervisor, Barry White?”
“Yes, sir.”
Her supervisor answered on the first ring. “White speaking.”
“Barry, Remy LaDue. I’m in country and was trying to get hold of Mitchell.”
“You and me both, buddy.” Her boss paused. “She walked in a couple days ago and requested emergency leave. I granted it and haven’t heard a word from her since. You haven’t either?”
“No.” A twinge of unease knotted his belly. “Last time I heard from her was two weeks ago. We’ve been downrange until twenty-four hours ago when we flew back to the States.”
“Sorry. A friend of hers went missing, and she wanted to take time off to be with the family. Or so she said. I checked; her friend didn’t have any family that we know of.”
“I see.” The knot in Remy’s gut tightened, disappointment and concern washing over him. If she hadn’t been in contact with her supervisor, she probably wouldn’t be calling him anytime soon.
Remy almost decided to order out pizza and stay at his apartment for the night. At the last minute, he changed his mind, threw on a shirt and jeans and hurried out the door to catch his teammates. Steak sounded better than pizza. He set his phone on vibrate and put it in his pocket. If Mitchell called, he’d feel it.
*
Mitchell adjusted the skimpy costume. The sequined bra barely covered her breasts and the leotard with more decorative holes than fabric stretched over her shoulders and ass so tightly she was afraid one bad move and the holes designed into the costume would join each other, and the entire leotard would pop off her like a giant rubber band. Wincing, she plucked the back out of her butt crack.
“Honey, let it ride. The smaller the costume, the bigger the tips.” Dixie Lee adjusted her leopard-print G-string so that the triangle covered her Brazilian bikini wax and tucked her size triple-D boobs into the tight-fitting matching bikini top. Patent leather high heels completed her outfit. With makeup caked on her face to cover the fine lines that too much liquor, drugs and smoking had etched into her skin, she was ready to take her turn on the stage.
Mitchell swallowed hard to keep her nerves from getting the better of her.
The music came to an end on the stage. Men whistled and hooted, yelling for more when Candi pranced in, plucking the dollar bills from her bra and G-string. “The men are horny tonight, ladies. A whole group of military guys just walked in, fresh from deployment with fistfuls of cash. Who’s up?”
“Who do you suggest, Candi?” A gravelly male voice sounded from the backstage door. Rocco Hatch, the bar owner, entered, wearing a black suit jacket over a black shirt and black trousers. His dark hair was slicked back with enough product to make him the envy of most women, and he wore enough cologne to make Mitchell gag.
The man wasn’t very tall—maybe five feet nine inches. But, his ego was bigger than the floor space of the bar. He strolled through the strippers, his hand sliding over a breast here, an ass there until he came to a halt beside Candi.
She sneered at the others and draped an arm over Rocco’s shoulder, rubbing her breasts against his suit. “I think you should send the new bitch out there, Rocco baby.” She pressed her lips to his neck and slid her hand into his suit jacket.
Rocco’s brows rose and he directed his stare to Mitchell. “CC? It’s a full house out there. Think you’ve got what it takes to keep their attention?”
Mitchell pushed back her dread, reminding herself that this was the man with the connections. If she wanted to find Kelli, she’d have to play his game. Plumping her breasts, she let her eyelids drift low and her lips curl up slightly on the corners, striving for a confidence she wasn’t feeling. Though she loved to dance, she’d never pole danced or stripped in public. Her stomach clenched. If she wasn’t good enough, the customers would eat her alive and she’d lose her chance of capturing the boss’s attention.
“I’ve got it.” Using the steps she’d practiced in front of her mirror at home, she vamped her way th
rough the other ladies in the dressing room and stopped in front of Rocco, gave Candi a brief, dismissive glance and walked her fingers up Rocco’s chest. “You won’t be disappointed.” Leaning forward, she gave him an eyeful of cleavage.
His nostrils flared.
Candi’s eyes narrowed and her hand slid down Rocco’s belly to caress his member that had swelled beneath his zipper. “Go on, then. Let’s see what you have.”
Mitchell winked at Rocco and stepped out on the stage. The bright lights blinded her, shining up into her eyes. She counted them as a blessing. What she couldn’t see couldn’t hurt her, could it? Hopefully, she wouldn’t spot anyone she knew out there.
As she danced across the stage, Robin Thicke’s song Blurred Lines blasted through the speakers. Hesitant at first, Mitchell stared out at the crowd, glad she couldn’t see the individual faces. But this dance really wasn’t for them. She’d convinced Rocco that she was a professional club dancer and she could hold her own on the dance floor. If she wanted to remain in the bar and get closer to Rocco, she had to put her money where her mouth was and dance.
Pushing back her shoulders, she strutted across to center stage where a pole stretched from floor to ceiling. She wrapped both hands around the pole and dropped to her haunches, her knees flaring out on either side of the hard metal, her pelvis pumping in rhythm to the song.
Hoots from the men in the audience emboldened her and she raised her hips, her hands low on the pole until her ass stuck up in the air, her butt cheeks probably glistening in the lighting with all the glitter she’d sprinkled over them. Straightening, she wrapped a leg around the pole and leaned back, giving them a good flash of boobs.
More hooting and dollars flew onto the stage.
She spun, dropped her leg and arched her back to the pole, dropping into a squat, her knees wide, giving the men a good view of her crotch. This display of blatant sexuality for money made her skin crawl. It went against everything she’d worked so hard to overcome in her life. As an NCIS agent, she’d taken all kinds of crap from men. But this undercover operation was completely off the books. Even Barry didn’t know what she was attempting.
And she wouldn’t be doing it, if they’d assigned a better agent to investigate Lt. Kelli O’Neal’s disappearance.
Kelli had been her friend and roommate when Mitchell went through the Naval Academy. Though they’d gone their separate ways after graduation, they’d kept in touch.
Mitchell completed her four years’ active duty and had taken a position with NCIS, gone to Quantico for training, and had been assigned to the Little Creek field office.
When Kelli had gotten orders for Norfolk Naval Base, Mitchell had been happy to see her friend move to the area. The timing couldn’t have been better. She’d come two months after Derek’s death and had helped her through the grief of Derek’s loss, and her guilt over sleeping with his best friend the night of Derek’s funeral.
Then two weeks ago, Kelli disappeared. Vanished. She’d been reported AWOL from her duty station and NCIS had been contacted to conduct the investigation. Because Mitchell was a close friend, the case had gone to Brendan Wallace.
Mitchell hadn’t been satisfied with how slow he was moving. The longer Kelli was missing, the lower the chance of them finding her. After numerous attempts to get Brendan to work faster, she’d gone to Barry and asked him to oversee the investigation personally. He’d stepped in all right. But he’d told her she was interfering with the case, and if she didn’t back off, he’d put her on administrative leave.
Knowing she was too close to the victim, Mitchell couldn’t help feeling Brendan wasn’t looking at the case from the right angle. She’d gotten into the files and reviewed the witness testimony and none of the statements added up.
As far as she was concerned, time was running out for Kelli. If she didn’t do something soon, her friend might be lost forever, maybe even dead. So she’d asked for leave and started her own investigation.
Which led to this bar. A bar Kelli would never have stepped foot into—at least, willingly. But the man Kelli had been seeing just happened to own it—Rocco Hatch.
Mitchell glanced to where she’d left the man standing backstage. Rocco wasn’t there. She rose to her feet, swiveled her hips and rocked them, suggestively soliciting more wolf calls and dozens of hands in the air waving dollar bills.
Rocco stood at the bar, away from the frenetic shouts of the young men lining the stage. He expected her to act like a stripper. To get close enough for the men to stuff money into the strings holding up her bottoms and into the bra of her top. She was glad for the leggings, even if they had holes all the way up her thighs and over her hips; the garment gave the men more places to tuck money. The crisscrossing strings holding her leotard together at the front also held her bra in place. No one could easily rip it off her and she wouldn’t be expected to strip all the way down to nothing. When applying for the job, she’d emphasized she was a dancer. “I don’t take off my clothes in public,” she’d said and winked. “I save that for the privacy of a bedroom.”
To prove that fact to Rocco, she danced toward the edge of the stage, turned and dropped to her haunches, exposing her bottom to the nearest men. Hands groped her ass and tucked money anywhere they could.
Fighting to keep from slugging them, she pretended to enjoy the attention and straightened as soon as she could without looking as if she was running away. Before she could walk back to center stage, she felt big hands grab her hips and drag her backward.
A gasp escaped. She teetered on her heels, lost her balance and felt herself falling into the sea of male faces.
Young men, short haircuts, and bulging muscles spelled military. And all yelling at once, all horny, all groping for their ounce of flesh.
“Hey, baby, over here.”
“I could use some of that.”
“Whew, mamma. That’s what I’m talking about!”
One voice stood out among the rest.
“Mitchell?” Navy SEAL Remy LaDue’s face swam into view before she was lifted and slammed into the broad wall of a chest belonging to a man who could have wrestled gorillas at the local zoo. He leered down at her and reached for one of her breasts.
A fist flew at his jaw and landed with a bone-rattling thud. The ape barely reacted, his hand grabbing a handful of her right boob and squeezing hard.
Mitchell fought to get her feet under her while prying at the massive paw clutching her. “Let go of me,” she demanded.
“Finders keepers,” the big guy said, his voice deep enough to lead ships through foggy waters.
Based on his long hair and big gut, he wasn’t one of the military men.
Mitchell bit her lip. Military men, she could handle. But a big, hulking redneck, now that was another situation entirely.
“The lady asked you to let go,” Remy’s voice sounded above the noise of the crowd.
“I will, when I’m good and ready.” The gorilla grinned stupidly and squeezed her like a stress ball. “I’m not ready.”
“Let her dance,” a man shouted behind him.
“Yeah, let her dance,” another sailor yelled.
The room erupted in a chant of “Let her dance!”
Rocco’s bouncers muscled their way through the crowd of men. Before they could reach her, Remy kicked the gorilla in the knee. The man loosened his hold long enough for Mitchell to get away. With the help of the men in the crowd, she was lifted back up on the stage, a few dollars heavier and with a bruised breast.
The music switched to the Katy Perry song, Peacock.
A group of men lifted Remy out of the crowd as well and handed him up on edge of the stage in a straight back chair. The chant started again, with “Lap dance!” Soon, the entire club had taken up the chant.
Remy sat in the chair, his brows drawn together in a severe frown. Every time he tried to rise from the chair, someone jerked him back onto his butt.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted over th
e music.
Mitchell shot a glance to the point she’d last seen Rocco. His brows had dipped as low as Remy’s and he was following the bouncers through the crowd, making little headway among the rowdy SEALs.
Knowing she only had a moment to get her message across, she danced over to Remy, straddled his legs and gave him the lap dance the men demanded. She leaned forward, shaking her breasts in his face. “Grab my ass. Look like you’re enjoying it, for Pete’s sake!”
She smiled and rubbed her breasts across his face, then bent to nibble at his ear and said in a voice only Remy could hear, “You don’t know me. I’m undercover here. Don’t make a scene.”
When she started to get up, she felt him grab her hips and hold her in his lap. That’s the spirit. Mitchell winked at him and ground her bottom against his groin, pretending to ride him like a stallion. “Yeehaw!” When she bent forward, she whispered, “Please, don’t blow my cover.”
Remy said with a low growl, “I won’t stand by and let someone maul you.”
“At least look like you’re having fun, damn it.” She arched her back and let her long curly hair drape down over his knees.
A second later, Remy buried his face in her cleavage while gripping her bottom.
Heat flared between her legs, her crotch grinding against the hardness of his erection. God, it had been too long since she’d made love to a man. Too long.
As his head came up, he smiled, his gaze direct and intense. “Meet me at the back door when you get off work.”
By that time, Rocco and the bouncers had pushed through the men and climbed up on the stage.
With a flippant smile, she winked. “It’ll cost you, baby.” Mitchell rose, turned and bent to touch her toes, shining her bottom in Remy’s face before dancing away. She trailed her fingers across the first bouncer’s chest and paused at Rocco, cupping his cheek. Then she patted it, forced a sultry smile and returned to center stage where she hooked her leg around the pole, and arched her back, her arms above her head, her gaze following Remy off the stage.
