Dan shifted forward and the intercom came on. “Stow your gear and come up for review, rookie.”
She wanted to scream with her frustration. This was the twelfth time she’d run this simulation, and each time she’d failed miserably. Stationary shooting—short and long range, AR15, M16, Ruger Mini-14, low light, no light—if her target was standing still, all pretty as you please, she could nail it, dead to rights. If it was moving, however, well, as Dan had so eloquently put it several times, she couldn’t hit the broad side of a slow moving Hummer, with four flat tires, running on fumes while driven by his eighty-nine year-old cataract riddled grandmother.
In his early forties, Dan, or Dano as everyone called him, was usually patient and unflappable. It was one of the reasons Cap had selected him as a Rossi trainer. That wasn’t the case when it came to the simulator and Angie, both of which had him at his wits’ end. He’d spent hours with her, trying first one technique, which failed, then another, also unsuccessful. He’d consulted with Cap about it, but the boss didn’t seem worried, stating Lil T could fix her when he got back. That’s when she’d learned that T had been tagged first to train her. Out of town when she’d come on board with Rossi, T having taken over bounty cases for the newly married and honeymooning Dex Russell, Cap instead assigned Dan to instruct her in the “Rossi way”, which suited Angie just fine.
Although she owed T her life, having a hand—quite literally—in keeping her from bleeding to death that awful day she’d been stabbed, before that, they’d had a weird sexual tension. Mostly on Angie’s part who had a not so unusual sexual response to the drop dead gorgeous Italian man. From the moment she laid eyes on him, her girl parts had awakened and demanded attention. The fact he’d propositioned her to play with him at the club, thinking her a submissive of all things and finding her attractive enough to offer, hadn’t diminished those feelings.
T on the other hand ran hot and cold. She didn’t understand the man. One moment being sexy and charming, the next scrutinizing her as if she was a bug under a microscope. And he’d been at the hospital. Though the memory was foggy, she knew for certain it had been him. Mara had confirmed it for her. He’d kissed her forehead and touched her cheek tenderly, hadn’t he? Mara hadn’t been there when he said goodbye so it could have been merely a pleasant morphine induced dream. He basically disappeared after that, work ostensibly taking him out of town, except to Angie, it seemed manufactured, like he was avoiding her.
So, with T unavailable, being assigned to Dan was a good thing.
Looking up at him now, his face grim with disappointment, she heaved a sigh and slowly climbed the stairs to face the music.
“You took out the five year old with the ice cream cone again, Hixson,” Dan admonished as she opened the door. “And the priest, you put a bullet in his chest, while the thug with the facial tattoos and the assault rifle, him you let mosey on down the street like he had corn for sale.”
“Yeah, but he had such a nice smile.” Imprudent, sure. Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist a smartass remark to lighten the mood.
Dan’s face flushed so red that she thought his head was going to explode. “Ten minutes with a paddle, Cap,” he ground out, “that’s all I’m asking.”
“I think, my friend, that you’re about to get your wish.”
Her eyes darted to her boss, surely he wouldn’t allow Dan to spank her. They were Doms, but this wasn’t the club, and she for damn sure wasn’t a submissive. Cap’s somber expression implied that he probably would.
Quickly, she apologized. “I’m sorry for being flip. It’s out of frustration. I’ll work harder.”
“You’ll get it. You’re not the only one who’s had trouble with the simulator.”
Hearing that, Dan shot Cap a surprised glance as if to ask “who?” which told Angie he was humoring her for some reason.
“Sit down.” He pulled out a black leather chair for her and waited.
Dragging her feet, the death knell of her career ringing ominously in her ears, she sat where he indicated. She wasn’t going back to the force. Maybe she’d get her P.I. license as she’d originally planned prior to coming to Rossi. Mentally adding up expenses versus her dwindling savings account, she waited for Cap to give her the ax.
“I’ve got an assignment for you, Angie.”
Her head shot up in surprise. “Anything, sir,” she blurted out, ready to show him he hadn’t made a mistake by hiring her.
Cap’s lips quirked at her eager response. “Hang on, now. I want you to go into this with both eyes wide open. This particular mission requires some special training, some of which you might find objectionable.”
She frowned. When she’d taken this job, she’d learned what Rossi was all about. Sure, they took bounty cases, skips as they called them, hunting down fugitives who’d jumped bail. They also did personal protection, surveillance, security consultations and installation of alarm systems for sensitive businesses. What she didn’t know until coming on board was that on occasion they also took government contracts, most of which were dangerous, like the two year Mendoza Cartel investigation. In addition, some were covert operations, referred to by Cap as black ops, which were under the radar operations wholly funded by the government. If things went wrong, or right for that matter, Washington fully denied it and claimed the mission to be unsanctioned. He’d sworn at the time that black ops missions were exclusively managed by their elite team—the six owners and a few specially trained ex-military operatives, which included two former Navy Seals, an Army Ranger and three ex-Marines. He also said they were scaling back on those types of cases, considerably. Mendoza an exception because it was personal and happening in their own backyard, so to speak.
Now she wondered what special training he was speaking of, but it didn’t really matter. She’d signed on with Rossi because she wanted a challenge, tired of the bullshit and corruption at the SAPD. She also wanted to be treated as an equal among the highly-trained Rossi men, which had not been the case at the department. Although a detective, she’d never been one of the guys, thrown a bone here and there to keep her quiet, the high-profile cases having gone to the men. She’d been involved with the Mendoza investigation solely due to Cap—demanding from more powerful men than Stapleton—that she be a part of the task-force, leaving the chief no choice except to comply. She had the opportunity, in light of her dismal performance just now, to prove she was deserving of a place on Cap’s team. Whatever it was, she’d do it.
“I’ll do whatever it takes, Cap.”
His brown eyes glimmered, clearly amused by her enthusiasm. “Although I appreciate your eagerness, and it’s true that you’re the only one on my staff with the unique attributes for this assignment, you probably want to wait and hear what it entails first.”
*****
Having delivered his fugitive into police custody, T arrived at Rossi to check in. Three months on the road reminded him too much of the service, being on duty and staying alert constantly. He’d also forgotten how exhausting living out of his SUV could be, or the endless barrage of cheap motels and greasy spoons. He was glad to be home.
As he walked down the hallway, he noted the time—half past four. The place looked deserted. Although not a typical nine-to-five business, he was surprised there was no one around other than the receptionist. Everyone else must be in the field, which meant business was booming, not a bad thing at all. He headed for the surveillance room knowing someone would be there.
Rick Spencer was pulling his time, which they all did by rotation, no one able to stand it on a routine basis except Jack their full-time night-shift man. He blew through the door, though his former chief—second-in-command to Cap—didn’t flinch.
“Saw you come in, man. Welcome back.”
T grunted as he flopped into one of the high back, swivel chairs while surveying the wall of high definition monitors. Rick reached out and punched a button on one, time stamping something he’d found notable and entering it into the surveill
ance log. While surveying the screens constantly, he asked, “Productive trip?”
“Collected three skips the first month; they were a breeze. The last one had half a brain and gave me a run for my money. It was a nice change.” T scanned the locations on the screens. Megan’s bakery, Club Decadence and the downtown clinic where Jonas’ sub Lexie worked were under constant surveillance. There were a dozen other live feeds for ongoing cases at various locations around the city under 24-hour watch—Rick brought him up to speed on those—the rest of the monitors captured Rossi entrances and key areas.
“Who did you piss off to get surveillance midweek?”
Rick laughed. “No one. I’m putting in my time now before the baby is born. Once he’s here, I’ll be scarce for a while.”
“It’s that time, huh?”
“Yep, and not a minute too soon for Regan. She’s miserable.”
“As little as she is, I imagine she looks like a beach ball with legs about now.”
Rick made a face, clearly a touchy subject. “Don’t let her hear you say that. Not if you want to live to see daylight.”
“So, it’s a boy.”
“Yep, got documented evidence of the little guy’s ‘little guy’ a few weeks back. It looked like a finger on that ultrasound photo, but I took their word for it.”
“Happy for you and Regan, man. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, bud. After all we’ve been through, we feel blessed.”
T was still grinning at the notion that Rick’s full-term pregnant wife posed any kind of threat when movement on the firing range caught his eye. Reaching out to the touch screen, he zoomed in on the shooter. “Is that Angie Hixson?”
Rick’s affirmative grunt was his answer as he time stamped action on another feed.
T watched for a few minutes as she fired a rifle, short range. “She’s good,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Rick huffed, glancing briefly at the feed. “As long as the bad guys stand still while she shoots. Otherwise, she couldn’t hit a slow moving train with a grenade launcher.”
“Since when do we offer private lessons to the SAPD?”
Shifting his concentration briefly, Rick looked at T for an instant, before refocusing on the monitors and resuming his constant scanning. “You haven’t heard? She quit the force and works for Rossi now.”
“Doing what?” T frowned, not liking some of the scenarios—extremely dangerous ones—that immediately came to mind.
“Investigations mostly, that’s her strong suit, but with her experience and some additional training, well, who knows what else. You know we’ve needed a female operative every so often.”
“I suppose,” he grumbled, watching as she spoke with Dan Ogilvie, who had joined her on the range. “Dano’s her handler?”
“Yeah, Cap wanted you to train her and work on the problem with her aim, but with you wandering the southwest these past few months, Dano was tagged for the job.”
The munitions expert on their A-team for years with expertise in all manner of ordnance, including guns and explosives, training the FNG’s at Rossi had fallen to T. Training Angie was a whole other animal. Immediately, thoughts of her in his arms, popped into his head, his hard front pressed to her soft, rounded backside while teaching her to line up her sights. It morphed into an image of them in the gym, with her grappling with him on the mats as he taught her hand-to-hand maneuvers. In an easy take-down, he’d straddle her hips and leaned over her, enjoying the press of her full tits against his chest as he pinned her to the floor. He could almost feel her warm body against him as he held her immobilized, his much larger frame caging her as she wiggled and squirmed to get free. The brief fantasy was enough to make his dick hard and his balls tingle and ache.
Shifting in his seat, he acknowledged that he’d dodged a bullet by being unavailable. Glancing at the monitor, he saw her smiling up at Dan, then breaking into laughter, her hand coming out to squeeze the older man’s forearm as she bent forward, clearly amused by something her trainer had said.
She was beautiful, more so when she smiled. And her body... He panned down from her face, lingering over the tight t-shirt that conformed to every curve and the even tighter, body-hugging workout pants that molded to her shapely legs. Spandex, he’d bet money on it. Damn. His own pants had become excruciatingly tight. He stood abruptly, ready to get home and grab a cold shower.
“Heading to the club tonight?” Rick asked as T headed toward the door.
“Damn straight. Finding a sub on the road is a real bitch.”
Unconsciously, he adjusted his cock to a less strained position not registering his hand’s location until Rick’s amused snicker followed him out the door. He didn’t give a shit, an alternate plan formulating in his mind: head home, jerk off in the shower—as he had for the past three months, except for the one time about six weeks in when he’d hooked up with a vanilla chick outside Lubbock, which was less than inspiring or satisfying, still he’d gotten his rocks off—after that he’d catch a few z’s and head to the club. Once there he’d find a willing subbie in need of a good long fucking and flogging, in that specific order. Usually he liked to build it, starting slow with at least an hour of torturous play until she was begging. His control was bound to be limited tonight, however, so his needs might have to come first, and maybe even twice, before his sub got hers.
His lust starved mind conjured up an image of a blue-eyed blonde, her long, glossy hair coiled like a rope around his wrist as he plunged relentlessly between her creamy thighs while she bent over in front of him. When she turned her head to look back over her shoulder, her imaginary blue eyes turned to a haunting hazel brown. In his fantasy, they glimmered with desire as her plump pink lips parted and the tip of her tongue slipped out, slicking along the lower curve.
Dream Angie whispered, “Fuck me harder, T,” as she spread wider for him, angling her hips so he could sink deeper into her warm, wet, welcoming pussy.
He reached down, squeezing his cock to keep from shooting off in his pants like a fourteen-year-old boy. T groaned, not caring in the least that their receptionist was in earshot, or that she had an up close and personal view of the bulge in his jeans as he rushed by and through the double doors where she crouched, cleaning the glass. The only thing he cared about was getting some relief. He determined his sub for the night would be blonde, not tall, and with small tits. The complete opposite of Angie’s dark coloring and killer curves. He also resolved that when he was deep inside another woman and closed his eyes, he wouldn’t see her beautiful face, the one that had invaded his dreams and occupied every waking fantasy for the past three hellacious months.
Chapter Two
As Angie followed Dan down the dimly lit corridor, she tried to keep up with his long legged stride while waging war with the tiny scrap of material that was supposed to pass as a skirt. With each step, she felt the slick stretchy material creep higher on her thighs. Every few feet, she would pause and give it a firm tug to keep it from bunching up and exposing what was in her opinion a less than svelte behind.
Dressed in club wear for the first time ever, she tried to wrap her head around what she was about to do. Sure, she’d been to Club Decadence, many times in fact, but she’d always come in through the front door wearing real clothes—a little black dress to be specific—that covered all of her important girl parts and didn’t leave her coming across like a working girl cruising for a date on the corner of South Sabinas and Guadalupe on a Saturday night.
She glared daggers at the back of the man responsible for her wardrobe tonight. A form of punishment for her abysmal performance on the firing range, no doubt, or as retribution in general for being a tremendous pain in his ass these past several weeks. Lord knows she’d heard him mutter those very words often enough.
As she yanked down the migrating hem yet again, she imagined he’d taken considerable glee in picking out the electric blue PVC skirt. He’d chosen a petite size, she’d noticed, which on her above average fram
e rode below her navel and barely covered the curves of her ass. The black and blue trimmed crop top wasn’t much better, adhering to her like a second skin. She supposed she should be grateful that she was covered at all, considering she’d seen subs in the lounge and bar areas wearing substantially less, though she couldn’t muster much gratitude at the moment.
The hem of the skimpy crop top sat several inches below her breasts and would still have been deemed conservative club wear with its pointed collar and little cap sleeves, if not for the huge, circular cutout in front. It showed the entire inner curves of her nearly-D breasts and was keeping her other hand busy trying to corral the twins that jiggled obscenely as she hurried along. Angie was convinced if she took the shallowest of breaths, she’d treat everyone to a nip slip. She didn’t want to think about the results if she had to raise her hands higher than her waist. Talk about wardrobe malfunction.
“Come along, sub,” Dan called from where he waited by the door, a highly entertained look on his handsome face.
Angie bit her tongue to keep “kiss my ass” or other choice retorts from flying out of her mouth. Although she wasn’t submissive, Dan was definitely dominant and she wouldn’t put him past getting himself a little vindication for such a disrespectful remark once he had her “in training” inside.
Instead, she grumbled, “I’m going as fast as I can, sir,” the last word said a hint short of a sneer. “I’d like to see you try walking in these damnable De Sade inspired stilts.”
The stilts she referred to were actually the bright blue five-inch platform heels he’d insisted she strap on her feet.
“Now, now, remember what I taught you. Subs at Club Decadence don’t scowl at their Doms, nor do they grumble every breath or curse. Unless they’re angling for a spanking that is.”
“You are pure evil.”
“I’m a sadist, Angie. That comes with the territory.”
“What?” She skidded to a halt, reaching out for the nearest stationary object as she flailed her arms for balance. The object being Dan’s rock solid forearm, notwithstanding. “A sadist! Does that mean you’re into whips, needles, hot wax and that kind of shit?”
What About Love (Club Decadence Book 6) Page 2
