Dirty Ex-Mas

by Denise Wells

  She laughs in response. “How about a paycheck?”

  “That’s not enough. How about a cute uniform?”

  “You can wear jeans and a tank top like everyone else.”

  “Fine, you talked me into it.”

  “I’m so glad,” she says drily.

  “When can I start?”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. You are absolutely the best, you know that?” I lean over the bar to hug her.

  “Great,” she says. “You can start by grabbing a tank from my office to change into, then clean the men’s restroom.”

  Gross.

  “Hmm, are you sure you want me to start right now?”

  She points a finger toward the rear of the building instead of responding.

  “Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender and set off to do her dirty work. Pun intended.

  3

  Mack

  Reed steps outside to make a call and I continue talking to Paula’s mother, Mrs. Nelson. It’s clear by her lack of response that she doesn’t want to talk to us, or else she really knows nothing. I’m hoping to get more out of her daughter when she finally makes an appearance.

  I glance outside to see if I can gauge how much longer Reed will be. Something’s going on in pretty boy’s mind because he’s pacing back and forth along the front walk. His shiny black dress shoes glinting in the sun while his tie blows to the side of his chest from the slight breeze in the air.

  I can see why ladies sometimes feel more comfortable talking to him, especially in abduction or sex related cases. He’s a clean cut, lean muscled, suit-wearing, book-smart, too pretty for his own good, poster boy for the FBI. His fingernails are never dirty underneath and his hair never needs a trim.

  I’m about as opposite from that as you can get.

  So, when it’s a choice between the two of us, he’s the one they gravitate toward. He’s got the softer voice and better rapport. But just so we’re clear, I’m the better shot. And in the face of danger, it’s me they hide behind.

  I try to catch his eye as he comes back in the house. “Sorry about that,” he says, avoiding my gaze and directing his comment to Mrs. Nelson. He holds his tie to his stomach as he sits. Paula chooses that time to come downstairs.

  “Mom?” she asks about Reed’s and my presence as she reaches the bottom of the stairwell, dressed in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, her long hair still wet from her shower.

  “Paula, these gentlemen are from the FBI and want to ask you a few questions about your abduction. I haven’t told them anything.”

  Paula frowns at her. “Well, you could have. You know everything that happened.”

  “It’s not my story to tell,” Mrs. Nelson replies.

  Paula takes a seat on the couch next to her mom. “I already told the police everything that happened.”

  “Sometimes it helps to go over it again, little things can come back to you. Things you may not even realize you’d forgotten.” Reed smiles warmly as he talks to her and she visibly relaxes into the cushions of the couch.

  “Well, it was like I told the police before, I met this guy for drinks—”

  “How did you meet him?” Reed interrupts.

  “On that app, Honey Pot, it’s a real dating app, not one of those hookup sites just for sex.”

  Reed nods and makes some notes in his little pad of paper he always carries with him. “And what name did he go by on the app?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Any last name?”

  “They don’t list last names for privacy reasons.” She blushes slightly.

  “When you met in person, you called him Jacob and he answered to that name?” I confirm.

  She nods. “And I saw his credit card when he paid for drinks. It said Jacob, I’m fairly sure.”

  That he paid by credit card is new information. I make a mental note to track down the slip and any other information we may glean from that. Reed makes a notation in his notebook, I’m sure with a similar thought.

  “What happened next?” Reed asks.

  “The date was going really well,” Paula continues. “We went somewhere for dinner. He offered to drive, which I saw nothing wrong with, so I left my car at the bar. He said he knew of a restaurant just down the way. It all seemed normal and fine.”

  “What do you mean by normal?” I ask her.

  “He didn’t seem like a creepy kidnapper—no windowless white van—he wasn’t wearing high water pants and short-sleeved button down with a skinny tie under a Member’s Only jacket.”

  I laugh at her stereotypical description of a creepy kidnapper which sounds more like a child molester, but I keep that thought to myself.

  “We’d been driving for a few minutes,” she continues, “when he stopped at an intersection, turned to me, and said here, let me fix that for you, but I didn’t know what he was referring to. Next thing I remember is waking up in that room with all those other women. They were all tied up, it was awful.” She shudders visibly.

  “And you said someone drugged the other women? Do you know what kind of drug? Did you see anything on the ground, anything that might identify what they took?” Reed asks.

  Paula shakes her head. “No. They looked awake but not with it, you know? Their eyes were open, but no one was home.”

  “Got it.” He nods and makes more notes.

  “Can you tell us what he looked like? The man you went on the date with?” I ask.

  Paula turns to me before answering. Her face is pale, and her eyes are blinking faster than normal. She looks scared, just not of me. It’ like recalling what happened to her is affecting her feelings all over again. “I mean, just what I told that sketch artist. He was great, the picture he drew looked a lot like the guy.” She looks down at her hands, resting in her lap, then back up at Reed. “Jacob reminded me of you a bit.”

  “How so?” Reed asks.

  “Tall, thin, nicely dressed in a suit, styled hair, handsome.” Her cheeks redden as she says the last word.

  Reed smiles at her, his expression comforting and encouraging at the same time.

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t been helpful.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Reed says. “Sometimes the smallest things can help the most. You told the police he was driving a rental car, is that right?”

  “Yes, I mean I think it was. It had rental company license plates on it and one of those stickers inside. And it was black, like maybe a Camry or an Altima, four-doors, definitely a sedan.”

  “Do you remember where the stop sign was that he stopped at?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “There was a tree on the corner closest to me, I remember that.”

  “What kind of tree?”

  “Small. Like planted a short time ago. There was a tall stick in the ground next to it with one of those bands attaching the tree to it, like it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own without it. That’s the last thing I remember seeing.”

  We confirm a few more facts with Paula, but it isn’t until we stand to leave that Reed pulls his phone from his pocket and shows her something on it. “Is this the man who took you?”

  Paula studies it for a moment. “It looks a lot like him. He was older than this and his hair was different.”

  “How much older, would you say?”

  “Five years, maybe ten.”

  We thank the women for their time and show ourselves out. We didn’t get nearly as much as I thought we would out of her. She didn’t tell us much more than the police report already had.

  “What did you show her,” I ask Reed as we’re getting in the car.

  He sighs. “A picture of David Tremblay from college.”

  “So, you decided I was right?”

  “You’re usually right, you know that. But also, research and records ID’d the sketch as him.”

  “Shit. Sorry, man.”

  “I won’t assume the worst, not yet. I mean, I grew up with this guy. He
’s my best friend. I’m the best man in his wedding; the engagement party is in less than a week for fuck’s sake.”

  “I get it, I’d be the same way.”

  “But Murph, if it turns out he’s involved in a sex trafficking ring, there won’t be anyone to convict because I’ll fucking kill him myself.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Burger?” I ask Reed as I start the engine.

  “May as well. I’m getting a beer too; I don’t care what you say.”

  “Wow, a rule breaker and a risk taker, I like it.” I backhand him along the biceps, he makes an “oof” sound in response.

  Sometimes Reed can be a real pussy.

  I head across town toward Dirty Dar’s, a bar that also makes the best burgers around. I’m a huge fan of good burgers and I’ll drive the extra mile, literally, to get one. It just so happens my ex, Daria, owns the place, which doesn’t always make for a good lunchtime experience.

  She broke my heart—fucking shattered it—I’m not even close to being over it. Still, I drag Reed here at least once a week for lunch, partly to enjoy the burger, partly to torture myself being so close to what I can’t have. I still love her, but at the same time, I fucking hate her for leaving me.

  The closer we get to Daria’s, the faster my heart pounds at the prospect of seeing her. And it’s like this every fucking time. We were together for just over a year before she broke it off. I was this close to proposing. And she’s still it for me. No one else has ever compared and I can’t believe anyone ever will. That was nine months ago now and I’m no closer to being over it or getting her back.

  Daria is a contract killer, for lack of a better word. A lethal vigilante. Hired assassin. A total fucking badass by my standards. But I didn’t know that in the beginning. Just like she didn’t know I was a Fed. I’d told her I was in security, she let me believe all she did was to own a bar. It was only by accident that I found out.

  I’d come back half a day early from a trip and thought I would surprise her. Since it was just past two in the morning, I stopped at the bar first, figuring that’s where she’d be. Just in time to see her get into a small and silent hybrid car idling at the curb and leave. Thinking she was seeing someone else—but hoping that wasn’t the case—I followed. Tailed the car she was in, parked when they did, shadowed her into the building, watched her pick the lock to the apartment, heard the muffled shots from just inside, stayed back as she retraced her steps, then let her carry on as normal.

  I watched her every night we didn’t spend together, let her believe I was out of town when I wasn’t just so I could continue to follow her. At first, I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was doing. She was good at it, that was for sure, clean and organized without ever leaving a trace.

  Once she’d made her second kill, I started backtracking who she was taking out based on addresses and working from there. It didn’t take me long to realize they were all straight-up shitty guys. I let four, that I knew of, go by before I said anything. And even then, I didn’t want to.

  I took her out to a nice dinner, all romantic and shit with the dim lights and piano music, private little booth in the back. We had a bet that I couldn’t get her off with my fingers between the salad and the main course. She lost. So, while she was still all loose, pliant, and orgasm-drunk, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “How long have you been assassinating low-life criminals, beautiful?”

  A myriad of emotions had played across her face. Outrage, denial, anger, acceptance. Then she surprised us both by telling me the whole story, after which I told her mine. She said we couldn’t see each other any longer. I argued that I’d thought about marrying her. Looking back, maybe it would have been better if I’d proposed, but I didn’t. I just said I’d thought about it.

  She left me at the restaurant that night and has refused to be with me since. At first, I thought it was retaliation over being caught. But damn if some of her points about me being a Fed weren’t solid as hell. If she’s ever caught, I’ll be in deep shit, regardless. So, I make it my priority to always make sure that doesn’t happen. And not just for me, but also because I can’t imagine only seeing her dressed in an orange jumpsuit from here on out while she’s cuffed to a cold metal table during prison visiting hours.

  It doesn’t stop me from feeding her information on creeps we know are guilty but can’t get enough evidence on to prosecute. Sure as shit, the guys drop off our radar after a short amount of time. I don’t ask questions and she doesn’t offer any other information. It works well. ‘Course, it could work way fucking better if she were in my bed every night.

  Neither of us will see other people. For me, there’s not another woman out there who would measure up. I’ve been with enough to know. And I have a feeling she feels the same way. Add to that, I come around the bar to see her as often as I can, like a fucking sap, and you have our current predicament. One of these days maybe I’ll come up with the right words to convince us both that I’m capable of deciding about my career, and any impact her actions may have on it.

  Until then, I eat a lot of burgers and make sure my partner stays in the dark about the whole thing.

  4

  Daria

  “It looks good on you,” I tell Quinn about the Dirty Dar’s tank top she just changed into. “I wish I had your boobs.”

  “Oh no,” she says, holding up her index finger and wagging it back and forth as if to scold me. “I only get to have great boobs because I have to be short and curvy. You are already tall and modelesque. If you had great boobs too, it would be even more grossly unfair. In fact, I wouldn’t be able to be your friend. I’d have to find other friends who are less attractive than me. The only reason I can tolerate being your friend is because you have no boobs.”

  “I have boobs.” I grab at the two small lumps protruding from my chest.

  “Little baby boobs,” she teases.

  “Don’t you have a bathroom to clean?”

  She skips off toward the back, leaving me alone behind the bar. Lunch times are always slow, even though we open at eleven-thirty and serve lunch seven days a week. I’ve thought about changing the hours to open at three or four in the afternoon, and just have burgers for happy hour and after. But then my employees would lose hours and I don’t want that for them.

  Not everyone that works for me is also an assassin. Four out of my ten employees do the dirty work with me, the other six just work at the bar. And I work hard to keep the two businesses separate. The building has a room upstairs with a private entrance behind a moveable bookcase in my office. Very cloak and dagger type stuff.

  We use the room to store weaponry and for when we meet and strategize. Otherwise, it’s completely off limits and no one else knows that it’s there. I pay my girls very well, but they all have a personal reason for being involved. It took us a while to find one another, and even longer to train to the point we are at now.

  It’s difficult, what we do. You can’t really have a relationship, unless you want to be lying to your partner all the time. Unless you trust them enough to let them in. But, after Mack found out, we agreed that no one outside the group knows unless we all vote on it and it’s unanimous. So far, the only people who know outside the five of us are Quinn and Mack. And both are my fault.

  Speak of the devil.

  The jingle bells I hung over the front door sound off as it opens and in saunters Mack and his FBI partner Reed. I say saunter, but with Mack it’s really more of a swagger. Like he rolls his hips and shoulders when he walks. It’s sexy as fuck. I raise my chin at them in greeting.

  Mack winks in return. “Hey beautiful,” he says as he pulls out a bar stool and situates his big delicious body on top of it. My panties flood and my heart aches. That’s all it takes with him: one little wink and the sound of his voice and I’m ready to launch myself over the bar into his arms and never leave. He’s dangerous and potent. But he’s a Fed and I’m an assassin. You do the math.

  Regardless, he
’s the love of my life. And we can never be together.

  I clear my throat and send a soft smile Mack’s way. “What can I get you two?”

  “I need a beer, Daria,” Reed says. Which surprises me. He’s not one to drink on the job, even if it is just a beer.

  “Make it two,” Mack adds. Now Mack, he’s another story. He does what he wants when he wants, and it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. But that’s also the difference between someone who worked toward and applied to the Academy, like Reed. And someone recruited out of the military like Mack.

  I’ve never been to the FBI Branch here, but I’m willing to bet Mack is the only one not in a suit and tie each day. I look at him now, dressed in jeans and snug black T-shirt that shows off his chest and arms. His hair a tad bit too long in the front, and the scruff on his face definitely not regulation. And he gets away with it because he’s really fucking good at what he does. It’s how he caught me. And also how he makes sure no one else does.

  I pull two draft beers from the tap and set them in front of the guys. “Burgers?”

  Both nod as they drink their beer. I leave them to go to the kitchen to put in their order. Reed is here enough I know how he likes his burger. And Mack would eat anything I put in front of him. But I still make sure it’s exactly the way he likes it.

  I don’t have to go to the kitchen to put their order in, the point of sale system sends a ticket back there already. But something told me they needed a minute to themselves. Something's going on, and I need not be around to hear it. This way I can warn Quinn that Reed is here. She’s had a mad crush on the guy for as long as I can remember and if I let her walk out there after cleaning the restroom, without touching up her makeup or something, she’ll kill me.

  I pass along the order to the afternoon cook, then slip inside the men’s restroom just as Quinn is finishing up. “Reed’s here.”