Oil & Vinegar Read online

  “Hard, fast and as rough as you want to make it,” I replied.

  The hotel room wasn’t cheap, but she was. She was one of three girls that I used when I was in the mood, which lately, had become more frequent.

  “Roughhousing will cost extra,” she explained.

  “Fine. An extra hundred if you make me come in five minutes, a hundred-fifty if you make me scream when I do.”

  Her eyes lit up, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the money or the challenge.

  “Get naked and lie down,” she instructed.

  Before the prostitute arrived, I had locked my badge and Glock pistol in the room safe, which was why I paid for the better hotels, so I only had my shirt, jeans and underwear to strip off. As I undressed, she reached into her bag and pulled out a set of fur-covered bondage neck handcuffs.

  She wrapped the cervical collar around my neck and snapped it in place. Then she handcuffed my wrists and snapped them to the collar. It was not comfortable at all, but I could see the potential. Rather, I could feel it.

  Then she pulled out a hand whip with a feather on the opposite end. Ah, sweet torture.

  “You have the prettiest dark honey eyes,” she said as she slashed the whip across my stomach.

  I gritted my teeth at its sting, a twinge of fear coursing through my stomach as I lay there, defenseless. She pulled off her clothes with tantalizingly slow speed and climbed on the bed, flicking the feather across my breasts.

  “And gorgeous teardrop breasts,” she emphasized as she leaned over and licked my breast, hardening the tip before she bit it. I arched my back as the sensation ran through my body.

  She crawled on top of me, sliding her leg between mine and rubbing against my sex. “Start the clock, baby,” she laughed. When she moved her hands down to my clit, my breath hitched and I strained against the cuffs. The woman’s skilled hands had immediately ignited a fire that demanded my attention. The pressure was building, almost painful in its pleasure, and I panted with the pulsations.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m coming.”

  She pulled her hand away, still teasing my breasts.

  “Oh, God. Don’t stop now.”

  “Beg for it, bitch,” she demanded, slapping my breast hard, making the flesh sting.

  Panting, I cried, “Please.”

  She slapped me again. “You can do better than that.”

  “Please, damn it!”

  She grinned and thrust her fingers deep inside me.

  I screamed.

  “Ding, ding, ding. Three minutes and forty seconds, and I’m a hundred and fifty bucks richer.”

  “Want to up the ante?” I asked between pants.

  Chapter Three

  Connie Yarbrough-Morrison

  “Mrs. Morrison, we’d like you to speak with our psychiatrist, Dr. Thomas Roberts,” FBI Agent Wilson said.

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked, fidgeting with Bubbles’ leash.

  Two days after my parents… after they were killed, I was back at the police station again. This time the FBI was questioning me. I had been sitting in the police captain’s office downtown, answering questions for hours without really being able to answer them. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and asking the same questions over and over again only served to make me anxious and agitated. I didn’t like being the center of attention and I got really nervous after a while. Thank God I refused to leave Bubbles in the hotel room. Stroking her fur, hearing her purr was the only thing helping me keep my temper right now.

  “Of course you have a choice. But since he’s here anyway…” Agent Wilson looked up and waved at someone in the doorway.

  A studious man wearing a suit and tie walked in and held out his hand. “Mrs. Morrison, my name is Dr. Roberts. I’m a psychiatrist contracted to the Bureau. May I speak with you?”

  I guess that was the answer to my question. All I wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed, putting my pillow over my face. Home… I didn’t have a home anymore.

  Agent Wilson left us alone as Dr. Roberts sat down in the chair beside me.

  “May I call you Connie?” he asked. I nodded. “Have you given more thought to the witness protection program?”

  I shook my head nervously. “No, I can’t.”

  “The man who killed your parents is still out there, Connie. You’re not safe,” Dr. Roberts said.

  “No! Stop,” I sobbed. My father’s blank stare looking at me through a haze of blood was seared into my heart. I hugged Bubbles to my chest, fighting the tears.

  “Try to remain calm, Connie,” Dr. Roberts encouraged, his voice meant to be soothing. It wasn’t. It grated on my nerves. “If you could tell us what the murderer was looking for, it might help.”

  I ignored him and rubbed my cheek on my cat’s soft fur.

  “You’re very attached to that cat, aren’t you?”

  “Bubbles. Her name is Bubbles, damn it,” I snapped, anxiety surging inside of me. “She’s all I have left.” Tears choked my throat.

  “I’m sure it feels that way right now, but—”

  I held my hand up and frowned. “Please, don’t give me the speech. When my wife was murdered, I went to a psychologist, and she said the same thing. You’re both wrong. It was true then. It’s even truer now.” Bubbles looked up at me and began purring louder. “She’s all I have left in the world.”

  He made a note on his notepad, then looked back at me. “What would you do if you didn’t have Bubbles anymore?”

  My mouth went dry; my tongue felt like sand. My heart began beating rapidly, and it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I began panting, gasping for breath. What is wrong with me?

  “Oh, God…”

  “Connie? Look at me, Connie,” he insisted. I tried to focus, but couldn’t. “No one will hurt Bubbles, Connie. Do you hear me?”

  I heard him and what’s more, I believed him.

  “Now, slow down your breathing. Concentrate. Slow and easy.”

  I focused on my breathing, swallowing back my panic.

  He leaned forward and said quietly, “Connie, I need to tell you something, but I need you to remain calm. All right?”

  Inhaling deeply, I stroked Bubbles’ back and began to relax. I nodded.

  “Connie, the day after the incident,” he began in a low, quiet voice. “The police found a stuffed toy on the trash can in your front yard.”

  Confused, I tilted my head. Why would I care about a toy on our trash can?

  “Connie, the toy was of a white cat and its head had been cut off.”

  The rapid beating of my heart returned and increased greatly, as did the size of the elephant on my chest. Stomach acid burned my throat, and I put my hand to my neck. I tried to inhale, but the ball of anxiety causing my heart to race uncontrollably was blocking my airway. The room began to morph into itself, and I thought I was going to throw up. Suddenly, I felt a damp, cold cloth on the back of my neck. It penetrated my skin and soothed my panic. As the room came into focus, I realized that the doctor was standing beside me, holding the cloth on my neck.

  He sat back down and leaned his arms on his knees, interlocking his fingers together. “Welcome back.”

  I used the washcloth to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The queasiness subsisted, but the worry didn’t. The last two days, people had been coming at me with their questions, their demands, their insinuations, and I was sick of it. And now he was telling me that someone was after me and Bubbles. It’s too much. I can’t take anything else. I can’t. It hurts too much.

  My voice was hoarse when I said, “Please, just leave me alone.”

  “Connie, we only want to keep you safe. I told you about the toy because I want you to understand how serious this is. Let the U.S. Marshals protect you. They’ve protected more than 18,400 men, women, and children and not one of them has been harmed while under their protection. You and Bubbles will be safe with them.”

  I wanted to believe that he was sincere but the thought of being locke
d up with a total stranger frightened me. I tried to talk but only a screech came out.

  “Connie, are you all right? Connie?”

  *

  Mom? Dad? No, don’t go. Let me come with you! A bright white light blinded my eyes and I couldn’t see them anymore.

  “She’s waking up,” a deep voice said.

  No, I don’t want to wake up.

  “Connie. Can you hear me?”

  I struggled to consciousness and opened my eyes. Dr. Roberts was looking down at me. Confused, I struggled to sit up but my head felt so woozy and lightheaded.

  “Just lie still for a moment, Connie,” Dr. Roberts insisted.

  “Wh…” The question burned up on my tongue, and all I heard was a grunt. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Wha…”

  “You’re at the police station, Connie. You fainted,” Dr. Roberts explained. He looked at a policeman and said, “Get her a glass of water with some ice in it, please.”

  “Right away, Doctor,” the man replied and left the room.

  I looked around and recognized that I was still in the police captain’s office, but now I was lying on a sofa, looking up at a dingy gray ceiling.

  The doctor turned back to me. “Connie, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  I tried to answer but my throat burned so painfully I could barely swallow. The cop came back in and handed me a glass of ice water and the doctor helped me sit up. I took a sip from the glass, relishing the cold soothing liquid on my throat. I picked up a piece of ice out and put it in my mouth, letting it melt slowly on my tongue.

  “Feel better?” the doctor asked.

  I nodded. “Thank you,” I tried to say, but the words were unintelligible. Dr. Roberts leaned closer, and I reached for his hand as if it were a lifejacket. What is wrong with me? Panic began swelling up as I looked around for my cat.

  He took my hand in both of his and smiled. “You’re all right, Connie. You’re under a great deal of stress, and it’s affecting your voice.”

  I shook my head and squeezed his hand, desperate to make him understand.

  “Bubbles is right here,” he said as if reading my mind. He walked over to the desk and bent down. Then he walked back around the desk carrying Bubbles in his arms. “She’s a very beautiful, very docile cat,” he said as he placed her in my arms, curling her leash around my wrist. Thankfully, Bubbles seemed fine. She head-butted me, and I scratched her chin, smiling when she began purring.

  “I’ll have an officer take you back to your hotel room and let you get some rest,” Dr. Roberts said, slipping his hand inside his jacket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “I want you to think about the witness protection program and call me with your decision. Under protection, you will have whatever you need, even cat food and litter.”

  I nodded, a weak smile playing on my lips. An idea popped into my head that would take care of everything, but apprehension was prevented me from saying it.

  Dr. Roberts handed me his notepad and pen, and I wrote down a name and handed it back to him. He read the name and looked back at me. “Do you know this person?”

  I nodded again. I know her, but I doubt she remembers me. I’d had a huge crush on her once, but more than that, I trusted her.

  Chapter Four

  U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn

  It took several orgasms last night to recharge my batteries, but the hooker was very accommodating and this morning, I was ready to tackle anything the boss threw at me.

  “Uh, U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I answered, looking up at the skinny courier standing in the doorway of our office. He held a bicycle helmet in one hand and a business envelope in the other.

  “Wow, you really do wear a tin star like on TV,” he stated, staring at the badge on my chest as he walked over.

  “Leave the detecting to the pros, kid,” I sniped as I signed for the letter and grabbed it out of his hand.

  He held out his hand for a tip, and I chuckled as I opened the envelope.

  “Jerk,” he proclaimed and stomped out.

  “Oh, goody, did you get a certified love letter from your lipstick lesbian?” Bowers asked lasciviously.

  “I wish,” I countered as I pulled the letter out. Glancing past my name and rank, I skimmed the first paragraph. “What the hell?”

  “Ut-oh. Is it a dear John letter?”

  Ignoring him, I rushed out the door, down the hall, and around the corner to the Supervisory Deputy’s office. I’d lost my temper with SD Nathan Gossett a time or two, like yesterday, but I didn’t think he’d be this vindictive. He’d only been on the job six months, but you could tell he had his own best interests in mind. I stopped in front of his closed door, inhaled slowly, and knocked. When I heard the offer to come in, I pushed the door open and stormed in. His office wasn’t large or heavily decorated, but it took a couple of steps to reach his desk. Ignoring the upholstered chairs in front of the wood veneer desk, I walked up and slapped the letter down.

  “What the fuck, SD?”

  “Well, shit. I didn’t think they’d be that fast,” Gossett said, staring down at the letter.

  “It says you’re busting me down to protection. Are you fucking serious?”

  My face burned with angry heat, but I couldn’t rein it in. I didn’t want to. I was a damn good fugitive investigator with an arrest record to prove it. Being transferred to babysitting duty was an insult to me.

  He picked up the letter and handed it back to me. “Yes, I’m serious. You’re out of control, Quinn. I think the stress has gotten to you.”

  “Bullshit,” I snapped, my hands curled into fists.

  “I don’t care if you are a female, just look at yourself,” he said, standing up and walking around the desk.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve let yourself go, Quinn. You barely passed your fitness test last month. Hell, I’ve heard you wheezing after climbing a flight of stairs.”

  I was too proud and too angry at the moment to admit that he was right. I knew I had put on a few pounds, and standing in front of him now, I could see the comparison. He was my height, five foot eight, but he probably weighed twenty pounds less than I did, and he was twenty years my senior. What I wasn’t going to tell him because he was being an asshole, was that I had started working out again and had dropped some weight and muscled up some flab. Wait… he said he didn’t think they’d be that fast. The anger returned with a vengeance.

  “And I’m getting complaints about your attitude. You’ve been combative and—”

  “You thought I’d get the letter while you were on vacation, didn’t you? You didn’t even have the guts to tell me in person. You sent it by letter, thinking I’d be gone by the time you got back.”

  He looked to the side for a moment and then walked back behind his desk to put a little distance between me and the truth. He stood there, tapping a pencil on the desk. Finally, he said, “It’s SOP to send the official transfer letter…”

  I put my hands on his desk and leaned forward, glaring at him. He dropped the pencil and put his hands on his desk, leaning forward so that our faces were inches apart.

  “All right. Fine. Yes. I thought I would be on vacation and not have to live through another one of your arrogant, childish tantrums.” He paused, then sat down, picking up the pencil again and sliding it through his fingers. “If you had bothered to read the entire letter, you’d know this was a temporary transfer. WITSEC requested help, and you’re it.”

  “Why me? Let someone else—”

  He shook his head. “I already told you why. Weren’t you listening? You’re a malcontent, Quinn, an agitator. Obviously, you’re not happy here—”

  “Gee, why do you think that is, Gossett?” I asked, my nerves twitching with rage. I was at the end of my rope, and my caution receptors had turned off. I wasn’t going to leave quietly. “You hadn’t been here two weeks when you asked me, in front of several
others, how I was even allowed to be a U.S. Marshal. Up until you came, I had an exemplary record. So, what is it that pisses you off the most, SD? The fact that I’m a woman or that I’m a lesbian?”

  He jumped up, his cheeks a blotchy red, his hands balled into fists. “Get out,” he yelled. He glanced at the door, where several people had gathered to listen.

  His whole demeanor softened and he sat down in his chair again, putting his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together.

  “I said, get out, Deputy,” he repeated quietly but sternly.

  “Come on, partner,” Bowers urged from the doorway.

  I glared at Gossett. “I’m not your partner anymore, Bowers. Knee deep in a case and SD saw fit to hang us both out to dry.”

  “SD? What’s going on?” Bowers asked as he stepped into the office.

  “As of today, Quinn has been temporarily assigned to the Witness Protection Program in Arlington, per their request.”

  “They asked for her, specifically?” Bowers asked as if reading my mind.

  “Yes,” Gossett answered dryly.

  I shook my head. “Then what was all that bullshit with the letter and your vacation? Why didn’t you just tell me outright?”

  “For the third time, you’re a pain in my ass, and I didn’t want to deal with you. Now get the hell out of here before I tell WITSEC to keep your sorry ass permanently.”

  “Roger that, SD,” Bowers said hurriedly and yanked on my elbow, pulling me toward the door.

  “This is bullshit,” I protested, allowing Bowers to lead me out.

  “It’s just for a little while,” my partner said, trying to console me as we walked back to our desk.

  I read the letter again, all of it this time. “Shit. It just gets better and better.”

  “What?”

  I crumbled the letter in my fist. “Arkansas. I have to pick up my WITSEC and drive them to some hick town in Arkansas.”

  “Why can’t you just put them on a plane and let Arkansas pick them up?”

  I exhaled loudly, tightening my fingers around the piece of paper. “Apparently, the witness is afraid to fly.”