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“Why is Sailor Moon sitting in your Impala?”
Kimberly satin the back of the Impala next to the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in real life. She had flawless Japanese features in her diamond-shaped face. Her amber eyes gleamed like jewels; she had the cutest button nose Kimberly had ever laid eyes on, and full and pouty lips that anyone would want to kiss. The woman was the very definition of petite. She looked delicate as an orchid, with fine bone structure, long elegant fingers, and a slim yet appealingly curved body that no amount of dieting would ever yield in Kimberly. Kimberly was tall and curvy and loved every ounce of her lush figure—she knew her worth and knew what she brought to the table so never found herself envious of other women. However, the woman sitting next to her was exceptional in her beauty and grace and possessed a sort of ethereal confidence that filled the car with a sense of feminine power. This was a woman to be reckoned with, who made Kimberly feel like a bumpkin sitting next to a movie star. It pissed her the hell off.
Kimberly decided right then and there that she would hate her as soon as she got done wanting to be her.
“Kimberly, this is Michiko,” Sam introduced, and Kimberly almost smirked at the trepidation she heard in his voice. “Michiko, this is Kimberly—”
“Their girlfriend,” Kimberly interrupted. Good Lord, did she sound jealous and childish. She held out her hand and tried to smile to cover up her blunder. Unfortunately, her voice had been shrill, and she’d jabbed her hand forward too aggressively to be seen as anything remotely friendly. To Michiko’s credit, she took the offered shake graciously as though it were extended in friendship. When their hands clasped, Kimberly ordered herself to reel it in and act like a grownup—not an insecure teenager.
“It's nice to meet you,” Kimberly said and gave herself a mental pat on the back for not choking on the lie.
“Likewise,” Michiko said with a polite smile that didn't quite reach her gorgeous eyes, and Kimberly knew she wasn't fooled. “Look, since those two up there are acting like they expect us to go ten rounds any second, why don't I tell you what the hell I'm doing here? They seem to be too scared to speak.”
Kimberly was impressed; she appreciated a woman who took the bull by the horns. “Yes, why don't you?”
“Apparently,” Michiko began, “I'm what people in your circle call a masochist. Oliver brought me onto the case as your replacement.”
Kimberly felt her eyes bug out as the world dropped from beneath her. She whipped her gaze to her men in the front seat in complete confusion; hurt, anger, and unfortunately a strange sense of inevitability all hit her at once. The mix of conflicting emotions made her want to cry and laugh at the same time.
“He sprang her on us too, Kimberly,” Dean told her as their eyes met in the rearview mirror.
“We didn't see it coming either, sweetheart,” Sam said, turning to look at her over the back seat, his large hand covering her knee. His touch reminded her to take a breath and hear them out. “But we all knew a replacement was coming eventually.Eventuallyjust happened faster than we thought.”
Kimberly turned back to Michiko. “So why are you dressed up like a cartoon?” She didn't mean to sound rude, but she wasn't particularly concerned about it either. “This isn't a Comic Con—it's a BDSM club, and these monsters aren't playing dress-up.”
The smaller woman rolled her eyes dramatically and heaved a sigh that seemed to come all the way from her toes.
“Well, I'm not in your so-called lifestyle,” Michiko said derisively. “I don't have a closet full of fetishwear, nor do I have the budget or inclination to go and buy some. This is my sister’s getup—she’s into cosplay, and we wear the same size. Unless the federal government wants to give me a huge raise, the costumes will have to do.”
Kimberly eyed the other woman, from her over-the-knee white patent leather boots, all the way up to her bewigged head and had to admit—at least to herself—Michiko was going to slay. Damn it.
“Look,” Michiko said with an eyeroll as she crossed her impeccable legs, “before your panties crawl any further up your ass, I should tell you, I won’t be sleeping with your men. Either of them. So, retract the claws, all right?”
Of course she wouldn’t be sleeping with them. It made Kimberly’s blood boil just that she mentioned it. There was one rather large problem with the arrangement, however.
“How in the hell are planning to get anywhere in that club if you’re not going to be having sex?”
“Funny,” Michiko said, anything but amused. “Do you all read from the same playbook or something?” The small woman glanced from her to the stoically silent men. When no answer came, she heaved another exaggerated sigh. “Look, I teach hand-to-hand for the FBI in my district. Cas attends sometimes when he can swing it and he seems to think what I’m into will get us where we need to be on the case. You got us in, but now it’s time for you to step aside where you’ll be safe and let the people with badges and training take it from here.”
It could’ve been condescending—hell, itshouldhave been—but Kimberly could find nothing disparaging or mocking in the woman’s tone or expression. She looked as if she believed what she said. And more, she looked genuinely concerned about Kimberly’s safety. The bitch.
“I can see you’re still not convinced,” Michiko added, and waved at the front seat. “Neither are they. Which is a good thing that club is still closed. Also, I wasn’t aware of said closure, or I would’ve worn my street clothes to our meeting today. But it is what it is.” She plucked at the miniscule skirt with a surly frown that tugged a reluctant kernel of affection from Kimberly. She quickly tried to squelch it.
No fraternizing with the enemy,she ordered herself.
“Anyway,” Michiko went on, “since it is closed, I’m taking you guys to meet Master Kato. He’s my Sensei and he’s agreed—reluctantly—to give you all a demonstration. That way you guys can relax instead of going another ten rounds of ‘it’ll work; no, it won’t.’ Then we can get on with putting together an extraction plan for you.”
When they arrived at the dojo, Michiko instructed them to park in back. She led them to a small check-in counter manned by a sixteen-year-old boy. He was staring into his phone, oblivious to the world around him.
“How tall are you, anyway?” Michiko demanded of Sam. “You can’t go into the dojo in street clothes, so you’ll all have to change.”
“I’m six-four,” Sam told her.
Without looking up from his phone, the young man reached blindly for one of the folded white bundles on the wall behind him and laid it on the counter.
Dean turned to Kimberly. “How tall are you?” he asked.
Kimberly felt a warm bubble of contentment at the way his eyes traced her form. “I’m five-seven and a half,” she told him with a dreamy smile.
