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Drake
FIVE YEARS AGO
Islip a twenty in the teeny-tiny glittering panties of a twenty-something-year-old dancer just doing her best to eat and get through college.
Music thuds through the dark-lit club, and the bass thumps up from the floor until my legs vibrate. A salacious grin slides across my lips as Cora—that’s the name she gave me—turns her back to me and lowers her ass to my lap.
I’m just a man. A mere mortal, doing my best to stay focused while a beautiful woman gyrates on my thighs.
The fact that I’m but a human with weaknesses and desires makes my job difficult as I turn my head and find my partner in almost exactly the same predicament as me.
“I dunno, Gord.” I set my hand on Cora’s hip and push her forward, just a smidge, so she doesn’t brush over the steely length I try so hard to hide.
My gun. FYI. Not my cock.
“These girls are getting younger and younger every fuckin’ day.”
“Just do your job.” Gordon Reginald Fuller is my partner. My closest friend. I was the best man in his wedding and the first, besides the doting parents, to hold his baby girl in the hospital. I became godfather to Matilda Fuller and the funnest uncle any little girl could have.
Iam a single man, not unwilling to go the extra mile to sell my undercover identity to the men we’d like to toss into a cage.
And usually, Gord is a dedicated agent, too. He’s brave and smart. He’s willing to put himself in harm’s way to keep the newest cooked-up powder concoction off our streets and out of the noses of teens lining up to die. But he keeps his hands to himself tonight, his eyes scouring the club. Far away from the dancing girl aiming to pay her rent for the month.
“If you tell Violet we were here,” he grits out, his jaw tight with frustration and his eyes jumping with equal parts anger and mirth, “swear to god, Banks, you get me in trouble with my wife, and I’m gonna throw you in front of a train.”
“You’re aggressive.” Laughing, I reach into my breast pocket and take out another bill—fuck knows if it’s a single dollar, a twenty, or a hundred. It’s departmental money, and if I don’t spend it, they’ll take it back. So, I slide it into the stunning Cora’s thong and earn myself a playful grin as she looks over her shoulder. “You’re beautiful and smart and will do just fine in your upcoming exams.”
She chokes out a giggle, losing her sex-kitten composure, and snorts so little piggy sounds erupt from the base of her throat. “You’re somehowboth, a complete misogynistic pig and a woman’s hype man. It’s an odd combination for a man inside a club like this.”
“I’m a complicated being.” Cameras watch from every corner of this elaborate club. Security walks through to keep the girls safe, and others wander past to sell product to young folks looking for a fun night.
I can hardly hear anything but loud music. Cora has to shout to be heard, but Gord’s voice, at least, pipes through the hidden device nestled in my ear. “I’m a man who respects women,” I tell her. Though I slide my hand along her firm thigh to sell my part to the cameras no doubt panning in closer to make sure we’re doing what’s expected of a couple of men in a club like this. “I love my mom very much. I love women in general.”
“You love sexualizing them,” thestripperin glitter counters. “You love having that power dynamic where you’re the boss and I’m to dance and look pretty.”
“It’s literally your job,” I respond, though I do it with a smile. “This is how you’ve chosen to make money.”
“Stop arguing with her,” Gord admonishes in my ear. “You know she picks at you. She’s proud.”
“Yeah, but she likes it.” I flash a charming smile when she glances over her shoulder again and raises a brow.
“You say something?” she questions loudly. “You wanna speak up so I can fight back?”
“Nope.” I catch movement across the room. A trio of suits come through the side entrance, sauntering across the packed club from person to person. The one in front owns the place. He shakes hands and makes friends. The other two on his flanks are his goons. Big guns, small brains, and trigger fingers they’ve never thought to restrict. Taking another bill from my pocket, I slip it into Cora’s panties and murmur for Gord, “Gregory Vallejo. Eleven o’clock.”
“Yeah.” Stony-faced and rigid, he nods. “I see him.”
“We got two soldiers on his wings,” I report, not only for my partner but for the guys in the surveillance van parked a block down the street. “Can confirm one is Gavin Stevens.”
“We already got his jacket,” Gordon inserts. “It’s almost as long as Vallejo’s.”
“You better start enjoying that dance.” I reach across and smack his shoulder the way drunken pals might. It’s in character. It looks right for this kind of place. “You look like the law, stupid. Smile and stop thinking about Vi, or you’re gonna get us caught.”
“Focus.” My SAC’s voice grates against my nervous system and into my heart. It’s an irritating feeling and makes being undercover in a kingpin’s club all the more difficult.
Though, that could be because my Special Agent in Charge is also my dad.
Having him in my ear and on a dangerous op sends my instincts skittering almost as much as seeing my best friend screw up and draw attention from Vallejo himself.
