CHAPTER ONE
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE


Let me state for the record that you have refused union representation… Is this true?

His hands shook a little from brimming anticipation as he delved into his sachet and removed his stylus and Slate. The files stirred from their brief slumber at the prodding stylus and a slew of files mushroomed into three dimensional display.

He had entered the interrogation room coolly- walked in with conviction goading the straightness of his spine and shot off his name, status, and badge number. All protocol, but no sooner he found himself disproportionately rapt with pride and casting an arrogant gaze as Roald realized who sat before him.

Her.

“Let me state for the record that you have refused union representation. Is this true?”

And it was the first time either of them had spoken directly to the other. It felt foreign but nonetheless the man went through the motions as though it was the most ambitious undertaking known to man- that is since the Transport Atrium.

The air that cloaked the small room ran frigid and sterile over both their skins. The silence hung between them voraciously- allotting the two to take up time with the other, each subtly sizing up the esteem or perhaps even the tenacity coursing through their perspective flesh like the irrigation of arid land.

Roald cleared his throat uneasily and asked again. “Is this true?”

Silence ate his last words. And he found that it irritated him a great deal that save his initial entrance she had failed to further acknowledge him. After all, she needed him because it was he who stood between her and departmental reprimand on her jacket- or perhaps dismissal all together and either or incarceration.

“Agent Best,” he called again. “I need you to state this for the record.”

Some time ago he had begun recording them- it had to have been just after he’d walked in.

But it was enough to snap her to attention, her long, immaculately taupe covered nails raking along the surface of the desk as she entwined her fingertips. And hesitated.

Her bobbed, symmetrical cut swept across her polymer padded shoulders, the only audible thing apart from his breathing. It paired with the sequence of the soft tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips like the brief continuation of the beat of a moth’s wings.

And for just a second she considered walking away from this all.

Shit. Her gaze lowered to her folded hands atop the blanch desk, and Selene would not look at him in her moment of deliberation- not to give him the satisfaction of it.

She thought better. Then answered:

“Yes.”

Her lips were devoid of a quirk, her face a mask of emotionless oblivion for she’d been well practiced at this. And if not for the prior incident, albeit months ago, the tables would’ve been turned and she’d be here- possibly staring across the large island into the depths of a brazened convict.

“…I can’t possibly believe a woman of your caliber would stand for malignancy on your team. I’ve sworn a duty to my office that I’ll be its exacting hand and if you are being deceptive, I will find you out.”

But Selene was content with the humiliation of her station- if that is what it would take to keep her squad in the clear. As a woman she was satisfied with subjugating herself to kissing a few frogs and this was by no means any different, now it was simply her turn to take a hit for the team and emerge with as little collateral damage through the rubble of an imminent fiasco.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Roald had been talking for some time now. Spewing some sort of bullshit, she was sure of it.

And in truth, she could care a fuck whether or not the man expired on the breath beefing up his throat nor the pissed look on his face that seemed as though it didn’t need a vacation.

He was insignificant in comparison to the shit mountain of worries stacked in her head. But she had to train herself that he was indeed the deal breaker when it came to the survival of her career and that of her colleagues. And at this very moment in particular she was supposed to be saying something completely momentous, only that her mouth could not quite dictate the thoughts that reverberated within.

She forced a smile across her generous mouth, “You tell me Detective Roald.” Her voice slightly thickened, her chest cavity easing as the burning distaste ceded as she worked around a bluff.

“Lieutenant,” he corrected. He wouldn’t be sucked in by her taunt, belittlement at best. And Roald quite begrudgingly admitted to the twitch in his pants at the sight of her mouth stretching and pulling across her teeth.

She brushed him off with a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, do you know what I think? I think it of you overly ambitious throwing a loaded question at me. My feelings are not admissible in our line of work- you know that as much as I do. And as soon as I believe in singular importance no sooner will I remove myself from fieldwork- Sucre is an exemplary agent and I am equally privileged to have him as a partner.”

She watched as the veins in his neck began to work as he introspectively ran his tongue across his slick teeth. “So,” he rose from the chair across from her and coolly ran his fingertips along the length of his jacket- unbuttoned then strung it upon the back of his chair.

He was deliberately ostentatious with his actions, a gambit to unseat her. “You’re telling me that he conducts clean protocol.”

Selene was beginning to see his pattern now, he was during the course of the “interview” strategically sloughing away questions, but now Roaldo was putting words in her mouth.

Through hooded brows she cut him a look of contempt. “By the book,” she replied dryly. “And how is this relevant, we’re discussing my logs- I’ve gone over all of this with Hodge-”

“Then that could only leave me to conclude that you must be the one everyone’s rallying around.”

She was stricken and she assumed she must have looked it as well for the new demeanor washing him showed that he’d gained strength and beyond her he had somehow nicked her armor. In spite of all her years of detached conditioning she discovered her face blanching a shade and her body involuntarily shifting from one end of her chair to the other and she knew then that she was had.

Roald did a side step- with a look of satisfaction marring his face, he lapped the perimeter of the desk and the chair where she sat- speaking with his hands. “Agent Best, I’ve finally figured you out haven’t I?” His fists found his hips and he stood akimbo and the slight deep ripple of what she could deduce as anger washed her; as well as her noticing the obvious erection indenting his economical gray slacks and a wet alertness glassing his eyes.

“So the joke is one me?” He threw his hands up. “I get it, I really do.” His voice piqued a few octaves as organic lubricant collected on his upper lip as a short, low chuckle rumbled in his throat and chest.

He came to a stop by her side. And leaned in close to her ear.

“You say jump and everybody with dick in hand runs up and says how high, am I right?” Quietly, so that the tiny machine breathing in their every word would not register.

It took all she could marshal within her not to send a spray of blood from his patronizing nose. The woodsy notes and syntho musk scents sickened her as it wafted from the well trimmed pores of his face and the heat of his neck and mouth.

Inwardly, she cringed. At the thoughts she could decipher behind his dark eyes. At the way he pursed his damp lips as she knew he was imagining fucking her all the way across the lengthy steel interrogation table.

Selene’s shoulders squared and a dark, arched brow shot up. “Are we finished here? Because if not, this new ploy of yours is tactless. I won’t have someone like you ridiculing and demeaning my station nor the credibility that Local 3 has garnered. I suppose then that you’re terrified of having a woman in authority, I bet it scares you shitless doesn’t it?”

By the time she was through she salivated on the fringes of rage and it took every ounce of that said credibility to stop herself from devouring the few inches between them and pummeling the shit out of his face.

She kept hold of his intent coal gaze. “If you’re not here to ask me completely relevant questioning then you will have to excuse me.”

Her chest heaved slightly under the confines of her blazer and doggedly she was set against licking her lips or any other tell that would give away the extent of her scorn.

“You’ve asked me about the conduct of my men, that’s all in my previous interview transcripts and reports. What I can recall I’ve expressed but I will not have you leading me into something that you can manipulate to incriminate myself or that of the esteem of my men. Once I’ve reviewed my statements, an additional report will be on your desk prior to us meeting again.”

Roald’s face went ashen, and an unmistaken sheen of pink touched his taut face.

He blinked twice, his hot, sweet breath blowing against the side of her face. The white meat of his knuckles fixed upon the desk was caught in inaction as he looked from her to the current file hologram upon the desk. He withdrew from the close proximity of her, a hand smoothening out the lapel of his starched collar to trailing down the tip of his tie.

There was no win here, what she’d only gained in favor was a relentless opponent who’d be on the fringes lapping at his chops in wait for the slightest misstep.

“May I?” She asked.

Her hand hovered atop her own recorder and at his consent she pressed a key then folded it into a discreet slip and stashed it away in her form-fitting eggplant colored blazer.

He followed suit, stowing his away into his briefcase along with the Slate in defeat- all the while shielding her of its exact contents.

Time indefinite clung within her lungs. She knew not where to go from this motion. It was as proverbial and contrary as hanging from the tip of a blade or washing up on the shores of one’s limbo. She was euphoric even, she’d dare admit that to herself, but knew well enough of certain truths to not coax herself into that kind of complacency.

Selene rose at her own behest, her legs clothed in a sleek, seamless black. Her hand extending across the desk- in a sort of last ditch attempt at placating wounds. She stood over him a good four inches, and he took in that length from immaculately polished wedge-heeled boots, nylon thermoplastic leggings to her well primed haircut and took hold of her hand.

“If you remember anything, my contact is in your file.”

She replied, “Duly noted.”

He gathered the remainder of his straggler items along with his composure, shot a glance with retreat after instructing: “I want that report by end of business day Friday,” and exited half as quietly as he had entered.

A long held breath escaped her.

After all, he was a man. Specifically one who’s dick at the moment was figuratively cut and strewn out limp under her boot.

She sat back upon the desk for a while, feeling the slight tremors of relief shocking the nerve endings along her legs. She then tapped a foot experimentally before making an escape of her own.

CHAPTER TWO
MAN OF A CERTAIN INTUIT

Rebirth.

It was this recurring dream she had.

Large brown eyes peered out from the blinds’ slits, ensuring the IA agent was well out of sight. He was gone- and with that half confirmation her slight figure slipped through the meager crack of the heavy door, her head pounding from the surge of effort on her part.

…It was something she could taste. Like the soft tip-toe of something benevolent and sweet, disappearing on the wet of her tongue like the briefest memory. Something that had her not quite sure of where she stood amongst the things in her head- the things she once perceived as certainty.

Selene’s face appeared gaunt and distressed beneath the sallow lighting- on account of the vitriolic cocktail of trepidation and anger brewing beneath her flesh. Of which were the effect of the provocation of squaring her shoulders with reverence she did not possess, all in a ploy to bear her accolades as her figure ate up the corridor with each stride. She hadn’t an intended destination- she simply had vied for a means of escape and her feet were catching up to the whim fleeting through her head.

But all she could register through her walk down the tight vestibule past lax faces of that of coworkers and of humming mechanisms and the hushed vocals of personnel- was the curtly hastened staccato of her thick boot heels as the hard sounds reverberated in her piqued ears and matched the erratic thrumming within her chest.

This must be it, she mused.

That amongst the sterile shades of green and slate walls was the end of things to come, much like death- sinews burning away beneath her nose, its billowy flesh sliding and dripping away unmasking the bitter truths of what it was- well, death. You just couldn’t quite cover up the smell of what it was.

Her tongue darted out quick and feverish across her lips, tasting the perspiration salting the bow of her lips and electricity in the air. And just like that, a thought and he was there: a familiarly powerful frame, falling in sync with her gait- breaking her away from her malicious stupor of modes of career suicide.

And from her peripheral vision she saw her partner give signal for them to walk on and then finally, to enter the captain’s vacant office. Deferentially, Selene followed his almost stocky bulk within.

They stood in the small, stuffy space and he looked at her expectantly. The door releasing a sound of exhaust as the mechanism coughed and sighed heavily upon its hinges as it shut the rest of the world off from them. His bottle green eyes met hers in question as pensive, thick fingertips scraped into his flaxen weeks old scruff- the dense hairs making their individually distinct concertos.

“I saw Roald tear out of here like a bat out of hell,” Sucre commented.

Granted their previous encounter this was not what she expected, but nonetheless she made due watching as he removed his overcoat and rainwater peeling away like a vapors freefalling from humid glass- her eyes were unexpectedly caught between eating up his bulk and finding every which direction but his gaze directly.

She watched him silently- steeped in her battle ready stance. Her readiness- coupled with the heady exodus of sweat, his particular brand of Marlboros (of which he now partook in like clockwork of patting his pockets, then gripping the cloth across his thighs), and bourbon this early stealing from his pores.

He’d cleared away a few items from a nearby chair and consequently placed mileage between them. Something she was not sure she could reconcile with.

She waved her hand in declination nonetheless, making an effort to somewhat ignore the almost eager look on his face. “No, standing is good right now.” She had begun to pace- and rounded with a rear march.

“I can fix it,” was what she said.

_2_

Fuck.

He sighed heavily, his face instantly falling- passing a hand through his sandy blond crop. “I’m afraid to know what the fuck that means.”

Upon seeing the shadows deepening on her usually guarded face, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped like a ton of bricks. This was not good. In the past, he’d seen her plenty of things he’d seen a generous part of the self-proclaimed bitch’s vocabulary- but pensive and tense weren’t there on part of her volition.

His hands they trembled slightly, fighting to do something- useful, well apart from touching her (which was out of the question) he could very much strangle the son of a bitch. If Roald, that limp dick son of a bitch, could manage to whittle his grass-eating ersatz political climb escapade into her fucking back yard- well, shit was definitely hitting the fan.

But he settled for something nearly as effective- searching for a fucking cigarette.

He came up empty, of course. His blood boiled below the thin surface, and his face glared out beyond the scope of the office as he reclined into empty air feeling the weight of the path he had begun since he’d left his unit on this particular morning. Sticking his fists into his slacks and perching upon the desk looking like a poster boy of finesse- if fate had some kind of twisted fucked up sense of humor.

“Not as I would’ve liked.” Selene cut him a look, swallowing hard as she drank in the damp slicked back hair, slacks, and penny loafers. Her mouth went dry, sobering from a fleeting memory of this exact room and- even to the Superintendent’s desk-, much like this one- where he now nonchalantly roosted with the thin dress shirt struggling against his expansive chest and unrefined, brooding eyes- as though he were equally unfazed as her cool exterior might’ve come across.

He was the only one she could recall that could make penny loafers look like that.

She cleared her throat, to get her back to the task at hand. “It wasn’t as if we were discussing quarks or damn metaphysics but I couldn’t help myself and just walked right into what the bastard wanted.” Her hands gestured her frustration at every hard syllable.

“So, what now?” He straightened somewhat, the muscles in his jaw working. “What’s to fucking fix? You said anything I need to worry about?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know anything, Anton- right now it feels like he’s grasping at loose sand. But if nothing less, I’ve steered his little mayoral crusade towards a scapegoat. Shit.”

His face went white three shades. From his low perch, Anton Sucre jolted forward. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“Relax,” she said and could almost feel him against her splayed palm and fingers. “He’s extremely intrigued, anyone could figure as much. And I bet a little emasculated at how I dismissed him. Plus, he believes we’re hiding something. So put the two together.”

Sucre shot to his feet and stood before her steadfast, their heights almost equal. She rose above him though, as she did most men. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She came up short, a pause and there was the fissure in her armor as she saw the betrayal mirrored in his eyes. “And I don’t want you lying- or doing stupid shit to cover for anything.”

“You just give me the chance,” he challenged.

His chest heaved slightly and he moved into her sphere- a few feet between her and him- and his hands from gripping her. But they only hung limp at his sides indecisive and trained. He could kill a man in three breaths and with sure strokes could ride a woman through her best toe-curling fuck but when it came to this woman, this enigma, she posed his prevailing obstacle.

“Just give me the chance,” he repeated- this time his voice rasping from heat and the earlier remnants of the tobacco smoke.

His eyes crinkled as the grin at his mouth met his olive eyes. It was the heels, he mused.

Sucre’s obvious amusement was lost on her, glee or carefree banter was far from her line of thinking. Her fingers tentatively touched the back of her neck- the light throbbing had now become a full fledged stab of pain at the base of her neck- at the slightest turn. “It’s not funny,” she breathed.

Immediately Sucre responded to the unease of his partner.

“Let me see,” he murmured not awaiting permission, ignoring her light resistance.

He turned her back to face him. “Is the transplant still hurting?”

There was an unmistakably rigid interruption signaling through her body at the whisper of his rough fingertips slaking across the sensitive skin at her neck. She gently swatted at the weight of his hand but nonetheless hers went still- frozen beneath his as he took the opportunity to feel along the exposed skin at the hairline, about the port.

He wasn’t touching her anymore with hands about modus operandi, or casework, or even… But his body was now in line with hers, forcing a pliancy only a woman could afford a man. His body flush and hot against hers and the bulk of his erection nestled at the small of her back. Her body going soft and full at once as he drew on the breath she released almost as though she wasn’t her own in entirety, that somewhere along the way this man had confiscated a piece of her.

The pain at her neck, momentarily forgotten.

Her tongue flicked across her lips, pink and- and even if she couldn’t admit it: eager. Her breaths drove out thick and humid. “I-I’m fine.”

Her hips, way past her sovereignty now, grinded soft circles against him. And he in turn planted airy kisses along her neck, his tongue like scorching tinder laving on a predetermined course.

And she figured death was just as gratifyingly explosive as this. As her palms fell against the desk’s edge- digging hard into the meat of her hands, and the snaps between her legs were yanked and he was there firm and demanding against her sex.

He waited, a stratagem for her next breath- as his fingertips teased her outer lips, slick and ready for him- until he would delve deep.

She had this recurring dream…

His labored pants were at her ear, pushing the both of them over the edge. And the warm pooling in her womanly parts, the rigid dark peaks of her breasts rioting against the fabric separating her from him. A second digit and he stretched her nicely, her hips and body responding by bucking against him as he pumped his fingers steadily.

She counted. She counted hard taps against her ass as she empathized with the hard cock at her back and guessed the level of discipline it took for him not to spring himself and have her stretched and splayed. She thought of nothing. She counted the severity of notches upon the unvarnished wood at her knee, at the absurdity of boots in the summertime, and even the *kinicks* of the soft back and forth motion of his shoes against the lino at their feet- and that possibly the underlying scent he carried with him was of shoe shine.

The ambient moans of their lovemaking filled the small interior and drove them deeper into the hiatus from accountability- through her gritted teeth and the lick of her lips and the focus of each well dexterous stroke. And it didn’t take her long to suppose his motives with her as she bit against the ebb trembling her inner walls. She trooped on and rode it out, her entrance suctioning and milking the length of his fingers unapologetically.

A choked whimper escaped her as she widened her legs and received more of his efforts.

Quite suddenly, she gripped his wrist setting her own pace finally pleading, her body begging release. But suddenly, he slipped from her inch by inch as she wound her fingers desperately about his in means of separation.

She faced him with her body radiating a kaleidoscope of unvented energies and craving him, trembling fingers redoing the snaps of her leotard, with the hot creeping into her neck and face and the breath leaving her mouth heavy with discontent.

The air crackled with the pop that connected against his jaw.

“You son of a bitch,” she said through gritted teeth.