Contract Killer Get a Clue

Realizing I had been summarily dismissed, I made my way to the back where the manager's office was located. The bar had once been owned by Sharky Fontana, my old man's one-time right-hand man. His name was still on the door, but his body was deep in the Hudson, put there by me after having discovered that he was more of a shark than his name had indicated. Now I owned the bar, but I left his name on the door. As a reminder.

A neglected stack of paperwork, mostly bills of sale and order forms which needed my signature, lay piled high on my desk. I needed to catch up on it before it became any higher and the desk broke under its weight. The air conditioning didn't work well back here, something I continually promised myself to fix but never seemed to get around to doing. I turned on a small, revolving desk fan. The fan did not do much to cool off the room, but it did an amazing job at shooting much of my paperwork all over the floor.

I cursed, and that's when Cynthia Skye, investigative reporter and red-headed tornado of doom, walked into my office without knocking. She wore a charcoal grey business suit which curved in all the right places and her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Motioning to the mess on the floor, she said, "Bad time?"

I frowned. "I'm going to have a conversation with Kross about letting you in here."

Cindy gave me a smirk and said, "He can't help that I'm so persuasive." And then she smiled. "Neither can you."

I left the mess of papers on the floor and took a seat in the leather chair behind my desk. I had to give Cynthia Skye credit; she demanded one's attention. She had creamy white skin, and just enough freckles bridged her nose and cheeks to appear cute rather than freakish. An intelligence gleamed in her eyes and on her expression that was sexy as well as a little scary for a guy like me. Whenever I was around her, I found myself wondering how much about me she really knew. After all, she had to have recognized me as Pop's son the night she met me, the night that the Tuxedo Brothers had tried to gun down the Black Ghost and me. The official statement wrote the whole thing off as a terrorist attempt on Simeon Dread's life, but Cynthia had to know better. She was anything but stupid. And boy, had she gotten to know me since that moment that fate had thrust us together.

Actually, I had done most of the thrusting.

"Guess what I did yesterday," Cynthia said.

"Spent the day thinking of ways of not getting to your point? I don't know. I'm not very good at guessing games."

She ignored the jab. Instead Cynthia propped herself at the corner of my desk, perilously close to me but maddeningly not close enough. "Interviewing Simeon Dread, founder and president of Dread Industries, Dread Properties, and Dread Incorporated, among other less sinister-sounding sister institutions, corporations, and companies," was her smarmy-reply. She sounded quite proud of herself, and she had every reason to be. An interview with Simeon Dread couldn't be an easy sell.

"That sounds like quite a coup for you," I said, doing my best to not be distracted by the tempting swell of her breasts curving towards me. She had her jacket and blouse strategically unbuttoned, so like a good movie preview, they showed enough without giving everything away. However, her words were almost as interesting as her body, and it was to them I was now drawn. I leaned back in my chair, as far away from her breasts as I could get without literally crawling out of it, and waited for her to continue.

"I actually have it on tape. Right here. It's funny how small they can make digital recorders these days. You can hide them just about anywhere." From one of the pockets of her business suit, she pulled out something that looked like an iPod, probably not the recorder itself but something on which she could play back the interview. I knew Cynthia wouldn't insult my intelligence by pulling out a digital recorder in front of me. She undoubtably had one tucked away somewhere, though. In fact, it might be fun to guess where she was hiding it. "Care to take a listen? I think you might find it interesting."

I would, especially if it had something on it which Cynthia thought I'd want to hear. The woman had yet to ever waste my time, and I appreciated her all the more for it.

"Go for it," I said with my most indifferent tone of voice, but I'm sure it didn't fool her.

She hit play, and the room was filled with two voices-- Cynthia's silky sexy one and another one, one that was both stealthy and smooth, the auditory equivalent of a shot of high-end vodka to the ears: the voice of Simeon Dread. The interview started innocuously enough, with questions about Dread's recent charitable contributions and newly-founded civil organizations, then gradually became more biting with deeper probes about Dread's corporate lay-offs and blunders. Skye's line of questioning was admirable; she went from lobbing softballs to head-twisting knuckleballs and filthy sliders before even a wizened fox like Dread had figured out what she had done. He'd been cornered so quickly, he had no choice but to answer her questions or come out of the interview looking like a complete and utter fool. I had a hard time believing such a thing could happen to Dread. Either Skye was as good as her reputation (a very rare thing), or Dread had allowed himself to be cornered. Having met Dread, I tended to lean towards the latter prediction.

Finally, Cynthia asked about the so-called terrorist attack at Dread Towers. She asked, "The night of the terrorist attack, you had a fundraising function, a party?" This was an obvious question, and Dread had no problem saying, "Yes."

Then she asked, "You invited..." and she said my fucking name... "to this party? And met with him." I went cold in my chair. Cynthia Skye had said my fucking name to Dread. Skye knew who I was and knew I had been there. She knew I had met with Dread. In fact, I had told her as much. I knew she'd probably ask Dread about what I had said if ever given the chance, but I had no idea what Dread's response would be. That was the uncontrolled variable.

"Indeed, I did, Ms. Skye," Dread replied, and I did my best to not let the relief explode out of me in front of Cynthia's watchful gaze. "I offered him a job, in a way. I asked him to be a go-between me and his father in the hopes that he and I could broker a kind of peace between our companies." This more-or-less matched what I had told Cynthia, so I could scratch that worry off the list.

Cynthia's voice: "The federal government believes that his father is a criminal."

Dread responded, "The federal government thinks every private corporation and every successful, self-made businessman is criminal. It does its best to take away anything it can from the private sector. It is a beast whose sole purpose is to feed itself, and you can quote me on that, Ms. Skye." I could almost see Dread's feral smile after he said it.

"Is it true that one of your bodyguards stated that he would kill..." she said my name again on the tape. I remembered how Cynthia had been the one to tip me off that Knox, the bodyguard to whom she had just referred, wanted my head as a trophy. You know, in the good ol' fashioned tradition of revenge. Luckily, it hadn't worked out that way, and Knox was buried where no one would ever find him. I enjoy my head where it is.

In my office, Cynthia was looking at me with a searching intensity; I met it with my own steeliness. Why was she playing this for me? Was she hoping that I'd show her a tell, or better yet, just show my cards and blurt out something newsworthy? Did she just want to make me uncomfortable? Did she want me to get really pissed and take out a grudge-fuck on her? That last one had potential but was (sadly) unlikely.

On the tape, Dread answered her question: "That I cannot answer. Mr. Knox left my employ shortly after the terrorist attack on Dread Tower. Naturally, I questioned his ability to head my security when he allowed terrorists to enter into my building."

"Is there any reason anyone would want you dead? Or (my name) dead?" Skye asked. I heard Dread sigh on the recording.

"Every successful man has enemies because of his success. People envy success and create imagined wrongs in their own minds. It is impossible to be successful without someone hating you. I do not believe I have consciously given anyone reason to hate me or want my death to occur before its due time..." I almost laughed aloud at that one, but I had to admit, it was a smooth answer. "... but indubitably, there are those who desire my death."

Skye's voice changed on the recording. She said, in a voice I knew well, "You are a powerful man."

In my office, Cynthia's lips curled into an impish smile. She said, "Here's where it gets interesting."

On the tape, she said, "People desire the death of powerful men." A pause. "They also desire powerful men."

I said, "You didn't."

Cynthia shrugged and said, "Why not?" And something about the way she looked at me with those green, sparkly eyes made my dick go hard.

From the recording came the unmistakable sound of clothes rustling, Dread's surprised gasp, and the sound of slurping. "My dear Ms. Skye," he said, his breaths becoming quicker, "I had no idea."

"So you're in with Simeon Dread now," I said, thinking: 'This could be used to my advantage.' If this was not a one-time tryst, having a Dread-Skye connection could be very helpful. The way Cynthia Skye looked, Dread would not want it to be a one-time tryst, especially if he thought the affair would put a Times reporter in his pocket. This was an opportunity for me, that is, as long as Skye kept feeding me information and not the other way around. Dread was a rich man, and money talked. However, Cynthia had already made her bed, and it was with me. At least, she wanted it to be. Or so I hoped.

On the recording, I heard a deep moan from Dread, a sloppy wet sound, and a "mmmm"ing from Cynthia. "Yes, yes, my dear," Dread was saying, "Swallow i..."

Cynthia hit the stop button on the player, slipped from the corner of my desk, and leaned over me, the swell of her breasts pressing against my chest. I didn't want to want her, but damn, it was hard. Literally and figuratively, if you know what I mean. Hint: you do. Cynthia Skye was the kind of girl you didn't mind getting a little dirty because you know she'd always come out clean. She was using Dread, and she was using me, and we all knew it, and none of us minded. Her eyes glittered as she said, "Don't worry, babe. You taste much better."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Plus your balls aren't all wrinkled," she said and unzipped me. I knew I should stop her. I knew I should protest with the word, "Sheila!" But Cynthia knew all about Sheila, and I couldn't stop her. If you could only have seen her red hair, green eyes, white skin, and the mouthwatering curves of her breasts and hips, you would understand. There was no stopping Cynthia Skye when she put her mind to something.

Or her mouth. Especially, her mouth.

I sucked air between my teeth as I watched my erection disappear between Cynthia's pink lips. My hands curled over the armrests of my chair and clenched, and my knuckles turned white. She moved her head up, and my shaft returned wet and shiny. She moved down, and it disappeared again. So did any remaining chance of refusing her. One hand worked magic on my testicles, the other moved to assist the manipulations of her mouth and tongue. Everything turned to putty except my cock. That remained long, hard, and throbbing. I'd write purple and veiny as well, but that might put a gross visual in your head. Wait... too late!

Should it have bothered me that she was doing to me what she had just done to Simeon Dread only one day before? Should it bother her that I had taken Sheila the night before? There was an undeniable connection between Cynthia and me; that was certain. We both felt it. We also both knew that it would never work, but that didn't mean we couldn't enjoy each other's company when we had the chance. I had no doubt that Cynthia was just as cold-blooded as I except when it came time to be hot-blooded. That time was now.

She pushed me against her cheek so that it bulged and lashed me with her tongue. Her eyes never left mine. Down and up, down and up, we maintained eye contact.

Finally, I told her, "Stand up." She did, and I turned her around and bent her over the desk. The rest of my paperwork went sliding to the floor in an avalanche. I pulled down her pants and the black lacy underwear underneath it. She was pink, moist, and tasty. I gave her a tongue lashing of my own, my fingers delving into her and coming back slick. Cynthia purred and pushed her ass into my face. My fingers went deeper, and her purrs turned to moans. She began to drip onto my tongue, tasting better and better. She twisted her head to get a glimpse of me and what I was doing to her.

"This is why I like you. That old man couldn't last thirty seconds in my mouth, but you're not satisfied until I am begging," Cynthia whispered, her eyes mere slits with a hint of green glowing behind them. I grinned. My mouth and chin were gleaming with what she gave me.

"So I'm begging you now," she said. "Please, oh, please god, fuck me good."

I can't stand to see a woman beg. I had to give her what she wanted. I had to literally stand to do so, and my chair creaked as I got out of it. Like a magnet, my erect penis was drawn to her velvety crease, and we both moaned with pleasure as I entered her.

"Holy Jesus," I gasped.

"Perfect fit," she replied and with an arch of her back, bucked hard against me. Her ass clapped and rippled, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. Then, she didn't stop. She kept bucking hard, and I met her with my thrusts. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled it. Her back arched more, and she bucked harder. She kept saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I could tell her brain had more or less shut off, and she was doing whatever her body wanted. Make that needed. She fucked me like a starved woman. It was glorious, filthy and hard and hot, and I cursed myself for ever thinking about denying this woman. But Sheila... No! This was no time to think about my girlfriend, the woman I loved. This was business, and that's what I needed to give to Cynthia Skye to keep her on my team: the business. I grabbed her hips and turned off my brain. I merely felt her slamming against me and savored every inch of her creamy white body with my eyes. She shimmered with sweat as her onslaught continued, and I could feel my own sweat beginning to drip down my face.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to last if I tried to keep up with her, I slid out of Cynthia and pulled her around into a long kiss, our tongues meeting and clashing and whipping against one another's, her breasts mashed into my chest, my cock pinned against her stomach. Knowing what was coming, she stepped out of her pants. I gently laid her on the table; then I savagely tore open her jacket and blouse, sending buttons flying. The clattered as they landed the floor. I tore off her bra-- not an easy thing to do, I suspect she must have unlatched it earlier, but I didn't think about that until later-- and freed her milky breasts. I cupped them in my hands, leaned over to kiss her, and penetrated her. Her hands gripped my hair, nails digging into my scalp. I didn't mind.

I felt her legs entwine me; her ankles locked around my neck. Her toes curled. She broke off our kiss and whispered, "We've waited too long... Oh, shit, you're going to make me cum already! Shit! SHIIIIIIT!" Her face clenched; her body clenched; and then she just started making these breathless squeals and writhed against me.

Then a roar resounded, and it wasn't the sound of Cynthia cumming in ecstasy. I heard Kross' muffled shout through the walls and another roar. I froze, still buried in Cynthia, and she froze, too, with her ankles wrapped around my neck. I recognized the sound. Shotguns. They were coming for me.

"Get your clothes on!" I ordered, slid out of her, and yanked up my pants. Cynthia did so as well as she could; enough buttons remained on her white blouse that she could at least get it closed. She was shaking. Either from fear or exertion, I don't know.

The latch on the office door turned, but I had already pulled my gun from my desk and held it ready. A ski-masked head poked in, and that was enough for my gun to bark. The head snapped back. Red splashed against the wall. The head slid down, leaving a trail, and the door opened all the way as the body went limp against it. Another masked man stood behind the door, and he brought his shotgun to bear.

I dove against Cynthia. The shotgun bellowed. My gun barked a second time as Cynthia and I hit the floor. The gunman staggered backward, hit the hallway wall opposite the door, and dropped the shotgun. Then he slid down, too, and didn't move anymore. One of his eyes was gone.

Cynthia's green eyes were the size of Lake Michigan and Lake Eerie, respectively. She said in a voice that was barely audible, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm me. My dad had me taking shooting lessons since I was nine," I said. This was a true statement, but I left out the part about my Dad recognizing my psychopathic tendencies and honing them razor-sharp, so he could use them against his enemies. I decided to change the subject. "Are these guys after you, or are they after me?"

"I don't know. Why would they be after you?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "Why would they be after you?"

"I don't know," she said. We gave each other looks that let the other know that we knew we were lying. Despite the smell of blood in the air, I have to tell you that Cynthia Skye looked damn sexy, all red-faced with her shirt randomly buttoned and all that white skin half-hidden behind it. She still had that smoldering, sexed-up look in her eyes, and I knew if we got out of there alive, we'd have the best sex of our lives.

"Well, that answered all of our questions, didn't it? Now let's get out of here before something really bad happens," I said and got moving. I peeked into the hallway and heard Cynthia tip-toe to my side. I saw a shadow lurking in a doorway. I held up my free hand towards Cynthia, and she froze. The shadow did not match Kross' hulking-figure. Had to be another skiing enthusiast. I knelt, took careful aim, and tapped the wall with my free hand.

The figure moved into the hall. A shotgun blast roared, and a fist-sized hole appeared two feet on the wall above me. Almost simultaneously, my gun gave its rebuttal, and a body hit the floor. The shotgun thudded out of the dead man's grip.

"Why don't you grab one?" I said and motioned towards the shotgun. "If you know how to work it."

"Hey, I was in Girl Scouts," Cynthia said. She picked up the shotgun of the first man I had killed, and she looked it over. It had been sawn off. She made sure it was loaded, then checked the safety, and she looked like she knew what she was doing. She pulled extra shells off the body. I knew there was a reason I was so attracted to her.

"Let's go," I said and snuck into the hallway. The initial noise came from the front, so I figured our assassins would expect us to make our escape through the back. This meant we'd head to the front. Most people panic when they're faced with shotgun-toting killers, and they don't use their brains when they panic. They just run in the opposite direction of the guns. Trained killers count on this. I smiled. I was not most people and definitely not someone prone to panic. Apparently whoever hired these guys didn't tell them about me. They came stumbling in my place like I was some kind of chump. So far, the count was me: 3 and them: 0.

I decided to check under the mask of the guy in the hall. It was a risky move because we didn't know how many guys we were up against, but I decided to chance it. I turned to Cynthia and said, "Watch our backs."