Jelly Bean
wandered into the lab; from his basket under one of the tables,
Grenadine
hopped out and wandered over, wagging his plumy tail happily and
receiving a
kind pat in return. Jelly Bean picked up the dog, and Grenadine allowed
it,
blinking a bit myopically as he was carried around.
“What’s cooking?” Jelly Bean asked Gum
Drop, who was masked and gloved, working
over a series of beakers and flasks. Gum Drop sighed dramatically.
“I’m working on a private project, if you
don’t mind. Aren’t you supposed to be
doing something right now? Conning old ladies or picking
pockets?” came the
snappish question.
Jelly Bean shook his head. “Nope. I’m on stand-by
for Licorice and Jaw Breaker
while they keep an eye on Senator Braun. What’s the
project?”
“None of your business. Look, I realize you’re
bored, but hanging over my
shoulder like a pirate’s parrot isn’t going to
benefit either one of us, okay?
So just take yourself, and the little dog too, and go . . . play down
on the
firing range or something,” Gum Drop grumbled. Jelly Bean
drew himself up and
looked mildly offended; a look that was wiped away by a few
enthusiastic face
licks from Grenadine.
“Fine. I can take a hint.”
“Sometimes I wonder—“ came the retort.
“Although you are
getting better.”
Jelly Bean didn’t deign to answer, and carried Grenadine with
him out to the
hallway of the Shop, muttering darkly under his breath. “As
if I really wanted
to know about what it was. Right, dog?”
Grenadine wagged his tail and licked Jelly Bean’s chin
affectionately again.
They moved towards the far end of the hall and reached the double doors
of the
firing range. Jelly Bean set the dog down and pushed his way through,
listening
carefully. There was a sound, but it wasn’t that of gunfire;
this was more of a
‘zing’. Intrigued, Jelly Bean sauntered over to
find out what made that sort of
noise. Moving carefully, he looked into the stalls and spotted a
familiar back.
Mr. Peppermint.
He was cranking something that looked like it had a fishing reel on the
side of
it, and Jelly Bean knocked on the glass booth door to get his
attention. Mr.
Peppermint spotted him and waved; Jelly Bean opened the booth and
stepped in.
“So—getting some practice in?”
“Yes.”
“Not with a gun though, right?”
“No.”
“So—what is it?”
“It’s a zip line shot,” Mr. Peppermint
explained patiently. “A device for
establishing a zip wire from one point to another, usually over
height.”
Jelly Bean nodded; he remembered them from Boy Scouts, although they
were usually
the sort of thing used in wilderness treks, not firing ranges.
“So . . . you’re
planning some sort of jungle expedition?”
Mr. Peppermint didn’t answer. He finished recoiling the unit
and cocked the
hammer of the gun launcher once more. Jelly Bean looked up towards the
ceiling
of the range. A thick bale of compressed plastic was there with a bulls
eye
target painted on it. Two gaping holes were within the second ring out
from the
center; as he watched, Mr. Peppermint aimed and fired. The bolt shot
up, line
flying out behind it. This shot was on the inside edge of the bulls eye.
“Nice shot.”
“Thanks. I’ve been practicing. Fortunately, this is
a stationary target, so
it’s much easier,” Mr. Peppermint murmured.
“Was there something you wanted,
Greg?”
“Yeah—do you know anything about a bar called the
Moon Glow?”
Mr. Peppermint paused and looked over his shoulder at the younger man,
a
perplexed expression on his face. “The Moon Glow?
You’re not planning on going there are
you? Especially after dark—it’s not safe.”
“What’s the big deal about this bar? First Warrick
and Nick come back lumped
up, and I get the lecture from them, and now you don’t sound
thrilled either.
According to the dossier on Ecklie he goes there once in a while, so it
can’t be that
rough a place---“
“Ecklie’s never there for long, and only goes when
it relates to a job, Greg—“
As he spoke, Mr. Peppermint tugged the thin cable taut and pressed a
small
button on the topside of the gun. With a faint hum, the line dropped
from the
target and the length of it fell to the range cement floor.
Startled, Jelly Bean stared at it. “How’d you do
that?”
“There’s an optic thread in the center that
controls the actions of the hooks.
I can open them, widen them or release them depending on how I press. I
repeat
though—you don’t want to spend time in the Moon
Glow—it’s dangerous.”
“I’ve been in bar fights. I can hold my own,
“ Jelly Bean pointed out with
faint exasperation. “Miss L didn’t hire me just for
my pretty face.”
The look that Mr. Peppermint shot him was so dry that Jelly Bean broke
into a
grin. “I have a nice body too, you know.”
“I know no such thing. What I DO know is that the clientele
of the bar in
question have been known to eat a lot of steak tartare.”
At the mention of ‘steak’ Grenadine barked happily.
Both men looked down; the
dog sat up and begged.
Jelly Bean sighed. “Now look what you did—had to
use the ‘s’ word, didn’t you?
This means he’s going to sulk for the next two
days—“
“Slip him one of the Slim Jims you keep in your locker and
he’ll be fine,” Mr.
Peppermint countered. “And Greg, I’m
serious—the Moon Glow is the sort of place
you don’t go after dark and you don’t go into
without backup. Ten years ago the
owner was convicted of eating a Gila Monster. Raw.”
Greg flinched.
Mike came down the stairs of the Desert Rose Saloon feeling refreshed.
He’d
slept well—in the former Madame’s luxurious suite
in fact—and was ready to
start setting up the Gauntlet. Whistling, he trotted down along the
sweeping
curve and thought back to his dream of the night before.
It must have been inspired by the setting upstairs, because it had been
far
more salacious than any he’d had in ages, and the most
exciting part was that a
certain senator’s daughter had been featured prominently in
it. Mike found
himself smiling at the memory of her, and hoped she was doing well.
Since Miss
L was with here that was a given, but still, he planned on calling a
little
later in the day if he got the chance.
Ah the dream—she’d look so good in the bunny outfit
too, right down to the
fuzzy tail . . . shaking away his lascivious thoughts, Mike moved to
the bar of
the Desert Rose and stepped behind it. He moved to the far side and
reached for
a bottle on the shelf; Kessler whiskey. He pulled it forward and with a
gentle
click, the entire back wall of the bar swung open.
Mike stepped inside and spoke in his calm baritone. “Lights.
Status report.”
Instantly the lights went on, revealing a curved bank of monitors
complete with
labels under each. There was a master board with three chairs behind
it, and
Mike moved to the middle one, planting himself in it and crossing his
hands
behind his head. The voice began speaking again. “Current
function—“
Mike cleared his throat and the voice died away; he spoke up gruffly.
“Access
voice recognition pattern stored in Keppler personal file, cell phone,
authorization 005, listing for last three incoming calls. Simulate to
match and
continue.”
He waited for a few minutes, busying himself with looking over the
board,
thinking quietly. Finally the voice began again, this time warmer and
more
familiar.
Catherine Willows’ voice.
“Current function of Eternity Gauntlet is at one hundred
percent. There are
currently four levels of intensity available, and ten scenarios on
file. Latest
installments include gas jets and two hidden ramps. Last sweep of fence
was at
nineteen hundred hours yesterday. Objectives for the day?”
Mike smiled and looked at the monitors. “Set Gauntlet for
scenario four, level
two, with verbal override set to my voice.”
A few little whirrs and clicks echoed in the room, followed by a quick
set of
chimes. Catherine’s voice came back. “Scenario four
set, level two, with verbal
override. Are there any further instructions at this time?”
“Nah, I think we’re good. Let’s see how I
do.”
The voice echoed out, slightly seductive in tone. “Good luck,
Nonpareil.”
Miss Chocolate looked over the map, committing it to memory. The layout
was
simple; basic in terms of buildings and rooms, and she looked up at
Grissom in
confusion. “It’s a western town.”
“It’s a bit more than a western
town. It’s six buildings filled with traps
and tests—three on one side of the street, three on the
other. On a level one
scenario, a Runner is expected to make it through three of the
buildings in a
pre-selected pattern. On a level two scenario, a Runner is expected to
make it
through four, and on level three, a Runner is expected to do four, five
OR all
six, depending on the program.”
Miss Chocolate sighed and sipped her coffee. “And
you’re expecting the worst, I
take it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Mike to be under orders to
make things difficult,”
Grissom agreed. “Just because he’s a friend of mine
doesn’t mean we don’t have
some friendly competition going. I beat his official time on Eternity a
few
years back, and he never got the chance to take it again after that.
He’s not
the kind to bear a grudge, but all the same—he’s
not going to make it easy.”
“Gotcha,” Miss Chocolate murmured. She was leaning
over the table, dressed in a
low-riding pair of faded black jeans and a short blue eyelet top with
puffy
sleeves; Grissom found the entire ensemble distracting in the best sort
of way.
He moved behind her and leaned over Miss Chocolate, brushing his lips
against
the side of her neck as he looked at the map.
“Some of the traps can’t be shifted because
they’re built into the buildings.”
“Like?” Miss Chocolate asked curiously.
Grissom pointed to the bank. “The First National has a vault
with a dropping
ceiling. If we get one of the scenarios that requires us to go to the
bank,
we’ll have to search the vault for our token, and that means
we’ll be facing
compression. The hydraulic is too big to shift, so
that’s one
trap I know
about.”
He paused, and Miss Chocolate turned her head to look at him. She
blinked and
spoke softly. “Bad memories?”
Grissom pursed his mouth into a little ‘O’ and gave
a reluctant nod. “I’m not
claustrophobic, but being pinned down by a descending ceiling
isn’t something I
want to go through again.”
In sympathy, she gave a little backward grind against him, and
Grissom’s
expression shifted to one of quick bliss. “On the other hand,
being pinned
between a descending ceiling and the firm, bouncy behind of a sex
nymphet, well
. . . there are worse ways to die.”
“Nobody’s going to die—“ Miss
Chocolate assured him with a wry grin. “At least
not on the vault floor of the First National.”
Gum Drop looked around carefully, then returned his stare to the little
test
tube in front of him. It was filled to a third, and the fluid within it
was a
lovely shade of glowing pink, and the degree of light displacement
through it
hinted at a viscosity close to syrup. Carefully, Gum Drop took his mask
off and
bent down to look at his creation, feeling a flush of delight.
There it was—his ninth attempt, and clearly far more stable
than the previous
ones. A thing of true beauty; a potential triumph; a key to
happiness--his
magnum opus--
“So . . . what is it?” came Jelly Bean’s
careless question. Startled, Gum Drop
jumped back and nearly stumbled. He spun and glared, but in a fraction
of a
second paused, instead.
“It’s . . . a new cologne. I got interested in
pheromones a while back and
thought I’d put my not inconsiderable biochemistry talents to
good use,” he
commented silkily. “Just something to amuse myself.”
“
“That’s part of the absorption agent that bonds
with the body chemistry of the
wearer—once you don this stuff it won’t wear off
until a good six hours or so,”
Gum Drop replied, eyeing Jelly Bean’s neck for a moment.
“Brings out the true
essence of the man.”
“Sounds promising.”
“It is. I’d love to take it out for a test run, but
I don’t think the pharmacy
counter at the veterinarian’s office, or Mom’s
Senior Center are the ideal
conditions for a surefire babe enslaver formula like
this—“ Gum Drop gave a
fake sigh, hoping the man next to him would rise to the bait.
“Well, I
could try it out . . . give you a full report on its efficacy, if
you’d
like . . . “
Some things were TOO easy, Gum Drop grinned inwardly. He pretended to
hesitate,
knowing that would set the hook. “I don’t know . .
. this stuff is pretty
powerful. Maybe I should wait—“
“No, I’m your perfect subject!
I’m going out to a bar tonight,” Jelly Bean
confided, “And this stuff would probably help break the ice,
you know?”
Gum Drop gave in with a roll of his eyes. “Fine,
fine—whatever. But I’m telling
you, it’s fairly potent, so be sparing with it.
I’ll fix you up with a sample
bottle if you’ll hold your horses a moment.”
There were no bottles in the cabinet, and with an inward oath, Gum Drop
stepped
out to the supply closet, taking his formula with him. When he
returned, he
carefully poured a few ounces into a small amber bottle and handed it
to Jelly
Bean, then put the rest in a larger one. “Use it wisely,
Greg—don’t just
splash it on like bathwater.”
“Yeah, yeah—“ Jelly Bean nodded,
concentrating on the glow coming through the
bottle. The pink through the amber made it a sort of orange pulsing
light.
“I’ll treat it like it was radioactive.”
He scooped up the little container and
tucked it into his breast pocket, flashed Gum Drop a quick mocking
salute and
sauntered off, whistling.
Gum Drop watched Jelly Bean’s receding back and smiled,
sardonically. “As well
you should, Bean-O. This is going to be very . . .
interesting.”
He moved to pull a small cage of white mice from behind a set of
shelves and
peered into it.
The single male was still mating, although clearly exhausted. When
done, he
toppled off of his little partner; immediately the other three females
in the
cage circled around him chirping and nuzzling him. Gum Drop checked his
watch,
noting that the dose for test subject # 03 had only three minutes left
until the
formula wore off.
Gum Drop smirked—Love Potion #9 was looking better and better
all the time.
Sam Vartann sighed. Portia Richmond had checked herself into the Luna
spa for
three days, dismissing him and Reggie for the next seventy-two hours
with an
indulgent wave of her fingers. Had it been any other place Sam might
have
argued, but the Luna was run by a former under-chief of the Mossad;
security
was NOT an issue at the resort.
So after having dropped Portia off and into the hands of white-smocked
attendants, nutritionists, masseuses and meditation gurus all under the
watchful eye of David Goldstein, Sam drove the Bentley home and parked
it in
the garage, whistling in the quiet of a sunny mid-morning.
What to do with an unexpected holiday?
The rest of the household staff had taken the time off, and the mansion
was
deserted. The only sign of life was the hint of music coming from
upstairs, and
Sam grinned to himself, feeling a tremble of pleasure at the knowledge
that
Reggie was there waiting for him.
So perfect.
They’d come a long way so far; certainly he’d
learned a hell of a lot about
Reggie’s luscious curves and gorgeous laugh in the last few
weeks. They’d gone
from being friends to being sweethearts in an easy, natural progression
that
thrilled him, and the culminating moment was now at hand.
He took a deep breath, willing a sense of calm. This was good. This was
the
fulfillment of exactly what they both wanted.
“Sam?” Breaking into his reverie,
Reggie’s voice called down to him from the
top of the staircase. Sam looked up, eyes widening.
Reggie leaned over the wrought iron railing, her long red-blonde hair
spilling
over her shoulders. She wore a black lacy bra and panties along with a
matching
garter belt, sheer smoky stockings and patent leather pumps.
Sam found himself halfway up the stairs with no memory of running up
them.
“Don’t MOVE.”
“What?” Reggie asked, her voice nervous. He clung
to the curving rail, grinning
up at her.
“Jesus you look hot,
babe. I know we’re supposed to take this slow, but
I’m
not exactly sure I can wait,” he confessed thickly. This
particular angle of
looking at her had his pulse throbbing in his ears, and walking was a
lot more
uncoordinated than usual as Sam admired her curvy legs.
Admired being the acceptable form of ‘lusted for.’
She giggled and held out a hand in his direction, beckoning him
forward. “Come
on—this outfit makes me feel like a complete
hootchie.”
“You bring class to hootchiness babe—“
Sam chuffed, making it to the top of the
stairs. Not easy to do, considering the hard-on he was sporting, and he
gave
himself credit for the effort.
Reggie stepped over to him, swinging her hips gently.
“So—I think it’s time we
got this relationship consummated, don’t you think?”
“I think I’m going to die if
we don’t,” he told her balefully.
“Indigo
Orculus.”
“Sam!” Reggie chided, sliding into his arms and
pressing against him. “Not true
and you know it. We’ve done lots of intimate things so far.
You’re a great
teacher . . . tasty too—“ she reminded him and
licked his neck.
Sam slid his hands along her back, savoring the feel of her beautiful
round
curves. He nuzzled his pointed nose close to her ear and whispered.
“Love
you—lemme go prove it.”
Gently he took Reggie’s hand and led her to her bedroom, and
the cool, quiet
stillness there. She’d set a few vases of fresh
flowers—carnations mostly, and
a few roses—and a few fat candles burned on crystal dishes.
The bed was turned
down, revealing the green sheets dappled with tiny black fleur de lis.
They took their time, playing and enjoying the touch of skin to skin,
laughing
and whispering to each other as they stretched out on the bed. Sam
moved
gently, first stroking and caressing her entire body, calming them both
as he
did so.
So sweet, so ripe she was, his Reggie; pillowy and pliant and hot; her
breasts
responded to his kisses, and when those kisses trailed down her body,
she
shivered in anticipation. Lightly Sam untied her panties at each hip
and tugged
them off, leaving the curly garden of her gold brown fur framed by the
black
lace of the garter belt. “Oh yeah, absolutely beautiful,
babe—“ he muttered,
feeling lightheaded.
Nothing he’d ever fantasized had ever looked this good. He
bent to brush his
mouth against the tickle of it, and Reggie moaned. The rich sweet
perfume of
her arousal made him throb harder, and Sam willed himself to relax a
bit.
Gently, slowly, he kissed her, working his concentration on the slick
rose of
her cleft, sucking the petals and licking in deliberate strokes while
Reggie
writhed and shuddered under his caresses. When her breathing began to
quicken,
he tenderly slid a wet finger into her and kept licking, letting the
slow
stroke match that of his tongue.
Reggie cried out, a sweet pleasured sound and Sam felt her big frame
shake
hard, her body gripping his finger in her climax. The utter sexiness of
her
response had him tensing hard not to come himself, but he savagely
willed
himself to hold back, and let her shivers and cries fade away. When she
was
still, he kissed her inner thigh and shifted.
“Baby--“ he groaned, looking down at her. Reggie
lay across the rumpled sheets,
her gorgeous breasts damp with a glow of sweat, her eyes wide and
unfocused.
Sam knelt down and lifted her full thighs.
“Reggie—hon, I need you—“
She nodded. “Want you too, Sam—“ came her
husky, happy voice. He gripped his
shaft and stroked the head along her cleft, then slowly pushed.
Sam groaned with pleasure, lost in the overwhelming rush of slick heat
and
throbbing pressure gripping him. Reggie gave a little whimper and slid
her arms
around his back as he leaned into her, shifting her stocking covered
legs
higher.
“Don’t want . . . to hurt you, but . . . it
probably will—“ he grunted, feeling
like the world’s biggest bastard when his own words aroused
him even more.
Under him, Reggie gave a breathless laugh.
“I know . . . but . . . love you—“ she
told him, and slid her hands down to cup
his sweaty flanks. She tugged, her nails stinging him slightly.
Sam closed his eyes and thrust, hard.
