A STICKY SITUATION

The alarm clock shrieked shrilly in the stillness of the room.  A thin arm reached over and smacked the top of it, knocking it to the floor with a violent CRASH.  Way to go, you idiot.  This would make the second fucking clock in two days she would have to replace.  Shit, she hated waking up first thing in the morning.  She was a violent riser, and God forbid if she ever had a bed partner.  Despite what Donovan had thought earlier, there had been a few here and there.  She didn't become too close to many men.  In her line of business, it didn't pay.  If one person discovered her secret life, she would have to take him/her out, literally.  Of course, she hadn't had to do that…yet…but it could happen.  She groaned when she realized that she had three meetings to go to today.  The first, and most irritating, would be a bull session with Frankie and his merry band of junior agents.  The next two had to do with her 'other' assignments.  Today, she would learn everything she needed to know about her targets.  She had been given a few basic descriptions already, but she knew little else.  The lead op had all the information she would need.  Her orders had already been handed down.  As soon as she learned everything, she was to get in, shoot, and get out.  After that, she would return to D.C. and ask to be retired.  Not much had the ability to throw Pax, but this assignment bothered her.  She didn't like the idea of working around Frankie again.  He wasn't stupid [even though he was a witless fuck], and he knew the four one one.  He had never had any trouble with that.  She hoped that Donovan's bag of goodies didn't lead him to the real reason she had been sent to Chicago.  He could dig up anything he wanted on his own, but he had two fairly good diggers on his team and two other agents to carry out any plan formulated.  This assignment would prove very difficult.  She fucking cursed the day she accepted the AOP title. 

After Pax climbed out of the shower, she tromped around her hotel room to dig out her clothes.  Not exactly modest [who gives a fuck], she had the window shades up and didn't give one thought to any passersby.  If someone wanted to gawk in, more fucking power to them.  Last night when Frankie called her over, she had nearly begged off.  She needed to avoid him as much as possible, but she didn't think that would happen in this lifetime.  It was kind of hard to avoid a dude who would be under her damn nose every day, all day.  Goddamn, she had wanted to shoot the arrogant fuck.  She realized she had no right to expect him to believe anything that came out of her mouth.  She had shown her true colors to him more times than she could count on her fingers and toes.  He had shot her, for fuck's sake, to keep her from going back, but she went back anyway.  Ancient fucking history, Pax, move on.  She went over to the bathroom counter and plugged in the coffee pot.  As she set it up to brew, she grimaced.  Her coffee was never as good as Frankie's.  She wondered what he did to it to make it so perfect.  She couldn't fucking boil water without scorching it.  She glanced down at her wristwatch.  She was running late and she found herself smiling a little.  Frankie was so damn anal about getting to meetings on time.  She could almost hear the bitching now.

*  *  *

Donovan found himself pacing the floor.  He hated delays more than he hated anything.  How in the hell could they get any work done if the cracked bitch refused to get here on time?  She's doing this on purpose.  Of course she was.  If she wasn't ruining someone's life, she wasn't happy.  The only schedule she worked by was her own.  If it benefited Jonella Paxton, she would be there Johnny-on-the-spot.  Regardless of the bullshit she had tried to sling at him last night, something was not right with her story.  He had a few tricks up his sleeve, and he would perform them to the letter, if Pax would ever fucking get here.  He shook his head and groaned audibly.  It never failed.  Whenever Pax was around, every other word out of his mouth was a curse.  She brought out the worst in everyone around her. 

If her mission were legit, why would it take so long for her to come to him for help?  He tromped back over to his desk, sat down, and drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the blotter.  He had tried to extract information from her last night, but she had purposely thrown him off track with the name-calling.  She had intentionally provoked him, as she had done millions of times when they were ops together.  Donovan still had a few friends in the agency, and he could easily call upon them if necessary.  He didn't like delving into that pot, but he would if it meant keeping someone alive.  If Pax was involved, someone was destined to die.

Pax sauntered into the nest exactly forty minutes late.  The other UC agents sat scattered about the room with impatient, bored looks on their faces.  Nothing was worse for them than to be idle.  When the agents glanced up at Pax [Jake whispering "Good God, check that out" under his breath], they noticed that she had donned some weird looking black body stocking or cat suit or some ridiculous clothing item and had covered it with her trench coat.  Her spiky heeled boots completed the getup just as it had completed every outfit she wore.  Cody was tempted to ask where she hid her gun in a suit like that, but he bit it back.  Pax was a scary lady, and he didn't want her wailing on him.  Without apologizing, she dove for the coffee pot and poured herself a cup.  She inhaled the aroma.  Heavenly.  Goddamn the man could do amazing things with a coffee bean.  From the periphery of her eye, she watched as Frankie stomped downstairs toward the conference table.  His dark brown eyes were probably black by now.  If they didn't have an audience [why should that fucking stop me now], she might have gone up to him and tweaked his nose to make him feel a little…jollier.  Ah well.  Maybe later.  She carried her coffee cup over to the table and chose a chair as far away from the others as she could find.  It wasn't that she was trying to show her superiority over the rest of the group, but she didn't like being crowded in among too many people at once.  She hadn't told many people of this weakness [does Frankie even know], because she thought it might one day be used against her.

Donovan approached the conference table and eyed Pax almost viciously.  What he wouldn't give if he could just strangle her and get it over with.  He wondered if anyone would miss her if he did…perhaps someone could help him hide the body.  He shook the disturbing [but somehow lovely] thoughts aside and selected his own chair.  He again found himself drumming his fingers. 

"I hope you realize that you've held us up for an hour or more.  My team is very busy, Pax, and we don't have time to wait for you to show up for a meeting.  I don't enjoy backing up the CIA on anything, so I would like this assignment to get on its feet and out of my hair.  I don't want you to be late again.  Are we clear on that?"

She saluted him as if he were a naval captain.  "My wish is your command, Frankie.  Whatever you say.  I understand that you're the boss, and I'm to follow every baited breath you take," she said smiling at him sweetly.  Without giving him a chance to speak, she continued, "I'm meeting with Weizmulder in a few hours, and he's giving me the directives for the hit.  As soon as I have those in my hands, I will bring them to you."

Donovan shook his head incredulously.  She had taken the helm at the meeting even after telling him she knew he was in charge.  It was just like her.  He immediately moved his hands down to his knees.  He was afraid he'd either strangle her or continue to drum his fingers on the table.  The drumming was an annoying habit he had developed after meeting with Remy and the attorneys.  Weizmulder.  He knew of the man vaguely.  He had been part of the 'good' side of the agency.  Right before Donovan left for good, he'd heard the man went to the covert side.  So far, the 'story' unfolding before them was legit.  Yet, he didn't trust her completely.  All he had to do was think back to the day he discovered she had disappeared.  He should have aimed higher to completely disable her.  She might have then had a chance.  There weren't any questions he could ask to trip her up.  Every piece of information he knew, she would know.  Weizmulder wouldn't send out an assassin unless he or she was properly briefed to the letter.  The agency didn't appreciate mistakes, and if Pax had made any, she would no longer be alive to tell the tale.  Goddamn, he wished he knew.  He wanted for this to be legit, wanted Pax to come clean.  He wouldn't mind taking her out, but he didn't want her own agency to double-cross her as it had double-crossed him.

"Once you have those directives, we're to get multiple briefings, Pax, I won't have it any other way," Donovan began.  "I've spoken to the director numerous times since we received this assignment, and he has made it clear that we are to get in and get out.  The only way we can do this is if you get the information to us in a reasonable amount of time.  How many rogues are there?"

She sat back in the fucking uncomfortable chair [why didn't he take his fucking overflowing FBI budget and buy some goddamn padded chairs] and crossed her arms over her chest.  "How am I supposed to know that, Frankie?  Do you think Weizmulder will tell me?  There are quite a few guys on that hit list, and I assume there will be a few guys floating around to do the deeds.  Regardless of this hot body, he doesn't whisper sweet fucking nothings in my ear.  We can't know who is in or out.  It doesn't work like that.  You should know."

He fixed her with a harsh gaze.  "I know nothing of your squad," he spat, "and I never want to know."

"Fuck you, too, Spankie," she quipped back.

*  *  *

Jesus jumping Christ, Pax thought.  That went smashingly well.  She read Frankie, she read him like a fucking novel.  He didn't buy it for one fucking second.  Their meeting [face it folks, bitch fest] had gone on longer than she expected, and she was righto fucking late for the one with Weizmulder.  Goddamn, if it weren't bad enough, Frankie wanted her to come to his place later tonight to look over the 'directives.'  He was so fucking paranoid that he didn't trust having a strategy session in the nest.  He didn't realize that Weizmulder already knew Donovan was involved.  Any old fucking way, she would meet the bastard at his apartment and give him what he wanted [or what he thought he wanted].  It took her for fucking ever to find her rental car.  Stupidly enough, she had forgotten what kind she had.  How stupid.  She couldn't even think anymore.  When she finally spotted the rental, she climbed behind the wheel and engaged the door locks.  At that point, she checked to make sure her gun was locked and loaded.  She needed no surprises at Weizmulder's.

*  *  *

Robert "Bobby" Weizmulder had been the lead op of the Death Angels for a few years.  He was a harsh man who hated mistakes.  He sat in his car outside the warehouse he and Pax had been using for their meetings.  She reported to him daily in some fashion to let him know how the plan was going.  Today, he would brief her on the real target, the hit that had been ordered by the director himself.  Occasionally, his squad was called in to correct a mistake here and there that passed down from other governmental agencies, including the FBI.  This hit was one of those clean ups.  One piece of trash had been cleared and there was one more.  Pax had a few weeks to do the job and back out.  If she failed, she would probably turn out to be another stain on the carpet that would need cleaning.  He sighed as he stared down at the photo of the target.  Pax wasn't aware that this woman was connected closely to Donovan.  He had no intention of telling her.  Although her relationship with Donovan was more than precarious, they were fairly loyal to each other, and she would talk.  However, this job was the ultimate test for Pax.  She wanted to retire, and if she completed this hit, he would allow it.  If not, she would be cleaned and put away.  He turned in his seat as he watched the jet black Mustang screeching into the parking lot.  Finally.  Jesus.  She's late, as usual.

Pax checked her weapon again before she exited the muscle car.  She strolled casually over to Weizmulder's sedan and climbed inside.  "Sorry, boss.  Frankie was a bit on the petulant side this morning, and he got a little longwinded.  He's bringing in the team as I expected, and they're going to provide just enough diversion to clear the way for the hit.  Now are you telling me about my fucking target or am I going to have to guess?"

Weizmulder laughed.  "Have I ever failed to show you the way, Pax?  Jesus, you're getting cynical in your old age."  He dug out the file and handed it to her.  "Commit it to memory, Pax, and shred it.  You have twenty-four hours to do this.  I have a couple of ops tailing her right now."

"Her," she spat.  This was new.  None of her hits had been females.  She opened the file and gazed down at the face of her target.  She was pretty in a vacant, ditzy sort of way.  Her hair was long and naturally blonde [no roots].  Actually, she was a broad Frankie might have taken a shine to.  He dug chicks just like this, didn't he?  He enjoyed the shit out of those delicate lotus blossoms.  She flipped through several other surveillance photos and saw one of the lady with a kid.  "Weiz, she's a mom."

"Your point, Pax?  How many dads have you hit?  Don't worry about the kid.  She has a father.  She won't be an orphan."  He tapped one of the photos.  "She is an ordered clean up, Pax.  She fucked with a man she had no business fucking with, and she is a boil on the butt of the FBI and the White House.  Don't tell me you're chickening out on me?"

"Oh, hell no," she said.  "I'll hit her.  Where are we doing it?"

*  *  *

Donovan immediately went for the bourbon as soon as he entered the apartment.  He had to have something to calm his nerves before Pax arrived.  He had barely gotten one shot down when the doorbell rang.  Goddamn, already, he thought.  Grumbling incoherently, he went to the door and swung it open.  Expecting Pax, he took in a shocked breath when he saw Remy.  At any other time, he might have felt elated, but not today.  There was no way he wanted her to be here when Pax arrived.

"Remy?  What are you doing here," he asked.

She sighed.  "I was leaving work and needed to talk to you about Frankie, so I thought I'd stop by instead of calling.  Is this a bad time?"

Fuck yeah it is, he thought.  Somehow, he felt extremely nervous with the idea of Remy and Pax being in the same room together.  "No."  Fuck it.  If and when Pax decided to show up, he could always ignore her.  Besides, he wanted to make sure that his daughter was okay.  "Come in."

Remy entered the apartment and laid her purse on the coffee table as she had done dozens of times when they were still living together.  It fell atop his discarded wedding ring, and he wondered if she had seen it.  She sat on the couch and crossed her legs.  Feeling incredibly awkward, he approached the couch and sat beside her.

"Is something wrong with Stasia," he asked.

She turned to face him.  "Oh no, nothing like that.  I don't want a repeat of what happened last night, and I thought we could schedule some visits."

He gazed at her incredulously.  What the hell?  Was she really here because of that or was it something else?  Why did she have to be so damn coy?  "I won't come that late again, I just needed to see her.  We don't have to schedule anything, Remy.  I know where you live, and I'll call you before I come.  I just wanted to let you know that I'd like to keep her for a while."  He stared at her for a long time, trying to read her.  "Why are you here?  There has to be something else."

She nodded.  "There is.  I'm sorry, Frank.  I felt badly about what happened yesterday.  I didn't want either of us to fight like that.  I'm here to apologize for that, and for the way I threw this divorce so suddenly at you.  I know you didn't expect it."

He chuckled bitterly.  "No shit, Remy.  What happened?  What happened after that weekend we tried to put it back together?  I never understood."

"I don't want to talk about that now," she said.  "What does it matter?  It's over and done.  I need to go."

She made a move toward getting up, but Donovan took hold of her arm.  "Wait.  Don't run.  For once, stay put, and talk to me.  I think that's why everything got so fucked up is because we couldn't talk."

Remy sat back but noticed that he didn't immediately let her go.  She didn't mind.  She didn't realize how much she missed him until she saw him at that attorney's office.  "You're probably right.  I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I."

His eyes literally held her captive, as they always seemed to do.  Before she knew it, she was in his arms with her lips latched onto his.  Dear God, it had been far too long since he kissed her with such heated passion, and she was completely helpless to shove him away.  The only thing that brought her back to reality was when she felt her body drifting down to the couch.  If she didn't move soon, she would not escape; she would not want to escape.

"No," she spat against his lips.  "No."

Confused, he drew away and sat up.  What the fuck?  She had made the first move and she said no.  "No?  You didn't come here to talk about our daughter or to apologize for that divorce meeting, did you?  You came because you wanted me, and when I give you what you want, you shove me aside?"

"How do you know what I want, Frank?  If you did, we wouldn't be divorced right now, would we?"

"You can humiliate me on your territory, you can even spit in my face, but I don't have to listen to this in my apartment." 

"You're right, Frank, you don't," she said coldly.

She stood and made her way toward the door.  He was right on her heels.  "Remy, wait," he said, grasping her arm.  "Please?"

She jerked her arm out of his grasp.  "I have to go.  You have a case, I have a life."

Donovan gritted his teeth and slammed the door behind her.  How could a woman he loved so much anger him so thoroughly?  He hadn't had much time to calm down before the doorbell rang again.  This time when he swung open the door, it was Pax.  Groaning something about 'crazy fucking women,' he stood back and allowed her access to his apartment.  He went over to his favorite chair and sat down.  If he weren't feeling particularly stingy, he would have offered her a drink.  Fuck her.  She didn't like his shit, she wanted vodka.  Let her have it.

Without an ounce of shame, she removed her coat and tossed it across the back of the couch.  He noticed with only vague interest that she had changed into a severely short mini-skirt and a silk blouse.  Her ash blonde hair was teased and fluffy, falling over her shoulders and down her back.  She looked like a fucking hooker.  Her beloved spike heeled boots came along with her again.  He hated those boots, wanted to rip them off her and burn them.

"What bit your ass, Spankie?"

He glared at her.  "Do you not have a respectful bone in your body?"

She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs.  The skirt slid up even further.  "Nope, I don't, my man.  Besides, I can't think of you as my boss.  It's too fucking weird.  I came to talk business, so let's get it on."

He shook his head and leaned forward.  "I'm not in the mood right now.  Can you come back later?"

She ran her hand through her hair and sighed impatiently.  "I can, but I won't.  You were the one who wanted to make all these strict little rules, Frankie.  I'm here to brief you as you wanted, your majesty."

He wanted to scream, laugh, and cry all at the same time.  She was right, of course.  It was his game as well as hers.  "Really and truly, I can't do this right now.  No bullshit."

He didn't understand that she had a deadline to meet, and whether he wanted to or not, she would work this out with him.  "Fuck that, Frankie.  We're doing it and we're doing it right now."

Donovan glared at her hatefully.  He looked her up and down, seemingly sizing her up.  "Are you trying to provoke me again?  You want me to kiss you again to shut you up?  Maybe it's you who wants to fuck me?"

"Wow, you fuck.  Now who's provoking whom?"  He had begun to tweak her, and she didn't like that shit.  "Eat me, you bastard."

He shook his head.  "I'd rather not.  I'm not the slightest bit hungry for what you have.  Leave me, Pax.  I have no patience for you right now."

"Too fucking bad," she spat angrily.  "Get your ass over here right fucking now and look at these goddamn specs before I shove them down your throat."

Angrily, he stood and stalked toward the couch.  He took the neatly prepared file from her hand and tossed it aside.  He took hold of her arm and led her toward the front door.  "We will talk about this tomorrow when I'm not so close to fucking choking you too death."

"You know," she said brightly, "you're a limp dick son-of-a-bitch," she said sweetly.  "You couldn't even get it up when you touched my tit."

He jerked her around to face him.  What the hell was her problem?  "Pax, touching your 'tit' was like handling a depleted saddle bag.  It was your tattoo, you stupid bitch, not your fucking tit.  You are as oily as an eel."

She sneered at him.  "At least an eel can get a stiffy."

His lips were drawn into a snarl and his eyes had gone the color of the blackest coal.  "You are the most disgusting woman I have ever known in my life."

"Oh, you know how to work a woman, don't you, Spankie?  I can see now why your little wife didn't hang around.  Fucking you was probably like fucking a corpse."

That did it, that absolutely did it.  He drew back and slapped her.  The blow barely stunned her at all.  He hadn't put that much pepper behind it.  In turn, she slapped him.  Damn.  This was fucking nuts.  BANG.  Her back hit the door again, the knob digging uncomfortably in her butt cheek.  One of hands was holding onto her forearm, the other had come up to her throat.  There was little pressure there, but goddamn if she didn't see murder in his eyes.

She laughed a little.  "You know, Frankie?  That little slapping game kind of turned me on.  You are one damn sexy bastard."****

Damn sexy bastard.  Hadn't he heard that somewhere before?  He shook it off.  She was trying to throw him.  The hand on her throat tensed and relaxed, relaxed and tensed.  The next step, the one working through him, would be an out and out betrayal of everything he had known, everything he loved.  He had been denied, and it would serve her right for doing this to him.  Which her?  Remy?  Pax?  Fuck it.  He wasn't thinking clearly, nor did he care to right now.  Fuck it.  Fuck it all. 

Donovan released her throat and mashed his mouth down onto hers.  Here we go again, Pax thought.  But something happened that was quite unexpectedly different.  Instead of letting her go after he shut her up with his brutal kiss, his hands roamed her body restlessly, hotly.  Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, she thought.  They had toyed with each other for years, had toyed with each other since they met again, but not…seriously.  She had never seriously considered fucking him, did she?  She wanted to back off and regroup, but she couldn't.  He broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath before doing it again.  She could have easily broken away, but she didn't.  What the fuck is wrong with this picture?  Frankie was…disgusting…gross…hot…hot…oh shit.  Uh uh, no way.

The moment his hands traveled down to her thighs, damn if she didn't wrap her fucking leg around him.  Riiiiiiiip.  Shit.  Her skirt let go.  Oh well.  Easier to remove that way.  Donovan didn't break the kiss as his hand reached ruthlessly under her ripped skirt.  A sound left her [ahhhhhhh] as he closed his fist around the delicate waistband of her thong.  With a savage move, he ripped them apart, the elastic snapping back onto the side of her hip. 

Once he stopped kissing her, she cried, "Oh, goddamn you.  That hurt."

"Shut up, just fucking shut up," he growled against her neck.

Her hand reached for the snap and zipper of his slacks and she opened them as quickly as was humanly possible.  "I was wrong," she said as her hand fell on him.  "You can get a stiffy."

"Stop talking," he said.  "Stop talking before you ruin it," he demanded as he claimed her lips again.

He thrust into her savagely with little hesitation or gentleness.  Oh jumping Jesus on a fucking camel.  He finally broke his vicious kiss so that he could concentrate on matters a tiny bit more urgent.  He pressed her solidly against the door, supporting her with one hand planted firmly on her ass.  The other had dug into her waist to guide her along.  There was no way she could keep up with him on her own.  He kept his eyes focused on her face the entire time he slammed into her.

Nope.  This wasn't going to work out.  She was fucking tired of having her head banging into the door with each hard thrust.  "Do me right, you fucker," she said.

He wasn't sure he understood, nor was he sure he wanted to understand.  With a grunt, he pulled back and took her down to the floor.  Not missing a beat, he unceremoniously plunged into her, almost crushing his body against hers again and again and again.  There were more ripping sounds, and he realized that she was tearing him out of his damn shirt.  He didn't care, didn't give a ripe fuck.  His wife [ex-wife] had given him the shirt, and ripping it was like ripping her, and that was all right.  She hooked her nails [fuck, they're claws] into his back as she cried out.  The guttural sounds escaping her began to work on him, sending him close, nearly sending him over.  Uh uh.  No way.  No how.  Punish her.  Punish me.  Punish all of us. 

A sound escaped him [ah] as his body tensed abruptly.  The lunatic thrusts ceased just for a moment, a very brief moment, before he pounded into her a few more times for good measure.  As fluid escaped his body and entered hers, he opened his mouth to breathe, to take in air before he collapsed from the sheer lack of oxygen.     

*  *  *

****Thank you, Ms. Dreamy for allowing me to use your patented "damn sexy bastard!"  HA!