DELICATE MATTERS
Donovan supported his weight on his hands as his body continued to work through his massive, bitter release. He was afraid that if he toppled on top of Pax, that she might harm him bodily. She might do it anyway once the awkwardness subsided. He wasn't sure what to say or do. He knew right at that moment, he couldn't yet move. For a moment, a tiny moment, he hoped she wouldn't shove him aside for at least three or four minutes. He was a bit horrified to note that he felt the first tinges of guilt creeping into him. He had only attacked her like he did due to his anger from Remy's denial. Then again, the smug bitch beneath him had purposely pushed all his buttons. Yet, it felt as if he had betrayed his wife [ex-wife] by fucking [yes, fucking…he couldn't call it 'making love' with a straight face] this heinous bitch from the deepest pits of hell. God. What had he done? What had they done? He closed his eyes tightly and kept them closed. He didn't want to look at her, to see her face. With Pax, it was either hot or cold, it was never warm. If she made some type of disgusting crack [which she would], he'd probably smack her.
Unlike Donovan, Pax's eyes were wide open, and she stared at him with a perplexed sort of daze in her eyes. What the hell happened? Of course, it was obvious what had happened, but she wondered what had brought it about. How many times in the past had she and Frankie been together, smack up against each other, and nothing happened? Dozens? Shit. They had kissed before, of course, but nothing else. For some stupid ass reason, Frankie thought he had to have control over every damn thing, and if he couldn't shut her up the conventional way, he went into primo asshole mode. Gung ho all the way, he'd kiss her to cut the shit. She didn't think he wanted her, he certainly wasn't attracted to her, but it was the only way he could disgust her enough to render her speechless. It worked like a fucking beautiful charm. Tonight, though, he had tried another trick, a new one, and a surprisingly good one. Damn, things were bound to get weird now. Fuck. They were already weird.
Sighing, keeping his eyes closed, Donovan drew away from her. She remained leaned back on her elbows and watched him curiously. Did I do that, she thought as she stared at the tattered remains of his shirt. Goddamn. It seemed as if a panther had gotten hold of Spankie's shirt and ripped it right the fuck up. Wow. He had been good, but she didn't think he'd been that good. She then glanced down at the ripped mini-skirt and broken thong panties. Jesus, please us. Had it gotten that hot? She watched as the poor shell-shocked fuck backed away, daring not to look at her. She had a heart [surprise, surprise], and she was a bit disturbed by what happened, but fuck it. It couldn't be taken back now, could it? Nope. She rose up, feeling the wonderful crack of her spine as she stretched a little. The floor was as hard as a fucking brick. Plus, her ass cheek probably had an awesome bruise appearing from the rough ride against the doorknob. I think he broke my butt cheek. I really, really do. Something directly behind her caught her attention. No fucking way. She had to look again to make sure she saw what she thought she saw. She glanced at Frankie again. He still had his back to her, examining his torn shirt as if he were fascinated by it. She brought her body shakily to her feet and watched as the torn thong slid down her legs. Splat. Her skirt was hanging by a thread. She ignored it for a moment and moved closer to what had drawn her attention. It was a small photo in an ornate frame. Dear jumping Jesus on a camel. Suddenly, her heart began to rev like a well-tuned engine.
"Who is this, Frank," she asked, holding onto her sanity with an iron fist.
He turned toward her, stunned. She had never called him 'Frank.' He noticed she was looking at a photo of Remy. He didn't want to think of her right now, not after what he'd done. However, Pax was staring at the picture as if it were some holy symbol. "My wife," he said, and then chuckled bitterly. "I mean, my ex-wife," he spat.
Without a word, she grabbed her trench coat and slipped into it. She was a bit…indecent without it. "I gotta bail, Frankie."
"Wait," he said, "I need to say something to you."
"Don't bother," she said, waving him off. "It was a nice mercy fuck, Spankie, but I don't think we should start picking out our china patterns yet. See ya." She left as quickly as she entered.
* * *
Pax stormed into her hotel room and took off her coat. She threw it viciously onto the floor and contemplated stomping the fucker. However, what good would it do? It couldn't feel any pain, couldn't cry out. What sense did it make abusing it? Pax ripped off her blouse and torn skirt. She tossed both garments into the wastebasket. They were useless pieces of clothing to her now. Dressed only in her bra and spiky boots, she began to pace the room crazily. When she realized how she looked, she groaned and discarded the rest of her clothing and the boots. She had to take a shower, had to get Frankie's scent off her, had to wash him away from inside her. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Surely, Weizmulder had known who the hit was. Why hadn't he told her? Why hadn't he clued her in? She had destroyed her file already. If she hadn't, she would have dug it out and looked through it again. It didn't matter. Everything inside had been committed to memory.
The woman, Remy Ellis, had fucked around with a senator until a rogue FBI man, Edward Lomax, had him taken out. The rogue had tried to do the same with the woman, but she had somehow escaped detection. Gee, she was fucking Frankie. How would she ever survive? She had no doubt that Frankie was probably her bodyguard or some other shit. Lomax had made the Bureau look 'bad,' so it was time for a cleaning. See ya, Ed, don't let Satan kick your ass too badly down in hell, bucko. When the hoopla died down, the FBI found another 'element' that needed cleaning. Remy Ellis. She was the woman in the file, the mother. Her husband was Frankie fucking Donovan. Her kid's father was Frankie fucking Donovan. Goddamn, goddamn. This was going to complicate everything, now wasn't it? Weizmulder had told her she would be in and out. The stupid fuck. What would Frankie do when he discovered that his old lady was her intended target? She shook her head and continued to pace about the room. It didn't matter. Nothing had changed. She had a mission, and by God, she would complete it. In fact, she might find a way to extract more information about the woman from Frankie. Perhaps he would be willing to talk about her, since she was now an 'ex.' When she saw Weizmulder again, she intended to give him a piece of her fucking mind. The prick. She hated him. She wanted a time to come for him to need a 'cleaning,' she would be more than willing. Oh yeah. I always wanted to be lead op.
* * *
Weizmulder watched in silence as Pax left her muscle car. He shook his head incredulously as he noticed that she had donned painted on blue jeans and a tight blue sweater that barely went to her midriff. Today, she had foregone the trench coat. It was unlike her. Something must have happened to throw her off track. He wondered if she had found out the true identity of her target. He knew it was only a matter of time. Pax had a stubborn streak in her, but she was fairly smart. She had been hanging around Donovan again. He had had a man tailing Pax since she came into Chicago. She hadn't messed up many hits, but there were a few, and she was due for a cleaning. However, if she passed this particular test, she might escape it for a little while. He liked Pax, liked her ruthlessness and cold-blooded streak, but throwing her with Donovan again hadn't been the brightest of ideas, especially considering that the target was married to him [well, not anymore, anyway].
"Okay, you fucking prick," Pax spat as she climbed into the car. "What the fuck are you thinking? You didn't tell me the target was Frankie's ex-wife. You fucking expect me to clean a woman associated with him? Are you cracked? He was an op, he's already onto me a little, and it won't take much for him to realize what's going on. Goddamn it, Weizmulder, why in the fuck did you put me on this?"
"Losing your nerve, Pax? Unless you have a soft spot for Donovan, I don't see how anything has changed. Sure he's close to the gig, but it's never stopped you before, has it? You've escaped his grasp many times. If you want to back out, I can arrange for a replacement, but I can't guarantee that you'll still be able to retire. Besides, if you're around Donovan enough, you could possibly get more information from him."
Low blow. Fuckwad. After their heated little episode in his living room, she wasn't sure that Frankie would ever speak to her again. Not only that, but if he was already suspicious, how would he feel if she suddenly became interested in his ex-wife? It wouldn't take long for him to add it up. Was there a way around it? She thought there might be. If she could distract him. How had she done it last night? Hadn't she just started pushing his buttons before he exploded? She could do it again. Sure she could. She wasn't Ms. America, she wasn't even as cute as the ex-wife, but she wasn't a dog, either. She hadn't had to use her body much, and never had to sleep around to get a job done, but she could do it if necessary. She knew Frankie enough to know exactly which nerve to tweak. First, she had to make him trust her again, and that feat would be the greatest of all. After that, she could clean and get the fuck out.
"He makes me sick, Weizmulder," she said, her face puckering with disgust. "Every time he comes near me, I nearly puke. That fucker wears so much cologne; I'm surprised that I haven't been knocked into a coma yet. There are no soft spots. Frankie has never been anything less than a butt ache since I've met him." Speaking of butt aches, that bruise on my ass is quite colorful. Wanna see? Oh God. She hoped the prick sitting beside her never discovered she fucked Frankie. What happened had been bad form, bad form indeed. "Don't worry about him. I can handle it and I can extract anything from him I want."
* * *
Donovan stood in his office, purposely avoiding his team for the moment. As usual, Pax was expected at any minute for her daily briefing. He was growing impatient regarding her reluctance to set things in motion. The longer she held out, the longer he had to spend around her, and he found the thought…distasteful. Do you really? Shit. He had practically raped her last night, but then, that wasn't exactly true, either. She had joined in on the fun [was it fun?] the same as he. It was a bit on the weird side, and he wasn't sure how he would act when she arrived. Of course, it depended on her reaction. He didn't think he could take it if she came in all gushy and mushy. Who's got an ego today, his inner demon [ironically enough, it was Pax's voice] asked. What did he expect? Did he think she was going to walk in and immediately want to…date him? The thought was too upsetting to comprehend. What had he done? What the hell had he done? Sighing, he went back to his desk and sat down. He needed to prepare himself, but he couldn't quite get his shit together. Absently, he picked up an ink pen and began scribbling on a notepad sitting before him.
An hour later, Donovan decided to end his self-imposed isolation. He couldn't avoid the team any longer. When his foot touched the last step, he had to stop for a moment. Who the hell is that, he thought. Pax stood tall and well put together in a navy blue executive pantsuit. Gone was the spiky heeled boots. They had been replaced with a pair of navy blue pumps with sensibly low heels. Her wild hair had been tamed and was up in a neat French twist. He had never seen her look so…professional. Normally, she decked herself out as if she were a wayward prostitute. Vaguely, he wondered if someone had died and she had dressed for the funeral. She had yet to turn toward him, and for a moment, he was tempted to haul ass back upstairs. He was a damn chickenshit. He had used her body for as his pacifier, and he didn't know what to do. Again, it was awkward and uncomfortable. God. His buttons hadn't been pushed that effectively in months.
Pax took her coffee cup and turned toward Frankie. She noticed that he was staring at her as if he had never seen her before. Real fucking clothes must have stunned him. "Yes, I do have other things to wear that aren't so…street walker'ish," she spat with a wicked gleam in her eyes. Poor Frankie. He was so fucking flustered, wasn't he? She hadn't seen him like this before. The consummate preacher was silent. When would that happen again? Lost was the banter. She didn't know if she was happy about that or not. Cautiously, she approached the Dono-Man. Although she could see he had rather cut off his thumb than allow her to touch him again, she couldn't resist stepping up to him. She had to; her assignment [and life] depended on it. "Is something bothering you?"
Donovan's gaze changed from one of dread to horror. He noticed that the team was seated around the conference table, staring up at them curiously. Cody was stage-whispering something to Jake, and he was certain he didn't want to hear it. Not in this lifetime. He took hold of her arm and guided her body toward the stairs. He pushed her forward, indicating that she should climb up. Once they were both in his office, Donovan closed the door behind them and drew down the shades. If he decided to deck her, he didn't want any witnesses. He felt like a shit, and by God, he was going to apologize, even to her, the heartless bitch that she was.
"Jonella," he began.
She smiled a little. "Oooooh, you're using my first name again. How utterly…intimate."
He approached her and put his hand over her mouth. Nope. He didn't want to lock lips with her again. In his current frame of mind, he might have fucked her again, and neither of them needed that. "Shut up," he demanded. "Shut up and let me speak. I won't let you go until I have my say, do you understand?" Grinning behind his hand, she shook her head, her eyes flashing amusedly. "What happened last night should not have happened at all." He stopped for a moment. Hadn't he once said something very similar to Remy? He shook it off. "I'm sorry. I allowed my anger to get the best of me. It won't happen again." Donovan removed his hand and stepped back to assess her.
She planted her hands on her hips and smiled at him. "What are you saying, Spankie," she asked with a lilting voice that grated all over his nerves. "You don't want to take me to the prom? It's not a big deal, you witless fuck, I don't love, like, or want you. I can tolerate you, but that's about it. So, don't get so worked up. I don't even expect a 'thank you' for providing you with fairly good and steamy entertainment." She stopped for a moment and beheld his 'what the fuck' look. Goddamn. She hated this part of the job. Her brashness hid her true and awkward confusion. "Like I said, it was a mercy fuck, plain and simple, Spankie, but that's okay. You weren't half bad for a dickless wonder."
Donovan tried…tried…to let her comments slide by. It was more than obvious that she was provoking him again. If he could walk away, it would be over. However, he couldn't. He had played this game hundreds of times with her, and it was more than likely that he would play them a hundred more. Angrily, he stalked toward her, took hold of her shoulder, and shoved her against the edge of his desk. The unyielding edge bit into her bruised ass, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. He wanted to play rough and tumble again. Oh goody. She had never been fucked on top of a desk before. Too bad she wasn't wearing another skirt. She could have foregone the panties today.
Without the boots, she was a few inches shorter, and he was able to glower down into her face. He held onto her shoulder tightly, digging his fingers into her flesh. His other hand was clenched into a fist at his side. He wanted to wrap it around her throat, but he had no intention of going there again. "I should end your life," he spat through clenched teeth. "I could do it fairly easily, you know. You've watched me kill with my bare hands before, and I could revert right back to that within moments. Stop playing these endless games and get this mission on the road. I'm tired of you, tired of your shit, and I'm not taking it anymore."
She smiled at him. The smile was sick and lascivious. "Gosh damn. Did I tweak something other than your nerves?" She darted her tongue out and licked the end of his nose. He gaped at her. She giggled as if she had heard the funniest joke ever told. "I always loved your nose, Spankie. It's so long…and sharp…a lot like what's between your legs."
"You will not provoke me no matter how hard you try," he spat, not releasing his hold on her shoulder for one second. He didn't want her going anywhere until he was finished with her. "What's the game, Jonella? I know you have one. You always have a game going. Did you set me up to do that last night? Did you? You were never interested in fucking around with me before, why are you now?"
Okay. The game had changed. Now she was pissed. "Did I set you up? What the fuck are you saying? Who invited whom? I didn't rip you out of your fucking underwear, did I? I didn't put a bruise on your fucking ass by pounding away at you like a rutting bull. For your information, you prick, I'm not so goddamn interesting in fucking you at all."
Donovan shook his head, finally breaking his glowering stare. He was trying to collect himself before he really did kill her. Ah, the old guilt button. She hadn't just pushed it, she stabbed it. She's right. Every word is dead on. He was completely too enraged to apologize. If he opened his mouth, he'd either scream at her or kiss her again. No, I can't do that. I can't let her do it to me. This is a game, and I can't play it. After a moment, he looked at her. "Okay, Jonella, you win. I am a prick," he said, "and I've already apologized for taking advantage of you." God, this is so déjà vu, he thought. "It stops here. It stops today. I won't say this again. If we don't go into the field by the end of the week, my team is finished with this assignment and you."
"I told you that a goddamn apology isn't necessary, Spankie. I may have done a favor for you as well," she spat, cutting him on purpose. This wasn't part of her plan. He had pissed her right the fuck off, and she intended to fight back.
"What do you mean," he demanded, his grip suddenly tightening even more.
"From what you did last night, it seems as if you hadn't gotten any in a long time. You had a lot built inside, didn't you," she asked, sneering.
"You bitch," he growled.
"Mmmm," she said, tilting her face up to his. "That's what you like about me, isn't it?" She ran her tongue along his lips, noticing that he didn't back away. "Care to go another round," she asked.
"No," he said, "not here."
"Really," she said. "If not here, why are the shades drawn?"
"To keep your murder from sight. I need no witnesses." The malice had totally gone out of his voice now. What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? I'm playing right into it.
The hand clutching her shoulder had loosened up considerably. It moved downward, cupping her small breast through the thick, tweed top. "Okay," she said softly. "Your loss. And Frank, stop feeling me up."
Her words seemed to have broken the spell he was under. He stepped back and his hand went directly to the nape of his neck. Goddamn. I'm letting her fuck me up. I can't believe this. "You can go now," he said coldly.
Pax remained leaning against the edge of his desk. "Missed and dismissed, eh Spankie? See you tonight."
He shook his head. Not looking at her, he said, "No you won't."
"Whatever you say," she said before taking her leave.
When she exited his office, he clenched his fists as a sound left his throat [ahhhhaahhh]. He brought his hands up as if beseeching the gods to end his torment.