nc-17 | sexual content

If he's this bad at surveillance, it's a wonder that they ever catch anyone.

Or maybe he wants her to know that he's there, lurking in the shadows, nursing his third beer. She knows he can't tell that there isn't any rum in her drink, so she guzzles the (nearly flat) Coke like an alcoholic needing a fix, makes it a point to nearly knock it over when she asks the bartender for another, bends over at just the right time so Danny won't be watching her glass when it gets refilled.

Let him think she's drunk.

Her initial plan was thwarted by a bimbo with bigger boobs; there are several other prospects, but after one and a half hours of running her own surveillance, she's narrowed it down to two. Married man in the corner, recently shot down by the tall redhead, intoxicated woman by the pool tables, trying to work up the nerve to approach said redhead. In the end, fate chooses for her; the man is more successful with a short, pudgy blonde.

When she pays for her drinks, she leans over the bar, whispering in the bartender's ear, "The syrup on your Coke is running out," capping it off with an exorbitant tip and a blown kiss.

Now isn't the time to be subtle, so she comes up behind her target, her hands sliding down the woman's bare arms. A carefully phrased proposition and they're out in the alley. There are several patches of pitch dark, but she guides them to the one place where the streetlight is actually working, waits until he's crouched behind a dumpster before she greedily seeks out bare flesh.

"I don't even know your name."

"That's the point," Rebecca informs her. Snap, snap, snap, and her bra is open. He'll stop her, she thinks, before she goes to far. She cups the strange woman's breasts, half-heartedly circles barely erect nipples with her thumbs, lowers her head in an attempt to bring them to attention. Her pawn stands there, looking as if she just won the lottery.

"You've never done this before, have you?"

Rebecca's tone is flat, but the woman doesn't seem to notice. "Sure, I have," she says unconvincingly. "Lots of times."


When she gets into her mark's skirt, it's obvious that this woman had no intention of actually getting laid tonight. Her white cotton underwear has faded stains on them; these are her period panties.

"It was laundry day," she says nervously when Rebecca spends just a bit too much time examining them. Rebecca just smiles, drags them down legs that were shaved this morning, but not before leaving the house for the bar, and sticks them in the pocket of her slacks, a move that is supposed to look seductive, but it just feels awkward.

"Am I going to get those back?"

He's stop her, soon, she thinks. Any minute now. She kisses her patsy's stomach, trailing her tongue down from the belly button to the beginning of her pubic hair, and the smell of a day's worth of sweat - damn these 100 degree days - repulses her. With one hand blindly reaching up to caress a breast, she eases two fingers in, holding her breath as she experimentally licks the woman's clit.

"That's really good, what you're doing. Don't stop."

Her tone isn't that convincing.

Finally, about ten minutes too late, she feels hands on her shoulders, pulling her back. But it's not him, not anyone she's ever seen before, and she's really not even sure what is happening until Danny is there, gun pointed at the strange man, shouting, "I don't give a shit if she is your wife!" Rebecca's victim sinks into the shadows, clutching her clothing, footfalls getting farther and farther away, and both of the men are yelling, and finally, the alleged husband storms off, threatening to call the police.

"I am the police, asshole!"

Rebecca wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, making sure her clothing is straight. Danny holsters his gun, shoots her a look.

"We should ... call the police."

"You really want to have to admit in a police report that you were eating some chick's pussy in a back alley?"

She doesn't flinch. "If I open the paper tomorrow and see that she was killed after she left here - "

"It's too late to make the deadline for the paper tomorrow."

"You know what I mean."

"Rarely." He makes a face at someone past her left shoulder; she turns to gawkers standing by the back door of the club. "FB-fucking-I. Get out of here or I'll have you arrested."

"For what?" one of the guys asks, stumbling out as if to fight.

"Using the wrong hand to wipe your ass. Now, fuck off."

She watches out of the corner of her eye as they eventually file back into the bar. "You'll be lucky if you don't make the headlines tomorrow."

"You look like a whore." He digs his car keys out of his pocket. "Button up your shirt."

She complies and begins to follow him, nearly slamming into him when he stops abruptly.

"I'm not taking you home."

Her laugh dies in her throat when she sees the expression on his face. "You know that Steven left already. You expect me to ride the subway alone, this late?"

"Ain't my problem."

She opens her mouth to protest, can't think of anything to say. It suddenly seems cold, and she wraps her arms around herself. There's a lump in her pants, and it takes her a minute to realize that it's the woman's underwear. She tosses it in the dumpster as she makes her way to the street.


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