Intimate escape, p.1
Intimate Escape, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2022 D.C. Stone
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0723-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to coffee, rice crispy treats … and “Joe” who introduced me to La Llorona—thanks for the nightmares, dude.
And my husband—I love you.
INTIMATE ESCAPE
Empire Blue, 4
D.C. Stone
Copyright © 2022
Chapter One
Healing is learning to trust life.
—Jeanne Achterberg
Nestled outside Queens, New York, sat the bane of Drug Enforcement Agency Agent Matthew Gonzalez’s existence—JFK Airport. Not that he had anything against the airport itself or the city it serviced, but managing the proper timing of getting in and out of the epicenter for world travel was a tedious task. A task that sometimes could take up to two hours once he was over the GW Bridge. Though there was one time it took five.
The traffic wasn’t his only reason for hating the six-billion-dollar nightmare. No, that other right was given to the constant barrage of people who commuted through the terminals, half as many somehow managing to either not see him, which resulted in constant bumping to his body—shoulders, back, hips, and hello there, one time with his groin. Or they saw him and felt like somehow challenging his presence by delivering those well-timed impacts with not-too-subtle checks of their corresponding body parts.
He didn’t hate people. Let’s get that clear. He hated rude people. Ones who had no common sense, manners, or consideration for others.
Okay, maybe he needed to be a bit more honest. He hated New Yorkers. And since he was a New Yorker himself, he could give the blanket statement for what it was: the truth.
So, despite the fact he had to make a trip to JFK during the busiest time of day, on a Friday before a three-day holiday weekend leading up to the Fourth of July, all for a case that may or may not pan out, really set his nerves on edge. That he had to leave his brother’s barbeque an hour earlier didn’t help matters.
So help him, if Lawless Lou—his confidential informant—sent him on a goose-chase with this latest piece of intel, he would throw every available resource at his disposal at the no-good-piece-of-shit.
Then again, if this panned out, the good ole bank of Uncle Sam would make Lou one happy pig in shit.
Well, technically, Matt was the pig here.
He smirked. Cop humor.
Unfortunately, CIs—otherwise known as confidential informants—were what made his world, or in this case, his job, go round. Feeding agents information was one way they were able to get a leg up on this war on drugs. There’d been references of these CIs being the foot soldiers in this war, but he saw them for what they were. Low-lying, garbage-feeding scums just trying to make it in this big, imperfect world.
Lou had been informing Matt going on four years now. Outside of Lou constantly looking over his shoulder, seeing as snitching was pretty dangerous work, he averaged about fifty thousand dollars a year for his efforts. With his CI, they’d managed to put away quite a few dealers, some of which were preying on local schools around the area, as well as a few wanted for murder, and one for rape. Great accolades all around, yes, yes—insert sarcasm here—but anytime Matt had to deal with Lou, better referred to as Lawless, he felt as if he needed a head-to-toe stainless-steel scrub like the ones his ma used on her scorched pans.
Even outside all the icky-yucky sensations, their partnership—if one wanted to call it such—had been pretty successful. So, when Lawless wanted to talk, Matt listened. And seeing as he’d received a 2:00 AM call telling him a description of the subject he needed to be looking for and the amount of product coming in from the good neighbor of the United States, Mexico, then a call only two hours prior telling him the flight number, Matt hadn’t had much time to prepare.
It was now five o’clock in the afternoon and he was slowly making his way through terminal four toward his POC—point of contact—who would get him through security and to the jet bridge of their soon-to-arrive suspect.
He checked his watch. “Fuck, let’s hope this plane isn’t early,” he told his partner, Don Watson. Watson’s scowl matched his as he shoved and pushed his way through the ever-thickening crowd.
Watson thinned his already thin lips until they practically disappeared. Despite his annoyance levels being near maximum, Matt fought the chuckle bubbling its way from his gut. His colleague may be one bad-ass DEA agent, but with the asymmetry of his face, all hard angles, high-brow, and permanent scowl, whoever had a hand in making him had missed out on the finishing touches to his face. Namely, his mouth. It was distracting as hell, and the boys back at the office let him know all the damn time. Then again, when one worked a high-intensity job such as drug enforcement, there had to be some ways to let off steam. Cracking on your brothers-in-arms was just one in many of those ways.
“I’ll peel off and check the arrivals listing. You head back in case they get in early,” Watson said, nodding in the direction of the security checkpoint.
Matt nodded and renewed his approach to get through, dodging luggage, side-stepping strollers, and trying to plan out his route. A few minutes later, he stepped up to Agent Sanchez, the DEA contact assigned to JFK, who had those pretty little escort privileges to get him through security. A badge meant nothing at an airport. Access authority said it all.
Agent Sanchez leaned against the wall outside the executive entrances, his low-lidded gaze saying he’d much rather be taking a nap in one of the back offices. Then again, with the constant activity coming in and out of JFK, especially with drugs, Matt could only imagine some things Daniel Sanchez had seen, done, or heard—fuck, any of it. Yet another lovely thing about living near such a big city was the big-named criminal lords pushing their product into the neighborhoods. The whole buy-sell-demand thing was a living, breathing demon in New York.
“Plane is about fifteen minutes out,” Sanchez said as a greeting. “You ready?”
Matt nodded and looked over his shoulder for his partner. Truth was, he was always ready. At a young age, he’d developed this drive deep inside of him to stay a step ahead of others. Not in the sense of I always have to be better than you, but from a perspective of wanting to know what drove some to make the decisions they did. Later, in college, that drive narrowed in on criminal behavior and trying to understand criminals’ motivations.
If one understood someone’s motivation, they could most likely anticipate their actions. In the world of Criminal Justice, this was imperative to prevent crimes and deaths. Sometimes, even prevent activities worse than death, because yes, that kind of shit existed. Rapes, mutilation, and torture were just a few of the things he saw on a daily basis. Especially in his line of work with drug enforcement. And more than ever with those he investigated, which focused on none other than the Mexican cartel.
Watson rounded the corner and practically bulldozed his way to Sanchez and Matt. Color rose high on his cheeks, and his breath puffed from his mouth in heavy pants. Matt fought the chuckle, or at least he tried, but somehow failed seeing as Watson tossed him a glare.
“Do people have no sense of personal space in this godforsaken airport?”
Matt lost his fight with the chuckle and let out a sharp bark of laughter. Sanchez shook his head and turned, holding that pretty little access badge. Watson and Matt sobered. Game on.
****
Juliette Scaglione bit her lip and stared at the conveyor belt, waiting for her nondescript black luggage to come out from the back. Not that she was looking forward to hauling it off the belt after the exhausting eight-hour flight from Cancun, but it wasn’t like she had anyone else to help her.
Damn you, Jorge.
And damn you, Jimmy. Good riddance.
She’d gone to Cancun in a party-plus-two but ended up coming back by herself. Three Dog Night’s “One” played on repeat in her head the entire flight and cued up again.
When Jimmy, her now ex-boyfriend, approached her and Jorge about taking a vacation in Cancun, she’d been ecstatic. Between working non-stop, pulling twelve-hour shifts at the office, and trying to get everything prepared for their upcoming regulatory review, she’d been ready for some time away. Not that being a bank auditor was difficult. One simply had to make sure policies were followed, but when the auditor became the auditee, perspectives changed. Especially with the heightened increase in regulatory compliance over the past few years.
With the review over—and her unit passing with flying colors, thank you very much—she’d jumped at the opportunity to get away with her boyfriend and brother. The two were inseparable, and even though three was a crowd, she figured her brother would find things to do, or rather, someone to do, to allow her and Jimmy the chance to reconnect.
Of course, seeing as Jimmy didn’t have a job, she ended up fronting the bill for him as well, but why have money when you didn’t spend it, right?
She hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of paying for him, either. Since he’d lost his job at the manufacturing plant two years ago, whenever finances were brought up, his anger took over. Between the hours she’d been pulling, the stress they were both under, and feeling as if their relationship was slipping away, she didn’t utter a peep. Instead, she produced her AMEX card for the travel agent.
She should have paid closer attention to it all.
The late-night phone calls.
The constant way Jimmy was always on his phone.
The beer on his breath and coming in late.
She’d been so blind by their five-year relationship, so deaf to the warnings that she hadn’t thought her boyfriend would break up with her on day two of their vacation when all she’d done was stand by his side and support him for the past few years.
Ugh!
Not only did he break up with her, though. Oh, no. He managed to take the cash she had kept specifically for this trip, broke up with her over a text, of all things, and she didn’t see him again after that.
And Jorge being Jorge, in his laid-back, carefree way, didn’t seem concerned. Instead, her brother had pulled her out of her room, took her sightseeing, got her out to a few clubs, and helped her push the too-recent memory of Jimmy away.
Back at the airport, someone stepped up a little too close to her back. Yikes! Sure, the city wasn’t known for allowing personal space, but when she moved away, the other body followed. Ugh. She tried to take him in but couldn’t make out the guy’s face because he wore a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and over his head until the shadows danced in eerie phantoms across his face. She squinted, thinking her mind must be playing tricks on her because the guy’s face looked covered in tattoos.
Yikes again.
She edged away, moving to the other side of the belt, and turned her focus to searching for her bag and on her recent drama.
Now, back in the “real world” of New York City, everything Jimmy had done burned a path up her throat. She wanted to punch something or maybe cry-cry-cry just so she could have her pity party and call it a day. Instead of being able to lie back and do nothing, she was forced to grab her bag that somehow, despite her not shopping too much, seemed heavier than she remembered. Then again, Jorge had asked her to bring some of his stuff back with her.
Don’t even get her started on that whole mess. Jorge had decided to stay in Cancun for another week to enjoy the life. How he managed to take three weeks off from work was beyond her, but being the good little sister she was, she agreed to do as he asked.
Stupid, stupid her.
She spied her bag and stepped forward to grab it, heaving it off the belt with a grunt. It came down hard, landing on top of her right toe. Her Keds did nothing to protect the digit from the heavy weight. “Shit!” she yelped and tilted the bag away to pull her foot back.
She dropped to her haunches and rubbed at the offended toe. Her purse slid down her shoulder, pulling down her black sweater to bare her arm, and hit the floor next to her. The weight of her backpack threatened to topple her over. Tears smarted her eyes.
Instead of crying, she breathed through the pain, both in her foot and her chest, then took a deep breath. She focused on moving, staring at her favorite red leggings, then stood.
A tall shadow caught in her peripheral before a form moved to her side. She did a double-take, looking for the same guy from earlier. It wasn’t unheard of for other New Yorkers to get too close to each other. It was a small city, after all. But that guy had made her uneasy.
She froze, and the second look confirmed it wasn’t the creep-tastic dude, but someone else. A third look due to the fact that this guy was H-O-T hot. Well, hold on.
Hello there.
This guy had to be about six-foot-four, six-foot-five. He had a wide jaw with the most luscious lips she’d ever seen. Seriously, if they had to make a song about lips, it’d be Sir-Mix A Lot singing about Baby Got Lips, because daymn. From there, the view only got better. Eyes the color of a maple tree’s late fall leaves set in perfect symmetry over a nose with a slight bump. The bump, she thought with a tilt of her head, looked more like he’d had his nose broken before and hadn’t bothered to get it set properly. Lashes—that just had to be curled with a curler, because come on, life couldn’t be that unfair—framed those gorgeous whiskey-colored eyes.
And with no small jolt, she realized his hair wasn’t the typical short style most men wore nowadays but was held back in a ponytail at his nape, and dark, so dark she couldn’t quite make out if it was deep brown or black. She’d kill for hair like that—silky and almost as if it were soft to the touch. How would her fingers feel pushing through it?
All along his arms were tons of colorful imprints, two full sleeves’ worth she guessed, and as many ran under his short sleeve tan t-shirt. That shirt strained to contain his biceps that flexed under her perusal.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Scaglione?”
Oh, his voice. It was like butt-ah, baby. The sensual tone slid along her arms like phantom fingers, finding all the right spots to make her purr. She’d always been sensitive to the tone and timber of voices. Some people used music to soothe their souls. For her, it was the cadence, tone, and inflections of voices, and the reason why she was such a big fan of audiobooks.
She never understood this but chalked it up to how her mother used to sing her to sleep each night. And her mother had such a beautiful voice.
This guy’s voice, though, she wanted more. She stared at his mouth, hoping he’d say something else. She wanted to feel those fingers slide over her skin again.
He cocked his head, and the side of his beautiful mouth quirked. “Juliette? Juliette Scaglione?”
“Oh, dear God. Yes, that’s me.” She shuddered.
A startled laugh escaped him, the sound deep and moving through the air with enough electrical currents to power the entire airport. He shook his head and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you mind coming with us so we can ask you a few questions?”
Juliette blinked at that request and focused. Flanking her stood another fairly good-looking man, this one the light to the other’s dark, though his lips were thinner. Mr. Light seemed to block the exit to the side, whereas Mr. Dark, she noticed, had blocked the other exit. If she refused to follow them, the only way she’d be able to go was toward the back of the baggage claim, which was administrative offices and lost luggage.
She furrowed her brow. “Um, who exactly are you and why do you want to ask me questions?”
Mr. Dark nodded and pulled out a black wallet as if he expected her question. He flipped it open, and about a million flashbacks of Law and Order reruns popped into her mind, along with the song. Du, du, duuuuh. Du, Du, duh, duh, duh. “Special Agent Matt Gonzalez with the Drug Enforcement Agency. My partner over there”—he nodded toward Mr. Light—“is Agent Watson. We just need to speak with you for a few minutes.”
She spied both of them, the entire request a little surreal. And seriously, Agent Watson? “You’re kidding me, right? Am I being punked?”
Agent Gonzalez’s brows went up, and he shook his head. “Afraid not, ma’am.”
She winced and held up a hand, which caused her damn purse to slide again. The strap caught at her elbow and she struggled to pull it back up. Dang thing weighed close to twenty pounds. “Okay, one, please don’t call me ma’am. Everyone calls me Juliette. You call me ma’am, and I’m going to start feeling old. Two”—she pointed at Agent Watson—“are you for real with his name? Does no one else feel the absurdity of it with his so-called profession?”
He eyed her as if she’d lost her mind. Okay, she probably had. After everything she’d been through in the past two weeks and that hellish flight, now this? Someone should really put her out of her misery and check her into a psychiatric ward somewhere.
