Bacon and Egg Man by Wheaton Ken;

Author:Wheaton, Ken;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

26

He’d barely gotten the door to the room shut before she was on him.

“Come ‘ere,” she slurred. She pinned one arm behind his back, grabbed the back of his collar and pressed him up against the door. She whispered into his ear. “Oh, what I’m going to do to you.” She bit his ear gently, then swung him around and flung him onto the bed where he landed face first with an audible “oof.”

Wes turned over, bracing himself on his elbows, preparing for the onslaught. Excited as he was, he started to worry. The academy had taught her grappling skills, skills she might not be able to control in her current condition.

“Don’t you fucking move,” she said, struggling to take off her clothes. Satisfactorily naked, she crept toward the edge of the bed, then pounced on top of him. He wondered briefly how she didn’t break his dick.

She kissed him, bit his bottom lip. Then, with one swift motion, she ripped his shirt open sending buttons flying. One hit him right under the eye.

“Ow, shit,” he said, defensively covering his face, surprised more than hurt. “Damn, Hillary.”

She froze, a fistful of shirt in each hand. As she eased him back down to the mattress, her bottom lip quivered and tears started to trickle.

“Oh, Wes,” she said. “I’m.” She stopped. “I’m so sorry.”

Her head fell to his chest, and the crying had barely started in earnest before it stopped. She’d passed out on top of him.

“Shit,” he said, not even sure what the word encompassed. Shit, a naked unconscious woman had him pinned to the bed. Shit, he’d fallen for that woman. Shit if it wasn’t one of the best feelings he’d ever had in his life, her compact body nestled against his, burning like an ember, snoring like a little gas-powered engine.

Shit, she was a cop who’d involved him with some half-assed sting operation he wanted no part of.

The cellphone in his pocket—the old one Lou had given him—vibrated. Three times. A text. It started again then stopped. And again.

Shit, his former boss was frantically texting him to get the hell out. Shit, the voice of reason had to remotely dial into his pants pocket because his head was long gone.

He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Shit. If he was going to make his escape he didn’t have time for this Hamlet foolishness.

His phone vibrated again.

Shit.

Or get off the pot.

Wes rolled Hillary off of him. She groaned. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the texts.

“Time to get out.”

“Better be on the road. No time for second thoughts.”

“Goddamnit, you little cocksucker, you’d better be halfway to fucking Montauk by now, so help me.”

And then.

“It’s all a lie. She does not love you.”

Shit. He flipped the phone closed and considered Hillary. He tried to seek out her physical imperfections—scars, hairy moles, weird bumps—the things that, in a bad relationship, would start to sicken him, drive him crazy. And wasn’t this the very definition of a bad relationship?

But he found himself thinking the stray hair on her nipple was cute.

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