Dance Club Part 2

Part One is in a separate page file.] 

The Dance Club

 Part Two: The Op

I looked out the rain spattered window of Ricky’s pale silver 1000 series Mercedes sedan. The black tinted windows made the night even darker, matching my mood. June was treating us to a March-like, late spring storm, but tonight was the night we were meeting the drug guy. So here we were, Tank and Bobby up front in driver-bodyguard mode, Santos lounging with me and Ricky in the back seat. Lester was, what? hanger-on-er?, Latino low-life buddy? All-round lounge lizard? Ranger hadn’t told me their names or covers because he said Ricky was too arrogant and macho to explain his "people" to his new bimbo.

Bimbo.

Okaaaay. Hmmm.

The Mercedes wasn’t a limo but it was really big, plenty of room for the five of us (the 10 of us? being that we each were 2 people, or 3 or…) Quite a crowd. And at least one of us had a bad case of stage fright.

After our leisurely breakfast that day a week ago, things got busy. Ranger dragged me off to Northern Blvd. and dragged me through all the exotic car showrooms. He choose a pale pearl-cream Maserati convertible for me, V-12, 6 speed, custom lipstick red leather interior. It seems Maserati will even embroider? appliqué? your initials or logo on the leather seats and I thought the guy in the showroom was gonna cry when Ranger---um, Ricky, insisted we take the car that very day. Later he told me the cars are usually custom made for each client but this was available because the marriage didn’t outlast Masarati’s one year waiting list.

Tank appeared with a briefcase full of cash and the deal was done. Off we went to the DMV where Tank and Ranger walked to the front of the very long line and ordered NYS vanity plates that read RICKYSCHICA. The crowds behind us grumbled but no one stepped up to tell the boys The line starts back there. In the parking lot, Tank got down and bolted the new plates on while Ranger and I held hands and watched. Ranger leaned into me, faking a kiss to my temple and he whispered, "Someday we’ll replace them with Jersey plates that say BABE."

Guys worry about the darnedest things! Geez.

We moved the Ricky’s Chica show to the city after that, Ranger installing me in his Sutton Place apartment. The building was old-fashioned and snooty, his penthouse apartment modern and huge. White leather sofas, white retro fluffy rugs on the black walnut parquet floor, huge gold-framed museum quality Impressionist paintings on the walls, a decorator’s cutesy quirk instead of the modern canvases I expected. The paintings were rather nice though not my style, I thought, standing in front of a scene of NYC in the rain, all black umbrellas and a rainy night’s slashing, colorful reflections.

A night a lot like tonight, some things really never change, especially here in NY.

Ranger had walked up behind me silently and I started when he said quietly, "Maurice Prendergast."

"Huh?"

"The painting, it’s an American Impressionist work by Maurice Prendergast, painted in 1901."

"You mean it is real?"

Nod.

……………….

For the rest of the week we shopped. Who knew Ranger could shop like that! He spent hours with me choosing my bimbo clothes, my shoes—Manolos, Jimmy Choo. Even the jeans and t-shirts cost hundreds of dollars, everything wrapped in silken tissue and placed in shiny bags to be carried to the Mercedes by Tank or Brown, while I made a show of thanking Ricky, lavishing hugs and kisses while he grabbed my ass or tits. We were young, beautiful, rich, and in love—and memorable. In case the German drug guy was checking us out.

More discreetly one sunny day we took a drive in the country, upstate NY, in my new car, top down, our hair blowing. Ranger drove and did the maneuvers to ditch a tail, even though I assured him that I too now had a degree in Evasive Action. I think he just wanted to drive my car, despite the almost-pink interior.

If I’d been expected a romantic picnic and an afternoon of splendor in the grass I was doomed to disappointment. We ended up at a gun shop with a gun range and proceeded to re-arm me.

I think Ranger was surprised that I was focused and professional while we considered our weapons choices. He was remembering ditzy Stephanie who kept her little .38 in her cooky jar, unloaded unless Ranger did it himself. But I was a trained policeman now, an NYPD detective. I still didn’t love guns but I now understood that they were essential tools for doing my job and if I wanted to excel at that job, I had to become an expert---not just with handguns but with other weapons, like rifles and knives. I had even studied unarmed combat, had a mixed martial arts black belt.

My hard work had also paid off with a slimmer, well-toned body. I looked better now at thirty than I had at seventeen.

A/N

1-Mercedes doesn’t make a 1000 series sedan at this time; this fic takes place a few years in the future.

2-currently Maserati does not make a V-12 convertible, but I see one (maybe not V-12, def. a convertible) in my neighborhood all the time, so I am confused. Nice cars and maybe by the time this story happens they’ll be producing the car that Ricky buys for Steph. www.maserati.com

3-I couldn’t find the specific painting but you can look him up online and get the idea. Maurice Prendergast

Chapter 10 

Ranger examined the shop’s extensive stock. He was obviously still more knowledgeable than me, probably because he was more interested, so I let him choose, confident that I could handle anything, everything.

Ranger suggested a Para Ordinance P 14 .45 double stack to replace my service piece and a smaller Detonics .45 compact for my pocketbook. Last a tiny, deadly toy called a Beretta 21A, a cutie with a folding barrel---great to slip in an evening clutch or my bra.

Ranger told me, "Babe, I suggest you to pick weapons that all work the same way. It cuts down on training time and confusion. In the dark you have to know the safety is off so you can fire and hit your target. And I’d like you to use weapons that work like mine do, in case I ever need to use one of yours, or you need to use mine."

I thought he always carried a minimalist matte black Glock 9 mm, actually two, a set.

I asked, "Why the .45s? Aren’t they kinda old-fashioned?"

"More bang for your buck and these guns are as modern as they come. I carry a limited edition Para Ordinance .45 myself these days."

Oh. He was using Enrique’s Spanish accent. Ricky carried the .45. Obviously now that I considered it, Ranger could never use his personal weapons when undercover; if they were traced by the wrong people, the registrations to Ricardo Carlos Manoso would wreck his cover.

He added, "My Para Ordinance Special edition holds 14 rounds."

"Fourteen?"

"If I can’t get someone with fourteen rounds , I’m not doing my job right."

I had been thinking overkill. Not under kill.

Ranger demonstrated his favorites. His long slim fingers caressed the bigger .45. He said, "Look, it weighs less than a brick and packs a bigger wallop. You want to have the biggest caliber in a gunfight, babe."

The biggest what?

But he was obviously enjoying himself so I didn’t stop him or tease him. His voice was sincere and serious as he said, "Your purse will hold either .45 easily, you just can’t keep both cans of hairspray in your purse. You have to decide which is more important, hairspray or your safety."

Ok, that comment was a bit over the top, I was a trained cop now. So maybe I did have two cans of hairspray in my purse even as he spoke, how is that a problem?

What?! I may live in NY now but I am from Jersey!

I narrowed my eyes at him and whined loudly, "But Rickyyyyy….!"

"Babe."

I tried all the guns in the shop’s basement range, familiarizing myself with the new weapons. I liked them and I liked the fact that the my two biggest guns and Ranger’s guns used the same ammunition. Let him ruin the line of his clothes toting around extra clips.

And the folding baby Beretta was just the most adorable toy! I could see it becoming my weapon of choice.

When we went back upstairs, the salesman who had spent the hour and a half looking scared shitless of Ricky, hemmed and hawed and finally got out, "New York State has a 30 day waiting period on handguns. You can buy them today, pick them up in 4 weeks. Sir. Ma’am."

The guy had asked to see my carry permit, so he knew I was a cop, but he was by-the-books because of New York’s stringent gun laws.

Ranger looked him up and down like the man was his next target. He said, "Just looking." And we stalked out.

……….

A day later the guns appeared on my bed after breakfast, along with a new permit that was a universal Federal permit to carry any weapon, anywhere, anytime.

I slapped the permit on my other palm. I’d never heard of a universal Federal permit. I said to Ranger who was brushing his teeth. Again. "Morelli used to say you printed up gun permits in your basement, is this one of those?"

He spit out toothpaste foam and said, "No."

…………..

And last but not least, I now had a designer pet! Me! The worst hamster mom in Jersey! One day when I was alone in the apartment and Ranger was off doing god knows what, I looked up from Oprah and caught sight of movement in the entry hall. I grabbed my new gun and had it leveled at the archway when the banker boy, Anthony Stewart, appeared. He looked at my pale frightened face, down at the gun, over at the TV and said, "Babe."

If my eyes had been closed I’d have thought he was Ranger. He smiled at me and shook his head. I noticed he was cradling his arm funny and asked, "Are you hurt?"

"Huh? No way. I brought you a prezzie." He sat his fine ass down next to me and unzipped his ratty grey sweatshirt. Out peeked a tiny face, a tiny very worried face. It was freakin' adorable! It was almost as cute as my new baby gun!

"What IS that?"

"It’s a doggy."

I couldn’t believe this badass mercenary, I mean banker, actually said "doggy." But anyway…

"A dog?"

"A puppy. To keep you company when Carlito isn’t around."

Did he just call Ranger ‘Carlito’?

The tiny animal put out its itty bitty pink tongue and kissed my hand. Then it snorted loud, blowing puppy snot all over me.

"You wanna watch out for the snorts, pugs snort a lot. Usually right in your face."

"What’s her name? She is so cute!"

She’s a boy. His name is Killer."

The dog wore a tiny pink rhinestone collar and had an attached pink leash. Instead of regular dog tag, the collar had a rhinestone (diamond?) K charm.

If this dog is a male, the poor thing is gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with…..oh, never mind!

Anthony said, "He’s a bimbo accessory."

I guess.

"But you have to treat him good, pugs are smart and very affectionate, he’ll be sad if you don’t love him."

The puppy had big black buggy eyes and a fat little pot belly. The body was cream with black paws, black curled up tail, black ears and black face mask with a lot of black, worried wrinkles. I said, "He looks sad. He doesn’t want to live with me, he’ll be scared."

The boy’s dark Ranger eyes examined me.

"You’ll be fine. Ranger said it was ok because even though pugs shed a lot, this place is all white and it won’t show. And he’s, you know, litter box trained. Killer, I mean. Not Ranger. Here."

He gently plopped the tiny dog in my lap and he got up and left as silently as he had appeared.

The pug looked up at me and peed in my lap.

I yelled, "Thanks a lot!" to the gently closing door.

Killer the baby Pug

 Chapter 11

I could feel Steph’s body undulating next to me, smell her perfume, feel her warmth. She was singing that song again, like the night we met again in that other club.

"I am the Dancing Queen/ Young and sweet/ Only seventeeeeen…"

Steph thinks her mind is an open book to me and I got the gist tonight that her heavy-metal, headbanger soul didn’t much care for the techno dance music that was this club’s trademark. And god knows whatever the hell they were playing wasn’t Metallica or Guns ’n Roses. Or even Bon Jovi or Springsteen---all of which I had heard one time or another blasted through the speakers of her current POS car.

But here’s where I lose it, I have no idea why she is singing an old disco classic and not, say, Born to Run. Maybe she was just psyching herself into dance girl mode. I glanced at her and she stared at me, sipping from one of those enormous drinks she loves--- this time it was a lurid blue cocktail. The huge glass held as much slush as a 7-11 Slurpee. And---- poor baby---because we were on the job, packed about as much punch.

"See that girl, watch that scene, dig the Dancing Queen….."

I frowned.

She said, "What’s the matter, Ricky? Don’t you like ABBA?"

Who?

She smiled at me and planted a big kiss on my cheek. Acting, she’s never do that on her own, for real. <sigh>.

"Are we gonna dance, Enrique?"

"Maybe later. My client will be here soon."

"The German guy."

"Si. I want you to make him welcome, remember, chica."

"Sure, Ricky. "

Sip, sip, runs slightly blue tongue over her full red lips. Geez. I shifted a bit, looking for a more comfortable position. Her hand crept up my thigh. Not helping, here, babe.

I turned my head to stare her into behaving, god she looked great tonight. I asked her to dress down this evening, choosing her outfit with care. She had eyed the clothes I laid out on our bed and cocked her head at me, questioning.

"I want Mr. Guttermann to feel comfortable with you, chica. You look spectacular in your party dresses but he may be intimidated by you. And this club tonight is casual."

"Ok."

She wore narrow dark blue jeans and a white baby tee, black suede FMPs---simple slides but 4" stiletto heels. A diamond bracelet, a gift from Rodriguez on her wrist. Her t-shirt said Sweetie Pie in scrolling sequins script. She absolutely refused to wear the black one that said Slutty or the cute pink one that said Bimbette. She chose this one instead, saying, "Seems to me you always were fond of—pie."

"You should know. And here---a little gift for you, amada." I proffered a small black velvet box. She hesitantly took it and opened it like she expected a gag gift. Or a bomb. Inside was a pair of 3 karat diamond studs. The latest in audio equipment was imbedded in the platinum settings.

"You shouldn’t have, Ricky."

"You deserve them, put them on."

She did so, eyeing me in the mirror, her eyes wide and shadowed. Was she upset because they were from Ricky, part of the op and not from me? I shoved that aside and turned the TV on a bit too loud, turned the sink in the bathroom on too.

Over the white noise she whispered, "Will I be wearing a wire tonight?"

I put my hands on her upper arms and gently held her in front of me, making her meet my eyes.

I said, "The earrings are your ‘wire.’ Both have audio pickup and feed, so we will hear you and be able to talk to you at all times. They're the newest thing in mirco-mini-mirco surveillance toys. The technology is called MMM, for…."

"I get it, Ranger." She pulled herself out of my grasp. I let her go…..

Yes, upset. I didn’t tell her that the diamonds were real, of the highest quality, purchased by me---for her—many years ago. The 47^th Street diamond district guy had been horrified that I planned to use the gems for earrings—"they are betrothal ring quality, Mr. Manoso!" I had shrugged—not what I had in mind for Stephanie’s engagement ring at all, if and when, you know.

"We’ll test them in the car on the way."

Nod.

I also didn’t tell Steph that she had a tiny tracker chip in her diamond bracelet, one disguised as a sequin on her shirt, another sewn behind the bow on her Victoria’s Secret bra. Yet another inside the back pocket of the jeans, in her phone, in---you get the picture. She’d expect the one in her purse —and it was there, more visible in case someone searched her, give 'em something easy to find. The guys manning the surveillance van had tried to kid me about all the GPS bugs, even Santos had said, "Man, she glows like a Christmas tree on the radar screen, all those little blips."

"Yeah, and you know how fast we can lose her too, remember."

"Yeah, boss, I remember."

Cone, Scrog, Stiva, those idiots Mitch and Habib, that warehouse fire when she ditched my guys yet again…the list of mistakes goes on and on….

Tank rumbled beside me, "We won’t lose your woman this time, boss, don’t worry."

Hah!

…

Now my own earrings popped to life and a voice said, "Your guy is here, on his way in…..ummm…..<pause> Bouncers wanted him to go to the back of the line but we interceded, discreetly. He’s on deck."

Guttermann appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the dance floor. I’d been meeting him all week, working our "deal" and I was used to him. But still. The guy looked like a Euro trash version of Albert Kloughn, Steph’s nerdy brother in law. He was medium height but soft and sloppy, a Pillsbury Doughboy type. To my eyes, very pale, with thin light hair cut short and tiny glasses that somewhat camouflaged his ice pick keen eyes. Instead of joining a gym or watching his diet, the guy tried to mask his physical weakness—and potbelly---with expensive Italian tailoring. As a longtime aficionado of Italian men’s couture, I can tell you that while their tailors can do a great job of hiding one’s shoulder holsters, there’s nothing much they can do with dumpy and fat.

I pasted a welcoming look on my face, fortunately no one would expect either me or my Enrique persona to actually smile.

We shook hands and I introduced Stephanie, "Chica, this is Mr. Guttermann, he’s an important client of mine." Then, gesturing to Steph. "My friend, Stephanie."

They shook hands and Steph let the guy kiss her on each cheek, European style. Guttermann tried to cop a feel of her breast but she moved away, smiling wide. He said, "’Mr. Guttermann’ is much too formal, I love Americans because they are so casual, my dear."

"Nothing says casual like a dance joint in the Meat Packing District," she answered deadpan.

"Please my name is Johannes—you can call me John. Or even—Jonny."

Steph squeezed his forearm and purred, "Jonny. Do you like to---dance?"

I watched her tow him onto the dance floor. Her takedown methods were the still best---if Guttermann was a skip we’d have him in cuffs in the next 5 minutes.

I watched her charm him. I had told Steph that Guttermann was a German businessman who had developed a way to manufacture eX, the new fad drug EnhancedEcstasy. I did not tell her that Guttermann was Klaus Donner, born 39 years ago in Berne, Switzerland. Or that he was a nuclear chemist gone bad. The drugs were bad enough. But we thought the biochemical weapons he was selling were worse….

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ejypIv8zSA

The Dancing Queen-ABBA c 1976

You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, diggin’ the Dancing Queen

                                                                                 

 Chapter 12

 Guttermann was a creep, I guess that should go without saying---a soulless little tub of a guy in a $6000.oo suit. I held his arm, I called him Jonny. I did my act.

Earlier Ranger had orchestrated every tiny detail for tonight; he even chose my clothes, right down to which bra I should wear. He didn’t seem nervous or worried but he did seem withdrawn. And It occurred to me that Ranger was using his "Ricky" cover to do the bossy boyfriend thing. Why, just the other morning he had the nerve to criticize my choice of breakfast food! Maybe not in so many words but he eyed my plate and did the eyebrow quirk.

?

I said, "What!?!" I gestured somewhat rudely with my Big Mac and mumbled, "Hamburgers. The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast."

?

See? Like it was so not cool that I sent the doorman out for a bag of Big Macs and fries that morning. I mean, the guy has to walk Killer anyway---surely he can carry the little elf a couple dozen blocks more to score some decent food.

I said, "Not all of us can subsist on Twigs-n-Roots."

Granola---eeeuuuuwww!

Ranger finally said, "Was that a bit from Tarentino?"

I shrugged, gulped my giant shake. I remembered the line from a movie marathon at Mooner’s house, a long time ago.

Ranger added, "And you’ll get the poor doorman fired."

"Ranger, please. I may have been away for the past 5 years but I still know a Rangeman guy when I see one."

As if any regular, normal doorman would possibly ever possess the looks, the build, the armaments and the killer smile of that guy. Geez.

"Babe."

Now here I was, trying to charm this creep Guttermann. I looked over his head at our table, meeting Ranger’s eyes. Nothing, nada, cool evaluation.

Moving to the truly awful music I wandered off into my own thoughts, suddenly unsure of everything,. Why was I here, really? I wasn’t at all certain that I was cut out for the convoluted, covert life that Ranger so effortlessly leads and with sudden unfortunate clarity I realized that I was doing all this for Ranger. Not in the sense that he needed my help, or even that I wanted to please him or impress him by showing him I could do this job---his job, but as way to be with him, to share his life in some way, any way. And at first it was wonderful---I had gloried in the sudden freedom that I felt just to touch him, hold him, share a bed---a home--- with him.

It wasn’t just the sex—which was of course amazing---it was the intimacy of sharing a life with this man whom I have loved for so long.

I’d wake up to him, or catch his eye in the bathroom mirror while he shaved and I did my hair, or I’d look across the breakfast table—and I could think: Mine. This gorgeous, perfect man is mine. And my stupid little heart would flood with love and joy.

Of course, I am a total idiot, stupid Stephanie was running that show. Because of course my lover wasn’t Ranger, he is Ricky, Enrique Rodriguez, it was all a play, a ploy, a game. Ranger Manoso’s mind and heart and soul lives all alone somewhere, probably on some other planet. Probably an uninhabited planet!

Then tonight with the earrings….what the fuck was I thinking? Sure, they’re better than a wire---safer, more effective. But what I wanted, what I needed was Ranger’s warm hands sliding under my bra, his eyes laughing and sexy as he copped a feel while taping the wire in place. I desperately wanted to hear him say, Go get ‘em, tiger.

Just like old times…..

To distract myself, to keep from crying, I picked up Killer, cradling him in my arms, burying my face in his fat little body. I carried him over to his Doggy Tote---silver leather tonight with heart cutouts to match his collar and leash. I gave him a Baby Milkbone, tucked him in and slung the bag over my shoulder.

"Ok, Ricky, let’s go."

"You can’t bring the puppy."

What!

"What? Excuse me, he is an important accessory!"

"To a crime?" Ranger humor.

I folded my arms and tapped my foot.

Ranger said, "Babe, he’s a baby and the club is loud---it’ll hurt his ears, he’ll be deaf."

Killer looked mournful. I said, "He is willing to make that gamble. He is sad when we leave him home alone." Tears welled up in my eyes.

Ranger flipped open his cell phone and stalked over to the big glass window wall, he stood there looking out at the city lights and the East River, the lines of his back dialed to pissed off.

Mumble, mumble, handed me the phone.

"Yes?"

Ranger’s voice on the line said, "Babe, Killer can’t go to the dance club, he’s too little. Sorry."

Oh. No fake Spanish accent. I said, "Anthony?"

"Yeah?"

"You sound an awful lot like---um---you know who on the phone."

"He talks on the phone?"

"Sometimes….well, no."

Anthony said, "I am sending over Hal to babysit, he likes puppies. They can have cookies and milk and like, you know, hang out, watch The Late Show."

"Ok. But no satellite porn while he is babysitting!"

"……..babe!" Click, dial tone.

………..

Guttermann tried to grab my ass and I jerked my attention back to the present. The introductions had gone Ok, and Guttermann seemed smitten. But the man was no fool. When we sat down again with Ricky, Guttermann held my hand and said, "Your woman is lovely, Enrique, you are a fortunate man."

"Si. Que linda…" (Yes, so pretty.)

"I am sure I heard something---are you not a police woman?"

I said, "Police officer, here in the United States we say officer. It is gender neutral."

Ricky put his arm around me and kissed my cheekbone. He said, "My hot little cop, my own little SWAT Barbie….mmmmm…"

Oh ick.

Guttermann said, " Barbie? Oh yes, you mean your own Barbie doll! How charming."

I smiled my best Miss America smile at the two jerks, murder no doubt glinting in my eye.

Guttermann rested his nasty, sweaty palm on my exposed lower back; after all these years Ranger still buys my shirts too short.

Why didn’t we buy a me a stun gun while we were weapons shopping that day? Huh, Ricky? Huh?

Dance Club interlude 2- Ranger phones home

To pass the time while sitting in traffic on the LIE, heading back to the city from "Ricky’s" mansion in Manhasset, Ranger, like many young men, decides to use the time wisely---he calls his mom…….

I pressed speaker on my cell phone and said, "Doctor Mann."

"Hey"

"Hey, baby, how are you?"

"I’m good, mom, fine…."

Silence. I looked over the chart of tomorrow’s first surgery---new knee on this guy, he’d been in a pretty bad auto wreck, shattered his knees.…and waited for my son to go on. After a minute or two I dragged my attention back to my cell phone, twirling it around on my desk to look at the tiny screen. Still connected.

I said, "Ranger, what IS it? I’m really busy here, so either talk to me or let me get back to work."

The silence went on but now it felt a little hostile. Well, sorry. I’m a busy surgeon, I don’t have time for grown up sons with communication issues. My ex-husband was the warm, squishy one, he was all Latino emotion and warmth, very loving, but ….well. And really ---in his career—careers, I should say, he was a hardnosed international banker and a government spy, for heaven’s sake! You’d have thought he’d be more reserved. But, no. My oldest son, though ---we call him Ranger now--- takes after me. We have emotions, we just prefer not to show them.

Ranger said, "I want you to meet someone, mom."

"A girl?"

"A woman, yes."

I was shocked and amazed, but pleased. Cautiously I said, "Oh-kaaay….What did you have in mind?"

"Brunch?"

"On Sunday?" I looked at my calendar. "I can do brunch. At the club? Do you want to play a round of golf earlier, then do brunch?"

"I don’t think Stephanie plays golf, mom."

"Oh."

"I gotta go, mom. Love you."

Dial tone.

I love you too, I thought, even though I know all kids of his generation say that instead of goodbye, but still. Then I refocused on my work.

 … …… ….

                

                  Chapter 13

                  Six days later I woke up to a warm sexy Ranger, curled up spoon-                   fashion in the big bed.

I turned over and looked at him, he was all fresh scrubbed and glowing, no doubt had spent the earlier hours of the morning in the gym.

I might still have doubts, qualms, insecurities but I’m not totally brainless. Breathing the heady scents of Bulgari and Ranger himself, I pressed as close as I could, ready for action. He kissed me deep then trailed wet butterfly kisses down my cheeks, over my throat. He slipped the strap of my tank top down and kissed the spot he bared, then the other, drawing the flimsy little t-shirt down entirely. He gently bit my nipples then soothed them with his sweet tongue. As he passed my belly button, he paused and smiled up at me, saying, "At least this time I’m pretty sure Morelli won’t walk in."

What? Ooooh! Guess he has memories too.

Afterwards, he pinned my with his stare and said, "Showtime."

During the past week while I played Ricky’s bimbo-in-training: spa/ shop/ hair/ shop---you know….Ranger kept busy playing his own role. Some nights we went to dinner or dancing, some days--and nights—he spent in Long Island, playing Penelope’s husband. They had staged a blow-up in a North Shore bistro one night, another at the golf club. Anyone watching would know things weren’t going so great in the Rodriguez’s marriage.

Ranger was careful always to tell me where he went, what he was doing and why. I was kept in the loop, as we say in the cop shop. I know he even found time to slip back to Trenton, usually early in the mornings when any surveillance would be at its most lax. He had shrugged and said, "Payroll. Have to sign the payroll checks." And every morning I’d wake to find him back in our bed in the ice blue and pearl grey bedroom with the spectacular cityscape view. As Ricky’s girlfriend I was able to sleep late, wake up to Ranger, and maybe it would have been a little bit of heaven if my spidey sense hadn’t been screaming that something was being hidden from me, that something was going to go wrong.

Ranger even arranged a meeting between me and Penelope AKA Sara Millar. He was not present when she arrived in her ugly green and khaki Merry Maids outfit, industrial strength vacuum in hand, ostensibly to do the heavy cleaning that the help fairies didn't do. We were supposed to practice, map out our big fight at a fancy Manhattan restaurant.

But I took the time to find out more about this stunning woman who was playing Ranger’s—ok, Ricky’s wife. Turns out she was from Atlanta, happily married and the mother of 4-year-old twin girls. Her husband was a close friend of Ranger’s and the head of Rangeman Atlanta. And of course she was an experienced undercover DEA agent. She met her husband during a Rangeman/ DEA bust and when Ranger needed a beautiful woman whom he could trust, he asked the DEA brass to assign her to the op.

Despite her professionalism, she obviously missed her family back in Georgia. "Someday when I‘m me again, Steph, I’ll show you my babies’ pictures. Can you believe they are blondes!" Motioning to her own black silky mane. I smiled and nodded. Baby pix, lucky me.

So now Ranger was saying that today was the day. The aim of the scenario was to get Guttermann to console a heartbroken Stephanie and for me to get closer to the man.

Now in response to Ranger’s "show time" I just nodded and said, "Rock n roll."

"You sound like Tank."

"How is the big guy anyway?"

"Fine."

"He still isn’t speaking to me, what’s with that?"

"Playing a role, is all. He’s Enrique’s enforcer."

"Not yours?"

"I can do my own enforcing, babe."

"Good to know."

I sat up, reaching for the short silky robe that was on the floor by the bed. I tugged, was it caught on something? Huh. I leaned over the edge of the bed and there was Killer all snuggled up on my thousand dollar silk robe, his baby eyes squinched tight. Maybe we’d embarrassed him.

"Oooooh. Poor baby! Did you need to make pee pee?" Anthony had instructed me that pugs were smart and could learn the approximate vocabulary of a 3-year-old human child. My dog was almost as smart as Penelope’s twins. Go figure. Killer opened his eyes and looked interested.

Ranger said, "I’ll put him in his litter box on the terrace, babe, and feed him. You better get busy and shower, it is almost 11 o’clock."

"Omigod! Only 2 hours to get ready!" I hopped up, handing the puppy to Ranger and asked, "Clothes? Anything special you want me to wear?"

"Whatever, something sexy but classy, maybe? We’re meeting Guttermann for lunch at The Four Seasons, he wants to play tourist. One-thirty, we have reservations."

"Wow, I wish we could go for real," I said wistfully. I’d like to play tourist too.

Ranger glanced over at me. "We’ll go back someday."

"Do you really think they’ll let us back in after today?" It was going to be quite an altercation if all went as planned.

Ranger’s shoulder moved infinitesimally. "Yeah." He and the puppy disappeared. I could hear his soft voice though talking baby-talk to Killer in Spanish---lots of –itos---bebito/ perrito/ m’hijito. Muchachito.

I stifled a laugh. Wonder if our "baby" will grow up to be bi-lingual?

 …………….

An hour later I stood in the walk-in closet in my lace underwear. I had no clue what to wear. Today he decides not to do the bossy boyfriend thing? Now, when I need him he lets me down?

In the dressing area Ranger was putting on one of Ricky’s grey silk Armani suits. He was tying his Hermes silk tie, wearing a paler grey Sea Isle cotton shirt that looked like silk and a black cross-draw double shoulder holster. He looked over at me in the mirror.

?

"I don’t have a clue what I should wear today. If it was just me I’d wear a black pants suit…but ….." I gestured to the gorgeous black silk Donna Karan suit.

"Are you asking me to chose>"

<Sigh.>

"A little help would be appreciated, yes, Ricky."

?

"Please?"

He came over to my side of the closet, and stood hands on hips, lost in thought. Finally he chose a sleek sapphire blue skirt suit with a very short skirt, short peplumed jacket and a plunging neckline.

"And no shirt, babe, just…" he gestured to my lacy bra.

"And?"

"Babe."

"Shoes?"

He chose simple black Christian Laboutin sling-back, open-toed pumps, though he momentarily paused looking unhappily at the trademark red soles.

"And the diamond studs, Steph."

"That goes without saying, sweetie."

His eyes narrowed. Ranger doesn’t much like being called sweetie. Or honey, or darling, or really anything else except Ranger though he is tolerating Ricky nicely for this job.

He walked away carrying his suit coat and said, "Fifteen minutes."

When I appeared a half hour later he looked me over minutely then he carefully kissed my cheek. No messing up the hair or make up, Ricky/ Ranger is a pro with woman. He said, "Mmmm. Love the perfume."

"It’s Opium. Retro-chic, but a classic. And appropriate, I thought."

Mini-nod. He said,  "You look lovely but the neckline needs—something."

"Like what?" Cleavage? Hey, I do my best !

He reached into his jacket pocket and something shiny flashed before he clasped it gently around my neck, following his hands with a soft line of kisses.

He turned me to look in the foyer mirror. Stunning platinum and diamond Chopard heart on a platinum and diamond chain. Nestled right where my cleavage would be if I had any. Fortunately my new Super-Wonder bra helped a lot.

"Do you like it, babe."

"Yeah. Is it a tracker?"

"…….No."

"Is it insured?"

Pause pause pause.

"Yeah. Let’s go."

Chapter 14

We drove ourselves to the restaurant---no Tank or Bobby Brown today--- in a shiny new silver BMW sedan that Ranger told me was a limited production model. All of his cars so far were silver versions of Ranger’s own array of expensive black personal cars and I idly wondered at the expense of all these silver substitutes.

Ranger said, "If I like them I can always have Al paint them black, babe."

"They’re really yours?"

"Did you think that I, what? rented them?"

"Heaven forbid." I guess we were both a little tense.

We sat at a standstill on 57^th going cross-town. I fidgeted with my purse, with my necklace, with…..In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Ranger said, "The restaurant is so close we could have walked there faster."

I stuck my foot in its 4" spike heeled shoe up on the immaculate burled walnut and brushed stainless steel dashboard and said, "I don’t think so, Ricky."

I swear to God, on my mother’s grave (well, yeah, still here, but you know…) that Ranger Manoso cringed, afraid I might scuff his newest toy. Not wanting to die right that second, I put my foot back down on the grey plush carpet and asked, "Will Anthony be there today?"

He glanced over at me, from behind the mirrored lenses of his black sunglasses. "No. Why?"

""I thought he was the money guy?"

"He’s my money guy, not the op’s. And anyway no one, not even Guttermann, would believe you’d choose to leave with him if Antonio was sitting there available."

"I guess not." Anthony is probably younger than me but omigod he is hot.

"And he might shoot me if I make you cry."

"Who says I’m gonna cry?"

"Try."

… … .. .

The bored and jaded valet parking kid was open-jawed in awe at the BMW. Guess it really was special---if you’re a guy. Ranger had to wave a hundred dollar bill in front of the kid’s face to get his attention. Then the boy reverently got in and drove off, tires squealing. Ranger cringed again, poor baby.

The Four Seasons restaurant in NYC has been famous for many years. It is beloved by New Yorkers and tourists alike. Many famous people have eaten there over the years; it was the scene of the famous Happy Birthday Mr. President incident, when Marilyn Monroe sang it to JFK. Currently it had a very exciting French chef and was decorated for—you got it!---summer.

The maitre d’ took one look at Ranger, as Ricky of course, and fawned. Ranger Manoso, the man I knew mostly as a street thug and badass bounty hunter back in Jersey, fit in a place like this just fine. He was so handsome, so spectacular, that people figured he was someone, even though they weren’t sure who. And the Four Seasons staff were definitely not immune, no matter what celebrities they had fed this week.

Ranger calmly palmed a large bill to the man and said, "Rodriguez, reservations for three. Mr. Guttermann will be joining us shortly."

"Of course, Mr.---ah--- Rodriguez, ah…?"

"Yes. Rodriguez." Suddenly I got the idea that the maitre d’ knew Ranger quite well, but with a different name.

"A table by the window, as you requested, sir. And also here by the reflecting pool. I---we--- hope it meets your approval, please let me show you."

We followed him across the busy restaurant, Ranger’s hand politely resting on the small of my back, his sunglasses firmly in place. If he thought they made him less noticeable, he was very wrong. They made him look every bit the film star he probably should have, could have been, given the quality of the acting he did in real life.

The man pulled out a chair for me, but Ranger nudged him aside, seating me himself, then choosing a seat facing the room with his profile to the windows. We ordered drinks, waving off the menus til our "friend" arrived. Ranger leaned back and took off the black shades, tucking them in his inner jacket pocket. I waited but no crashing of glasses came, the staff here was too well-trained, I supposed. Ranger tipped his head and said, "What?"

I said, "Used to you here, are they?"

"Babe." And he smiled intimately into my eyes. The woman at the table next to us carefully set down her drink, missing the table entirely. Ranger ignored the ensuing fuss, picked up my hand, kissed my palm. "Guttermann on deck, " he whispered against my hand.

Guttermann bobbled over to us, all smiles. Ranger stood to shake the creep’s hand, all perfect manners and Latino charm. Menus appeared and we ordered, then in the brief lull, I caught Guttermann doing the cleavage leer down my chest. Ranger’s eyes followed Guttermann’s and went black, not lust, anger. He said to Guttermann, "Are you inspecting the gift I gave Stephanie today, it is our two week anniversary, is it not, chica.?"

Guttermann pulled his eyes up to Ranger’s face then back to my neckline. "Gift? Ah, um…"

"Ricky gave me this lovely necklace, just this morning."

I ran my long red fingernail up and down the chain, going lower each time. Guttermann was almost drooling. And Ranger looked like he might go for his guns. I reached out under the table and pinched his rock hard thigh. Ow!

"Gee I think I broke a nail…"

I brought my hand out from under the table and stuck it in my mouth to soothe the pain. Now both men were lost in male lust-induced fantasy land.

I said, "Oh good, our food is here." Maybe I’d get to eat before---nope, here came the maitre d’ with Penelope in tow. I thought, It can only go downhill from here. She wore a pale pink wool suit that set off her amazing Latina looks to perfection, she looked classy while I suddenly looked cheap.

"Mr. Rodriguez, I hesitate to interrupt, but Mrs. Rodriguez insisted…"

Penelope did a cute little laugh and patted the guy’s arm. "Oh, Thompson, you just know I couldn’t walk by without stopping to say hi, I’m sure it s ok."

Ranger nodded and the man scurried off.

Ranger and Guttermann had both risen when she appeared and now she airily kissed Ranger on the cheek, said, "Darling, I ‘m not interrupting, am I?" She pushed her $800.oo sunglasses on top of her head and went on, "You mentioned your lunch date here this morning and I was so bored, oh, such---ennui d’Long Island…."

She shrugged prettily and added to Guttermann, "Suburban life is so tedious some times, I just had to see the city and decided to crash your luncheon."

Ranger said, "This is my client, Johannes Guttermann. John, my darling wife Penelope." They shook hands, Johannes ceremoniously seating her in the fourth chair at our table, Ranger accepting her mass of shopping bags with good grace and an indulgent smile. He said, "I’ll order you a drink, querida, your usual?"

Rat poison, I hoped…

"Si, Enrique." Then—uh oh---she seemed to see me for the first time, big fat double-take, ugh.

"And who is this lovely creature, darling? Introduce me, where are your manners?"

"This is Stephanie Plum."

Oh. Oh! But you TOLD me! You, you promised----!!!"

""Please, querida, no scene! She means nothing, she is no one, nothing. A bit of entertainment for Johannes is all."

<my cue>

"Did you just call me entertainment! Again !?! What the fuck?"

"Stephanie, chica, let’s be civilized here."

"Enrique! What is she to you! You, you lied! Again!" Loud sobs from Penelope.

I said, "You want civilized, jerk-off? You lying piece of crap! I’ll civilize you, asshole." All delivered at the top of my lungs and with full Jersey attitude and accent. And then in true drama queen fashion I tossed my entire giant martini in his lap and faking a sob turned to Guttermann. "Please, Jonny,"--- my voice broke---"can you please take me home?"

Chapter 15

 Guttermann looked like a cornered rat, but Ricky nodded and said, "We’ll finish our talk later, John." He calmly patted his martinied pants with a white napkin, calm and cool as usual.

I stood up and took good hard look at Penelope who was still whining and sobbing in Spanish. I said, "What the hell is wrong with you? He’s an asshole!"

"Yes but he’s MY asshole!"

We both froze for an instant, catching what she actually said. I heard a soft snort of laughter and glanced at Ranger, whose face for one unguarded instant looked like he might break into hysterical laughter, his eyes warm brown and hilarious.

Penelope tried to rescue the moment by shrieking loudly, "Enreeeeque…..mi corazon, mi amor…." (my heart/sweetheart; my love)

I whirled around and bitch slapped her face, whap, whap, whap.

Our choreography paid off, the slaps were enough to redden her face, not enough to hurt her.

"You stupid bitch, you need to get a fucking life! Call me and I’ll set you up with the spousal abuse hotline. En-reee-kay has my cell number, chica."

Penelope pushed back her chair and stood to escape my attack; Ricky stood too, saying helplessly, "Chica….. Querida….."

I said, "Oh shut up!" and shoved him hard. Yay! Stumbling backwards, he tripped over the low edge of the reflecting pool and tumbled in.

My work here is done.

I faked another sob and leaned on Guttermann, "C’mon, Jonny, we are done here." I dragged him off through the stunned and silent crowd.

To my surprise, in my ear Tank’s deep voice said, "Rock n roll. Go get ‘em, Bombshell." Letting me know the earrings surveillance was on and A-ok but his familiar voice was an immense boost to my truly tattered heart.

With one corner of my mind I wondered if Ricky’s new guns, the semiautomatic Para Ordinance 45s, were waterproof. Payback is a bitch, even if we had practiced the whole scene.

….

The moment we stepped out onto 52^nd Street, Johannes’s limo slid to the curb beside us. Guttermann told the driver to take us to the Gramercy Park Hotel, the chic "boutique" hotel where he was staying. I figured I had at least 15 minutes to hook the guy now that I had him alone. I slumped down, making sure my skirt rode up high enough to show the lacy tops of my thigh-high stockings, and faked more soft sobs. A box of Kleenex was unceremoniously plunked in my lap. I grabbed a handful and squeezed out a few more sweet, feminine crystalline tears..

I said, "Thank you, Jonny. That was just awful."

He put one flabby arm around me and kissed my cheek; his other hand clumsily groped my breast.

I pretended to look around in a daze, "Where are we going?"

"To my hotel, my dear."

"Oh---no---I’m sorry, I’m not that kind of girl, " putting a little flirt in my voice so he’d think I truly was that kind of girl. "I---I like you, John, but I can’t just go right from his bed to yours…."

His colorless grey eyes glowed---he definitely got the idea---his bed was on my agenda.

(Not!)

"Actually my dear Stephanie, I am surprised that you’d walk out on the beautiful and rich Mr. Rodriguez."

"Well I couldn’t just sit there! And anyway he is boring. I am attracted to intelligent men---like you, Jonny."

"Enrique is not intelligent?"

I scoffed." His brains are mostly between his legs! And the rest of him is just all---oh---superficial flash."

"I see."

"I don’t think I’d ever find a man like you boring. You are just so smart, a chemical engineer and all. Wow."

The limo stopped in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, the beautiful park in early summer bloom on the other side of the street.

I looked vulnerable and put my hand high up on Guttermann’s thigh. I looked deep into his eyes and said, "John---I am so into you---." He looked perplexed, friggin’ foreigners. "I mean I am very attracted to you, like I said. You’re smart, you’re sexy <please quit laughing in my ear, Tank!>. I just need a little time."

"Perhaps I should leave you alone, my driver can take you home. I will call you in a few days if you permit."

"No!"

"No?"

"No, I was thinking, maybe a drive? So we can become more---intimate? Get to know each other?"

He sat back and gaped, obviously visions of limo blow jobs dancing in his head.

He said, "Where did you have in mind, my dear?"

"Well you and Ricky talked about your business and I am so interested. Would you consider giving me a tour?"

"it is just a warehouse in an industrial part of Long Island."

"Oh good, that gives us, what? ---an hour alone. To talk."

….

We arrived at his warehouse around 4 PM. It was a Quonset hut-type metal building in a run-down, heavily industrial commercial park in a swampy nook of the South Shore. Hard to imagine that there were multimillion dollar beachfront mansions only a few miles away, I thought, examining the smoke stacks and barbed wire fences.

The ride out had been like a date with a horny 16 year-old boy, all octopus hands and clumsy gropes. No BJs though, I kept him at first base with giggles and charm. A ‘Burg girl never forgets how.

We got out and Guttermann said." Here we are---the seed ground, so to speak, of my American expansion."

The place was deserted. We let ourselves in, unlocking the metal door with a simple keypad. Guttermann groped around, flipped a switch, illuminating the open expanse. Near us were stacks and stack of cardboard cartons stenciled Guttermann International.

He opened one of the boxes, hesitated. "You do understand I am in the pharmaceutical industry?"

"Of course! You are a chemist, sweetie."

He reached in the box and pulled a white opaque plastic 2 litre jar like health food supplements come in. He rotated it, pointing out the logo.

"I designed this myself, it is my trademark. It is even now being registered in your US patent office. See---? And it is stamped on every pill too---so everyone can be sure that what they buy is the REAL eX. Look, it is an angel---a happy angel!"

Uh huh. Looked like an 18^th century tombstone etching to me. We got dragged to some historic Pennsylvania graveyard once when I was in middle school……you know, all grisly skeletons and trite homilies:

When this you see, remember me.

Or---

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Or----

He who laughs last, laughs last….(laughs alone? Laughs at home? oh nevermind! )

My skin crawled.

"Will it fit on a round pill?" Ever practical, I just had to ask.

"Caplets, caplets---much hipper."

In what possible way were caplets hip? And who besides a middle-aged creep says hip anyway?

For the benefit of my earring listeners I asked, "Why the angel? Why the skull?"

"The skull is sophisticated, am I right? And the angel part is a reference to Angel Dust, that is what PCP was called in the1980s. My formula is of course too complicated for you to understand but it combines X---Ecstasy--, PCP, methamphetamine, Dexedrine and a vintage mood drug once known as Quaalude---to make the pleasure last and last." He smiled lasciviously, patting my arm. If he had talked himself into a hard-on, I just so did not want to know.

Chapter 16

"Amazing, Jonny." I walked away and I spied a massive array of large open wooden crates filled with metal canisters like SCUBA oxygen tanks only bigger. And white again with his stupid logo in black on the side of each canister.

"And what is this? They are so BIG! I’ve only ever seen enhancement drugs in those itty bitty "popper" canisters. " I held my fingers a couple inches apart and raised my eyebrows.

"Oh---that is my other product. It is not something I am offering to Enrique, not at this point anyway."

He suddenly seemed uneasy, like he wished I hadn’t seen the canisters. I walked over and looked more closely. "But what are…?"

"Perhaps we should go back now, " he interrupted. "I understand NYC rush hour traffic can be very bad."

…

Back in the limo I dug out my cell and said, "Sorry, Jonny, I gotta do this quick….."

I fake dialed Ricky’s cell phone, carrying on a conversation with myself. "Ricky…I do not want to hear your excuses…I am busy…I am going back to our apartment and I do not want to see you…No. No….No!...Go sleep with fucking Penelope…You put the apartment in my name, remember?...You too, asshole….So, like…um, goodbye!" I snapped the little phone closed, faked a sniffle, squose out a tear.

Guttermann asked, "So you will be ok? Your home is safe?"

"Yes John, from now on it will just be me and my little doggy."

"And perhaps my humble self?"

"Sure."

……..

The Sutton Place flat was, as ordered, empty except for Killer who got out of his baby Snuggle Bed and galloped over to me as soon as I walked in. I scooped him up and kissed his little wrinkly face.

"At least I have you, sweetie." I kicked off the Laboutin pumps and walked into the bedroom, unbuttoning my silk suit jacket with one hand, carrying the puppy in the other. I threw the jacket on the floor and set Killer on top of it, leaning over the dressing table to look at my stricken face in the mirror. It all surged back to me: "She’s entertainment. She is nothing…."

My eyes filled with real tears this time---nerves, stress, horror, disillusionment, who the heck knows.

A voice behind me said, "All my brains are between my legs, babe?"

I turned and threw myself into his arms and he hugged me, rocked me while I sobbed.

I said, "Maybe not ALL…." and took his hand, pulled him to our bed.

…

Afterward we ordered Thai takeout delivered and opened a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne that we found in Ricky’s fridge.

Ranger said, "We just swept the apartment again for bugs, it’s safe to talk." I knew Ranger had heard everything but I described the afternoon again in exhaustive detail. He let me talk, let me jabber on and on.

I said, "What do you think is in those air tanks?"

Ranger looked at me for a few moments, no response at all. Famous blank face. Then he said, "It’s been a long day, babe, let’s shower. We both need to relax." I started to go all rhino---he wants to relax some more, does he? Three times was not relaxing enough? And it seemed a blatant evasive measure to avoid answering my questions.

But he added his curt chin jerk and held his finger to his lips in the universal sshhh sign. He took my wrist in his big gentle hand and tugged me into the bathroom where he turned on the wired-in surround sound music. He turned away and started the water to fill the Jacuzzi tub, too.

His black eyes fixed on my eyes, never blinking, he slowly removed his t-shirt I was wearing, slid my panties to the floor.

"Get in the bath, babe."

He added some bath salts, lit the scented candles, dimmed the lights a little, and dropped his silk boxers on the tile floor. I watched him hungrily, greedily as he came to the edge of the tub and stood for a second, assessing the safeguards before he stepped in. There is probably nothing, no one, on earth as beautiful as Ranger. He was so exceptional, so perfect that he seemed to me unreal, a figment of my fevered longings. He turned away for a moment—the back view was as spectacular as the full frontal view. He rummaged in a drawer in the vanity, coming up with a gun that he set on the tub ledge and a couple of black elastics. He handed one to me; I pulled my hair up into a messy Pebbles Flintstone pouf. He used the other to confine his own long hair, securing it in a sort of samurai knot at the back of his head. Of course on Ranger, this looked hot, not absurd.

Ranger settled down on the ledge beside me, sinking into the hot bubbling water. He closed his eyes for a second and I swear he sighed. He looked---just for that instant--- exhausted.

I said, "Are you okay?"

"It wasn’t easy listening to Guttermann grope you all afternoon, Steph. Did you have to kiss him?"

"I didn’t kiss him, he kissed me. And you kissed Sara."

"Sara is an operative and a friend. Guttermann is scum."

"What did you expect me to do? It was the scenario you set up--- it was the job!" Rhino mode returned. I had been distracted for a few minutes by his obvious need to drown out this conversation. Even if the area was safe from outside surveillance, our own people could still hear us. So—Ok. But this! I was pissed and I didn’t care if Tank or the DEA guys were listening.

He locked eyes with me, no hint of his almost smile, just dark, intense Ranger. "It was the job and you did it very well---you did great, Stephanie. You were amazing."

"But?"

"But it was hard."

Hmmmm. Mollified I decided to change the subject. I asked again, "Soooo----what about those canisters?"

Chapter 17

"Ah. Well. Guttermann is not only an object of interest to the DEA and Justice---the recreational drug thing---he is also suspected of developing and trying to sell biochemical weapons. Nerve gas, for want of a better phrase. And I---we---are also working with Homeland Security to find the cache of poison gas before he sells it to the Islamic extremists or anti-American military factions in the Middle East."

"Homeland Security?"

Now I knew why he had gone to such extremes to drown out this conversation. It wasn’t to give us privacy for our little personal squabbles. He was playing a role within a role within a role.

"Yes, it’s a joint task force---Homeland Security, the Pentagon, the military. Too many chefs, not enough tacos, so I was called in to take over. And simplify.

"So this is another paid op?"

"In a way. It’s part of my ongoing contract with the military and---um----."

"And today I found the nerve gas?"

"….Yeah."

"Did it ever occur to you to tell me that this guy Guttermann was more than just a drug dealer!?! He’s a fucking terrorist!" Forget rhino, I was livid.

"It occurred to me but---"

"But what? You thought I didn’t Need To Know??"

I was shrieking. The puppy yipped and cried outside the bathroom door. I got up, grabbed a bath sheet and opened the door. "Poor baby, don’t cry. It’s ok…."

Behind me Ranger said quietly, "I didn’t tell you because---at first I didn’t want to scare you—you had to seduce a man who is not just scum, he’s a monster…."

"I did not seduce him!"

"You know what I meant."

"And?"

"And also your top secret security clearance didn’t come through until today, this afternoon."

"Oh god, you are just all about the job, aren’t you. It just never fucking changes."

"It’s what I do. It’s my job…..It’s who I am, Stephanie."

His words brought me up short. It was what he said to me a week ago at the beach. I turned to face him. He stood there all naked and dripping and perfect, his satiny brown skin shining wetly in the soft light. He still wore the diamond ear studs and Ricky’s platinum and diamond cross. Like the long hair it should have looked stupid but it didn’t.

His eyes were dark but dense and calm and absolutely honest. It was, despite his blank expression, as vulnerable as he could allow himself to be.

This beautiful man who has loved me and protected me and accepted me for so long was trying to tell me that I too had to accept him as he was, accept who he is. It was as wrong for me to expect him to change for me as it had been when Morelli demanded that I change for him.

Ranger was saying---in his own non-verbal way---that this is who he was, asking if I would---could---love that man, love the truth that was Ranger, not some fairytale hero of my immature dreams.

The silence dragged on and on and a tiny furrow appeared between his brows. His eyes went blank as he read my silence as rejection and my heart broke for him. He was offering me all he was, or all he thought he was and I was waffling, being childishly hurt by the reality of his life, our lives now.

I picked up another fluffy bath towel and wrapped it around him, as carefully and gently as I’d wrap a small child. He shivered under my hands and I hugged him to me as tight as I could, burrowing into his body. He stood still and stiff for a moment but then his arms came around me too and he rested his forehead on my shoulder.

I leaned away a tiny bit and said, "Whoever you are, whatever you are---I love you. I will always love you. I promise."

Silence, his eyes searching mine. "I promise too, babe---I’ll love you forever. And beyond."

…………

Yeah, Ok. Fine. But the next morning when I woke up I was alone except for Killer snuggled up on the pillow by my head. Killer was chewing on my hair and kneading it with his little paws. I think he thinks I’m his mommy now. I untangled him and looked around. Ranger was long gone, the apartment cool and silent. I put Killer in his litter box to pee then fed him his baby kibble. An hour later I was dressed and ready to roll, a bimbo excursion to the hairdresser at 11.

Now if I was just me, on a hot June morning I’d throw on some shorts and a tank top and my flipflops, the Old Navy special. However this is not acceptable mistress attire, so after much thought I put on a short khaki silk linen skirt and a turquoise pima cotton fine knit halter top trimmed in khaki, turquoise, and black striped piping. I added big silver hoop earrings, the new diamond heart necklace and very high black scrunchy linen espadrilles that tied in a bow around my ankles. The top plunged at the front and tied at the nape of my neck and left my back entirely bare, with no place to stash a gun, so I tossed it back in the drawer. I dressed Killer in his turquoise Coach logo collar and leash and put him in a coordinating turquoise leather and straw DoggyTote that was lined in the same stripe fabric as my top’s trim. Big glam sunglasses and we were all set. I peeked in at Killer and said, in a fake deep voice, "Gentlemen, today we go to war."

His little head ratcheted around in confusion, he was looking for his daddy AKA Ricky/ Ranger.

I laughed, Killer was a riot.

………..

Downstairs, on the way out the door, I waggled my fingers at Vince---the Rangeman doorguy of the day.

"May I call you a cab, Ms Plum?"

"No thanks, we’ll walk. It’s such a lovely day."

"Yes ma’am."

I headed up the block, turned east on 59^th Street, striding along, talking to my puppy. Maybe not totally aware of my surroundings---so sue me.

Then---zzzzttttt---electric shock. Flash of pain, then blackness.

                Chapter 18

Earlier that morning while Stephanie and Killer slept in, Ranger and Tank made their way downtown for an impromptu meeting with the DEA. They had been "invited" to appear at the off-site facility that handled undercover agents….and guys like Ranger, contract operatives, a fancy word for mercenary. Ranger didn’t really trust this set-up. Or these guys. So they arrived early, making sure they weren’t followed.

They traveled downtown on a filthy old C train, riding with the worker drones who gave them plenty of space as they stood by the pole near the doors, watching for tails. Today the two men were dressed in ghetto cover---baggy oversized athletic shorts and huge unlaced very white sneakers, baseball caps over black do-rags and mirrored shades. And way-too-big hooded sweatshirts, sleeves chopped out to show their impressive biceps, to hide their guns.

Ranger hid a smile. Tank looked very scary in his disguise and judging from the faces of their fellow travelers, so did he. But at least no tires had squealed, no women fell over the baby carriage or the designer dog, so he thought today’s look was doing its job. He was an accomplished operative and he accepted his looks as the problem they were, taking the necessary steps to minimize his effect on other people. Scary was better than hottie any day. And poor Tank---hard to blend when you’re both very good-looking and huge

The packed train rattled on to 34^th Street. Ranger clenched his teeth and tried to breath through his mouth as a huge wave of people pushed into the hot smelly car. NYC’s subways were great for getting around unnoticed and he knew the system well, but it was not his natural element. And Carlos Manoso was a man who drove sleek, immaculate German cars; he didn’t travel with the unwashed hordes. Ranger shrugged off the unease as useless and instead let his mind drift back to last night’s encounter with Steph. It still bothered him---he did believe that Stephanie believed she loved him, but he was not at all sure she’d given up her fantasy of himself as a superhero, her knight in shining armor. And then there was her insatiable curiosity. She wanted to peel away all his layers, all his personas, and find the real man at the core.

But like when you peel an onion--- you separate all the layers and there’s nothing there. The layers is all there is. And it makes you cry.

Ranger sighed and Tank, standing shoulder to shoulder next to him, each facing the other way, felt it and looked sharply over at him. Tank said, "Heads up, jefe---you can’t let a piece o’ short burn your ass." The street talk was part of their disguise, Tank was a West Point graduate and had been an officer in the US Army. But like Ranger he could fake whatever was needed.

Now Ranger swiveled his eyes to Tank, looking mean. No one called Stephanie a piece of short and lived. Tank held up his hands in defense. "Hey I’m just sayin’." Ranger went back to surveilling the subway stations as they jolted their way to DEA headquarters off Hudson Street.

Too bad the office was downtown in a hip neighborhood where they stood out like gangbangers at a WASP wedding. Probably some uniform would pick them up on the street, thinking they were into purse snatching or BandE.

…..

Ranger and Tank intimidated their way into the facility. When asked to surrender their weapons, Ranger simply ignored it, striding off for the elevator, leaving Tank to show their credentials and smooth the guards’ ruffled egos. As soon as they sat down in the conference room, Ranger’s usual handler came in with another suit, a stranger; they shook hands politely. These guys were desk agents but they were smart enough to have read Ranger’s brief file and treat him with respect.

Probably they’re scared shitless, Ranger thought. Pussies, thought Tank.

Preliminary bullshit over, the new guy, Farrell, got down to business. He said, "Is it Ok if I call you Ranger?"

Yep, scared.

Mini nod.

It seemed that Farrell was from the Florida DEA office---this meet had nothing to do with Guttermann and the bio-weapons or drugs. Farrell explained that there was a sudden rash of drug-related murders going on in South Florida. Young women were not coming home from parties, later found in the Florida swamps. Always designer drugs in their bloodstream. Since this was DEA they were more interested in the drugs’ source, but if they got the killer they’d be happy too.

Ranger said, "Where in Florida?"

"Palm Beach, these are wealthy people associated with the horses down there, uh---polo."

Ranger stared at him. The guy went on, "We plan for you to go in as an Argentine professional polo player, they make big bucks and go to all the right parties. They are known to be players, if you know what I’m saying."

Ranger actually looked like he might laugh. He said, "Like Nacho Alsadar? No fucking way."

"Who is Nacho Whatever?" asked their regular guy.

And from Farrell, "What’s your problem? You’ve done UC (undercover) work as an Argentinean. And your jacket says you know how to ride a horse."

One of Ranger’s too-long pauses. The agents shifted in their seats. Tank folded his big hands on the table in front of him and stared hard, his knuckles turning pale. Ranger kicked him under the table and Tank jumped, startled onto a gasp of laughter.

Ranger said, "It says I can play golf too but you wouldn’t send me to Pebble Beach to play in the Master’s, would you? And I’m a better golfer than polo player."

"But-----"

"No. Everyone would know me if I was on the pro circuit, get real."

"What about being a rich playboy who wants to get in the game? I understand rich amateurs play too. It still gives you entrée."

"Ok, not a bad idea. But I can’t do it. Someone might recognize me."

"Why?"

"My grandparents have lived in Palm Beach for fifty-odd years, since they left Cuba. I go visit sometimes."

"Manoso, you’re going to be a rich playboy, no one is going to be looking at you thinking they know you ‘cause you’re the grandkid of the housekeeper or the gardener or whatever."

Ranger said, "What."

Farrell said, "Whaddya mean, what?"

"You guys gotta quit with this racial profiling shit. You look like idiots. You think just because I am part Cuban, because I’m Latino, maybe not as white as you guys, that my grandparents are the hired help?"

"Uh……?"

"My grandparents own a 40 room mansion down the road from Donald Trump. My dad and uncle played polo all their lives, hung with guys like Ralph Lauren and Warren Buffett and so on. And I look a lot like my dad. Even if people don’t know me---and they do---they’ll recognize me as his kid."

Pause…pause…pause……

The two DEA guys stared at him like he was on drugs. They really thought he, Ranger, was a low-life gangbanger. His Trenton bounty hunter cover was even better than he had thought. Ranger smiled at the befuddled agents and said, "Here’s the deal—I’ll take the contract and go down as myself."

Ranger could feel Tank’s baleful glare. Tank wanted Ranger to finish the Guttermann job and spend some quality time with Stephanie. Tank was very fond of Stephanie. Ranger glanced at Tank and added, "I’m working another job right now, I can do this Palm Beach thing after I wrap that up, Ok? No pressure."

The DEA guys nodded like bobble head dolls. Ranger named a huge fee and they nodded some more. "I’ll take my girlfriend to meet my grandparents. It lets us go in and stay as long as we want. We’ll get invited everywhere, I’ll even play some polo to make you guys happy. Ok?"

"Absolutely, man. We appreciate this."

The new guy, Farrell, said, "I’m sorry about the profiling, Ranger. But I had no way to know…."

"I hope you don’t think that’s a good excuse."

"Uh----

Ranger faded out of the room, Tank in his wake like a huge shadow. And they were gone.

…………………………………

In the elevator Tank said, "How do think Bombshell will feel about polo, man? She never seemed like a fancy-ass society type to me."

They walked down the steps of the old cast-iron building, headed down a side street. Ranger said, "She wants to get to know the real me….."

Tank’s bellow of laughter----"That’s not you, boss! "---was cut off by the brrrrr of his cell phone.

Tank said, "Talk." He listened for a minute and said, "10-4."

If Tank could have turned white he would have, thought Ranger.

?

Tank actually hesitated then pushed Ranger into a stinking doorway, crowding Ranger with his bulk.

Ranger said, "What." But didn’t fight him, that’s what a bodyguard was for.

Tank said, "The comm room didn’t want to call you directly……"

?

"Stephanie supposedly arrived as scheduled for her hair appointment. But the trackers never moved and after 3 hours Brett got worried---even Bombshell’s hair can’t take three hours---so he sent a team for a visual check.

?

"They found all her clothes in a dumpster behind the salon. She never arrived inside for her appointment."

Ranger stared at Tank in silence, his brain and heart screaming in his head, his face calm. Tank backed off a little when he decided Ranger wasn’t going to go crazy.

Tank said, "Do you think she did it herself? Ditched us?"

It was the kind of thing she once did but no, not now in the middle of this op. Stephanie wasn’t a ditzy amateur anymore, she was a trained pro.

"No. Someone took her."

Tank nodded.

Ranger asked, "Do we know if she has the puppy with her?"

"Yeah. Vince said they left together at 10.30. No puppy found in the dumpster, just her clothes, her purse, the tote for the dog….Should I implement a search and rescue, boss?"

"No, let’s go see Antonio, his offices aren’t far from here."

"Yeah, like they’ll let us in that place, it’s like Fort Knox."

Ranger touched the butt of his Glock inside his hoodie. "I don’t foresee a problem.''

.......................

 WARNING! Brutality and bad behavior from the bad guy; bad language from everyone. Not extremely violent, but pls be warned.

Chapter 19

I woke up duct taped to a chair in Guttermann’s warehouse. Been there, done that, saw the asshole die, I thought, flashing back to Scrog shooting Ranger.

And this time I was freakin’ naked, what’s with that?

I forced myself to focus. Guttermann had undressed me while I was knocked out by the stun gun. Eeeuuuwww. I hunched my shoulder, trying to rub my ear. Oh. No diamond communications studs, I felt the silver hoops and remembered that I’d decided to wear them instead, visions of big bucks electronics washing away down the sink at the hair salon roaming through my head. Unfortunately. Because with no clothes, no purse, no earrings, any trackers I’d had on me were gone.

An ugly guttural voice behind me said, "You are awake, Steph-ah-neeee?"

Oh yeah….Here’s Jonnny! Guttermann walked around in front of me and stood there leering at my tits.

"How do you feel, my dear?"

"How do you think I feel? I feel naked! Why the fuck am I naked? And tied up? What the hell is wrong with you? I thought we were friends, Jonny."

"Yes, well. You are naked—not that you were wearing much to begin with, my dear! tsk, tsk!--- because every item of clothing that you were wearing had a micro-tracker sewn into it. I guess your Ricky is quite the control freak."

You have no idea.

But----"

"And I bought this handy little device on eBay." It looked like a small TV remote. "It can find even the tiniest GPS transmitter. Only your underpants were bug-free <gross giggle> so I let you keep them on. No sense in getting splinters in your pretty ass. That chair is old, I admit."

"But why? I thought you liked me?" I whined.

"As a matter of fact I do find you very attractive, quite sexy actually---but your Enrique’s appeal far overshadows yours."

Huh?

"Once I met him, well---I must admit I was quite smitten. He certainly is a hottie, as you American girls like to say, and that frisson of power and danger! Ooooh….it just made me----" His English failed him at that point and he grabbed his balls, giggling with pleasure.

Oh ick! Guttermann swings both ways.

I wanted to laugh hysterically at the mental image of Guttermann making a pass at Ranger, but I focused on my goal (stall, stall!), surreptitiously looking around for Killer, praying that Guttermann would not harm the tiny dog.

"That still doesn’t explain why I am here."

"You are here because I want you here."

I finally saw Killer asleep on a pile of greasy rags. He looked unharmed, thank god. Guttermann was creepy but no dummy. He said, "Even the dog’s collar and carry case, not to mention your purse, had trackers."

"Oh." I didn’t dare beg.

"Don’t worry, I am not such a monster that I would harm a puppy-dog. And anyway I plan to bring him home for my daughter, she‘ll be thrilled."

"You have a daughter? You’re married?" Keep him talking, pray that Ranger would do his tracking thing, his psychic ESP shit and find us.

"Of course I am married. My daughter is 8 years old, her name is Heidi."

That poor child. Heidi!

"She and her mother live in Westchester, I visit when time permits as I am so busy with my work."

I said, "You’re pond scum, Jonny! A married man! "

His usually pale face went purple and he actually growled. He reached out with both clammy hands and twisted my nipples hard. I screamed and he slapped me.

I sobbed, "Ricky will find me! He knows where this warehouse is! And he will kill you."

"Sorry to disappoint, Stephanie. This warehouse is not the one we went to yesterday, we are in lovely waterfront Long Island City, in Queens. And your Ricky no longer cares for you, he is not the sort of man who will forgive yesterday’s humiliations. He will not bother to call you again, let alone look for you. You seem to think I am very stupid, my dear."

He slapped me again, not so hard but it stung and I tasted blood where my lip split. "If Enrique was a real man he would be here doing this himself, not me! You certainly deserve whatever punishment I mete out after your behavior at that restaurant. And then the way you spoke to Enrique afterwards! You were a very, very bad girl. And now you will tell me everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Who is Enrique Rodriguez? Who is his money source? Who is paying you ? Who is paying him?"

"No clue, buster."

"I must know everything before I finalize my deal with him! I want to know everything about him."

"Join the fucking club, Jonny."

"What? Bitch! Answer me."

He pinched my nipples again, so hard I thought I would pee myself. I sobbed, "Probably even his mother couldn’t tell you that, you idiot jerk-off. You’re crazy!"

"You will tell me."

"I have no information, I know fuck-all about Ricky except he is great in the sack and has plenty of money to spend."

"You will tell me." He was repeating himself, beside himself with fury and jealousy.

‘No. I won’t."

He turned and stomped off into the shadows. I hoped for a tiny respite but he was back in a minute, grinning like a fool, his composure back in place.

He held out his hands in glee---he held a small chefs’ blowtorch in one hand, a Bic in his other. He fired up the torch’s flame and stepped up to me.

Crème brulee anyone?

I fixed my eyes on my puppy who was sound asleep in the corner, his little bug eyes jittering with infant dreams. The flame came closer to my face. Mindlessly I started to sing, "I am the dancing queen….."

"Missy, if you keep on singing that obnoxious song I’ll burn your face just to shut you up."

"---young and sweet, only seventeen. Feel the beat, la la la, tambourine, dig it the dancing queen……"

In my head I could hear Anthony, just a week ago, saying, "Give us up, don’t suffer." But I knew I’d never betray Ranger.

"Shut up!"

"I am the dancing queen, la la la, only…

"Maybe I'll light your hair first."

"la la la…"

 Chapter 20

 Why me? Why am I a nutcase magnet? Gutterman’s colorless eyes locked on mine and I watched in horror as his little blowtorch came closer.

I thought, Huh. He has a red spot on his forehead---at exactly the same moment that voices screamed, "NYPD! Freeze, freeze! NYPD, drop the weapon!"

I knew that voice, Mike Cancuso, the cop with the Bronx accent from the original Rodriguez bust.

And Gutterman’s head exploded. Oh. Red dot---laser sight. Who is that screaming, shut up!

Cancuso appeared in front of me, stepping over Gutterman’s body, yelling in my face. "Stevie, Stevie! You’re ok, it’s ok. …" Aside to someone, "She’s in shock, cut her loose! Hurry."

Some idiot with a knife started cutting through the duct tape. The guy said, "Lie back. This won’t hurt a bit."

I looked at Cancuso, said, "You better not be taking my picture with that cell phone, Mikey." He turned red and snapped his cell phone shut.

My Lieutenant appeared behind Cancuso. I said, "How? What? How did you find me?"

My former boss looked sheepish, not a pretty sight. Cancuso backed up and disappeared----chicken shit. "Remember when you had your department physical last month and they talked you into that new birth control, that little toothpicky thing under your skin……"

"On my arm?"

"Yes. Well it wasn’t birth control, it’s an experimental tracking device, like the Lo-Jack chip used for dogs. Virtually undetectable. The department is trying it out on undercover female officers."

"It wasn’t birth control?"

"Uh, no."

"It. Wasn’t. Birth. Control?"

The tech pulled loose the first strand of tape as the boss spoke. I screamed. And then I fainted.

…

I woke up in a medivac helicopter. Oxygen mask on my face, paramedic doing the blood pressure cuff thing. Both my hands were held by warm hard hands that radiated calm and reassurance. I cut my eyes left. Ranger, in a DEA flak vest, his hair cut very short, his eyes wide and black. To my right, Anthony, same face, same expression, JOTF-Homeland Security flak vest under his sleeveless sweatshirt; hair still in dreads. No beads though.

They said, "Hey."

"Hey, Ranger, hey, Anthony.

"You’re Ok, babe, we’re taking you to LIJ. It’s the closest hospital."

"If I’m okay I don’t need a hospital."

"Humor me."

I said, "Which one of you guys shot Guttermann?"

"Babe."

"Laser sights are illegal in NY, even SWAT doesn’t use them."

Silence from the guys. Pause, pause, pause. I could almost feel them ESP-ing, Does she need to know? Then Anthony leaned over me, despite the paramedic’s annoyance, and he brushed a kiss on my cheek. "It was my pleasure, Steph."

"Oh. Um. Thanks."

"De nada."

"Landing now, ETA 1 minute." said the EMS pilot over the intercom.

The sudden spiral of the chopper brought back my dizziness and I held tighter to Ranger’s hand.

I whispered, "My doggy? Where is he? Is he okay?!?" By the end of the sentence I was screaming again; I felt a sharp needle prick and as I faded away, Anthony patted the front of his partly zipped hoodie and said, "He’s fine, babe, he’s right here."

Then nothing…….

……………………………

The next time I surfaced I was in a dimly lit hospital room. Not naked, though the awful hospital gown was almost as bad. My skin burned from the duct tape being ripped off and my throat was scratchy from screaming. Standing by my bed was a beautiful woman in a white doctor’s coat, clipboard chart in hand. She was perhaps middle forties but stunning, slim and elegant with tawny brown hair streaked with golden highlights and cool brown eyes. The kind of perfect makeup that looked flawless and was invisible to all but a trained ‘Burg girl’s eye. Under the white lab coat she wore a creamy silk shirt and a camel linen pencil skirt and pearls, all quietly screaming Expensive.

She noticed I was awake and smiled at me. Her smile was familiar, though I was sure we’d never met before. She offered me a cup of water with a straw and I drank greedily. Oh, much better.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ok, Doctor…" I squinted at her hospital ID. E. Mann, MD PC/ Orthopedic Surgery. "Why are you here? Why do I need an orthopedic surgeon?"

"Oh honey, you don’t! I was just checking in on you."

"And?"

"How do you feel about golf, baby?"

Ok this conversation is definitely surreal….

"I’m not bad. I dated a golf pro while I was in college."

Dr. Mann smiled. "Good to know."

I asked, "Where is Ranger?"

She moved a little, said, "Right here," and she left. I turned my head on the rough cotton pillowcase.

Three sets of worried brown eyes studied me in silence. Ranger must have ESPed an order because Anthony and Tank got up immediately. Tank loomed over me. He kissed my cheek and disappeared. Anthony lingered, locking eyes with me, seeing deep into my soul like Ranger used to do. He slowly reached out and touched my hair, brushed aside my wild curls, his hand warm and callused. My fragmented thoughts noted again that he was left-handed. And that his touch felt just like Ranger’s. Anthony leaned down and kissed my forehead. Then---- just a brush of his mouth on mine---he kissed me.

Hmmm. And he walked out, having said not a word, leaving me alone with Ranger and his dark-eyed stare. He said, "How are you?"

"I’m okay. I’m so cold though…."

Ranger came and sat his perfect ass on the edge of the narrow hospital bed. I could feel the warmth radiating from him where our hips pressed together. He said, "It’s from the shock. Your body shut down for awhile."

"How did you find me?"

"When I was informed that you’d been kidnapped---again---I went to Antonio, hoping that the puppy had one of those anti-theft chips."

"But no?"

"No. Apparently he is too little, they don’t install the chip until the dog is six months old. But Antonio had hacked into your NYPD personnel file before we involved you in the Guttermann job and he remembered that you had a chip of your own. He figured you didn’t know what it was."

"A GPS chip? Guttermann had this device to detect…."

"The technology is different, it is passive and not detectible by that kind of instrument."

"I thought it was birth control."

"I know, babe, you told me. Showed me even." He had not been pleased with the sight of the 1" tiny tube marring Steph’s bicep. But in retrospect, he was glad.

"This seems very irresponsible on the part of NYPD! I mean, what if I got pregnant? Oh. Oh! Omigod."

"It’ll be ok, Steph. We’ll work it out."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

?

I tried to focus my fuzzy brain.

He said, "I love you, we’re partners."

"And this baby’s name will be what? Huh?"

"Whatever you like, babe."

I said, "I’m not pregnant, I was still on my other birth control too."

He nodded, his face suddenly as exhausted as I felt. He was pale under his mocha-latte darkness, the lines of his mouth tight with fatigue. I reached out and drew him close for a hug. He laid his head on my breast and sighed. I ran my hand over his sadly short hair. When had he cut it? Why?

I felt him slowly relax against me, the aftermath fear and tension draining away. "Will you ever tell me who you really are, Ranger?"

"Maybe someday," he mumbled sleepily.

the end