The Dance Club Part One

a/n This is the first story I ever posted online. Not available on ff.net.  The context is a little confusing as it is not part of my regular Mercenary Ranger arc.
Oddly everyone except Stephanie is in character (and storyline correct) for my MR world. Stephanie is in character but her history is not. Even parts like Anthony's gift of baby Killer the Pug, and Ranger's mom are correct. Confused? Oh well---just enjoy.

The Dance Club  Part One: "Meeting Me"

Standard disclaimers
                       

The Dance Club - Prologue


Takes place during Hot Six --- Ranger shares some info w/ us….

My sister-in-law Jilly says men don’t think about anything. She does a great routine on how guys grunt and groan and cluelessly sail through life. She should know, she was an Air Force heli pilot for many years, she still flies my Delta group’s out of country ops sometimes. But anyway I’m here sitting in Deal, New Jersey, staking out the Ramos place, which by the way is a pink stucco monstrosity.

And hey Jilly-bean, I AM thinking. About a woman I’ve gotten to know and love, a Jersey girl in every meaning of the phrase. Her name is Stephanie Plum and she is a wannabe bounty hunter. My name is—uh---<resisting the urge to double check my wallet for ID> —uh, Ricardo Carlos Manoso, street name Ranger.

I’m working a contract gig for an ATF and Justice task force, looking into the Ramos family’s gun running. My cover story is that I was arrested for carrying concealed and skipped bail. Then I am also being "sought for questioning" in the murder of Homer Ramos, the second son of the Greek gun boss. There is supposed to be a bounty on my head and every cop in Jersey is supposed to be hunting me. This is one of those convoluted ops that get so confused something is sure to go wrong and someone will get hurt, hopefully not me, or my guys, or the aforementioned Ms Plum.

Clusterfuck waiting to happen

… … …

Obviously the original arrest was a fake; I am a bounty hunter, I do professional bodyguarding and security, and so on. Or my cover persona Ranger Manoso does. See what I mean? So obviously I have a license to carry concealed. And then there is really ME---I have licenses to carry anything I want, anywhere in the world. But that’s another story.

Back to this gig: Homer is alive, some other thug got whacked and they used his body to fake Homer’s death. We all know this but the story is being used and broadcast as if it were true and I now am the subject of a huge make-believe manhunt. Even the Trenton cops know this is all pretense, I’ve been driving around in my own black Mercedes, no problem. There aren’t that many SV600s in Trenton. Or anywhere, it was a limited edition. Not like my BMW though; I’m keeping that car in my garage. For now.

I got a call a few days ago from Stephanie. She is so cute, she is worried about me. Her message was just "Are you Ok?". She may not realize that that phrase is mercenary speak for I love you, but hey, I know she loves me. I love her too. But then today we had a little fight. She has to butt her nosy little nose into everything and for one thing I’m afraid she might get hurt. And for another thing, she is very smart and someday she is gonna put 2 and 2 together and figure out that Ranger Manoso isn’t exactly who/ what she has been told. Or that Ranger Manoso is, but I am not. (You figure it out, I’m still resisting the urge to pull out my wallet and check my ID…..) And then she is gonna be really really pissed.

She said today that my man of mystery thing was getting old. I told her that’s the way it has to be. But I didn’t explain. Should I? I know I can trust her with all my secrets. And actually the real me is an Ok guy, maybe even a good guy. If you don’t mind that I’m a mercenary and a black ops government operative with so many covers and IDs even I get confused….And maybe the phrase black ops won't bear real close examination.

Let’s just say, I’m an excellent marksman with a sniper rifle. Or whatever.

But I consider myself, whoever the fuck I am, one of the good guys. So lots of bad people hate me. Lots of them wanna get even, get revenge—yeah, Ok—kill me.

And those I love.

What if someone hurts Stephanie to get to me? As Antonio says, They didn’t give us all those medals for selling Girl Scout cookies, did they?

Huh. I glance at the quiet street and damned if Big Blue and Steph aren’t rolling up to the corner, picking up Alexander Ramos. In my earpiece I hear Tank say, Shit!

Yeah.

Chapter One

NYC - 5 years from now

I looked around the dark lit dance club, wondering if I’d ever been here before. Same spot, different name? The club, I mean, not me. I’ve worked so many decoy jobs since I moved to New York City and became a cop, all these dumps were looking the same to me. I sighed. Here I was, one of NYPD’s Finest, Detective 2^nd Grade Stephanie "Stevie" Plum. Yeah, that’s me.

I took a big sip of my jumbo pink mango margartini---don’t ask---(tequila AND vodka) and sighed again. Somehow when the cocktails were "virgin" they just didn’t pack the necessary punch. But tonight I was on the job, so no booze for me. I wished it was at least cooling me off but so far it just hasn’t been good. Who invents these monster drinks, anyway?

So Ok, back to the job. I was supposed to locate and get close to one Enrique Rodriguez, a Latino wannabe gangster rumored to be moving into the city’s dance venue Ecstasy trade. He was expected here tonight so I was all gussied up in a flashy version of my old Rangeman distraction outfits: tight top, lots of tits on display, short, short skirt, 4" spike heeled FMPs. Dopey look on my face, "available for fast fuck" written all over me. Figuratively speaking of course.

My wireless earbud chirped---"He’s on his way inside."

Swaying to the music, some indie band thing, reworked by a not too talented DJ---"you’ll prob’ly move right through me…yadda, yadda…."

I am the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen …..Not.

I sipped and smiled and swung my ass, making sure the sudden frisson of uneasiness I felt didn’t show on my face. Someone with a Bronx accent said in my ear, "Action." I saw my mark in the entranceway arch. The lights were dark and dim; the air was close and sweaty, but the crowd tonight was NYC cool.

And my target was hot hot hot.

Omigod. Omigod. I froze.

"Move, Plum," in my ear. I was standing stock still, frozen in the sea of dancers. Struck dumb---and stupid---unable to budge despite again hearing the "move it" command in my ear.

My isolated stillness drew his eyes, his black fathomless eyes---the eyes I haven’t seen in 5 long years. My eyes dip to his mouth, the lips I haven’t kissed in 5 years. And he smiled.

The entire club did a weird blip, just froze for a nanosecond. The DJ missed the beat, the women gasped with the rush of sexual arousal, men adjusted their jeans, looking for their balls that just headed north. A server stumbled and dropped a tray of colorful cocktails and the music began again.

Can he make an entrance, or what.

Reality restored, Ranger, with Tank, Hal and Lester Santos doing the bodyguard thing, took a seat in a half-moon booth, all mirrored tabletop and velvet banquets. I turned away, leaned on the bar again, ignoring the other undercover cops squawking in my earbud.

A big body crowded me immediately, I turned and looked up at Tank. He said deadpan, no recognition in his voice or eyes, "Boss wants you to join him."

( "Go with it! Go! Go!" in my ear.)

Tank took my arm and steered me to my doom; he sat me down opposite Ranger/ Rodriguez, set my drink in front of me and took up a folded arm stance to my left.

Ranger said, "I’m Enrique Rodriguez. Thank you for joining me."

I purred, "Did I have a choice, Enrique? Or do they call you Ricky?"

"Not if they want to live."

Oh. Okaaaaay…..

I said, "I’m Stevie."

"Of course you are." He had a faint Hispanic accent, very sexy. He added, "I’m here to meet a man." Short for Don’t fuck up my op, Plum.

I held out my empty glass for one more drink, thinking maybe I am acting too desperate, but so far this has just not been fun, I wished I’d just stayed home, called in sick. Something. Anything. Why me?

"Why is a beautiful woman like you all alone, querida?"

I jerked my attention back to Rodriguez/ Ranger and said shyly, "Oh this is awkward---what can I say? My boyfriend treated me so shitty and so here I am." I giggled, nerves disguised as too much tequila. "I thought this club would be so cool, but it’s just about the most pretentious place I’ve seen in, like, forever. And, you know, like---"

Ranger’s eyes were glazing a little, boredom, not lust. I leaned over to display more cleavage and gestured at the retro disco ball and laser lighting---ick. "I bet it won’t even be here in 3 weeks, shit, it won’t even be a memory."

"Ah. Memories," said Rodriguez/Ranger.

"Yeah…."

"So how is it possible your man could have treated a lady like you---ah, shitty, I believe you called it?"

"He married someone else because I didn’t really love him, there was someone else."

"Sounds complicated."

I did another phony giggle and sipped my cocktail, licked my lips. His black eyes followed my tongue’s path over my Hot Cherries Red lips. Interested again, despite the obnoxious laugh I was using.

I said, "Well tonight I just want to have fun and forget. Any suggestions? I could use a little help here, Ricky."

"It is not Ricky. And I could perhaps offer you some X, how would that be?"

("Yes! Yes! Go for it, Plum!" In my ear)

"That will be lovely."

He flicked open a vintage silver cigarette box filled with little blue tablets.

"Yum." Reaching for a couple with my long sleek Hot Cherries Red fingernails.

"What will you do for me in return, querida?"

"Freeze, motherfucker! She’ll put you in jail, that’s what she’ll do."

Sigh.

My backup guys grabbed Ranger and the boys. Ranger tried to do surly and mean but he cracked up, smiling big-time. Something again crashed to the floor---more glassware?--- and I cringed.

My team wrestled him to the floor, yeah, he let them, and frisked him roughly. He looked up at me and said, "Babe."

I toed his prone body and said, "What? You figured I’d invite you back to my place? Or yours?"

Cancuso, the Bronx cop, interrupted our little moment. "Ah, Detective……"

"What?" I snapped at my team member.

He held out the slim leather wallet he just removed from Ranger’s inner suit coat pocket.

"Ah, sir, I mean ma’am. This guy is a fed."

They stood Ranger and the guys on their feet, still handcuffed. I slapped the wallet against my sequin-clad thigh without opening it. I knew it had ID and a badge, shit, Ranger was always undercover on some high paid op for some undisclosed agency. Some things never do change, they just get better and hotter and richer---Ranger Manoso, mercenary, opportunist, assassin for hire.

 Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I said, "Get them out of here and book them."

The Rangeman guys rolled their eyes at me, I had taught them well back in the day. But Ranger just kept smiling even though it no longer reached his eyes.

I repeated, "Get them out of here." Thinking, before some of these stoned and drunken dance freaks notice what is going down.

……………..

Back at the station, my LT said, "These guys are undercover feds---joint op DEA and Justice, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that just because you guys #1 had really, really bad intell and #2 my cover was blown by your eager beaver assholes…there was no need to fuck up their cover too. Sir. Lieutenant, sir."

Silence, then, "Ok, Plum. We’ll debrief in the morning. Right now Rodriguez wants to talk to you."

I restrained myself from sarcastically asking Who? and just said, "Not necessary."

"Oh but it is," from the door of the lieutenant’s office, his voice still with the phony Hispanic, barrio accent. Real cute.

My current boss stood up and walked out, saying, "I'll just leave you two alone, here."

Ranger said, "What happened?"

"I already explained to my boss, there was no reason to blow your cover too."

"I meant 5 years ago."

"What, you expected me to just stand there while you walked all over me? Walked through me even, on your way to who the hell knows where?"

"To you."

"What?"

"I came back from my final contract op for—uh---. I was going to get out, go straight. And Tank told me you and Morelli were finally over, he had married a better Burg girl." Pause, then, "Asshole."

"It was my choice."

"What was?"

"Joe and I had no future, because I was always and forever in love with you. Why waste three lives? Joe deserved better."

"I came home and you were gone, babe."

"So let it go, ancient history and all that jazz." I shrugged, no need to show him that my stupid heart was shattering all over again. Like I said, some things just never change.

I tried to brush past him to leave. Oh god, he still smelled wonderful, Bulgari and leather Porsche seats, clean fresh cotton and a little gun oil---Essence of Ranger.

He blocked my escape and said, "I love you, Stephanie. That will never be old news. I waited 4 long years while you screwed Morelli and then you couldn’t wait a week or two for me to get back to Jersey? What the fuck was that?"

"You loved me?"

"You know I did, I told you, I showed you. Every way I knew how. I love you, always have, always will, babe."

"And, what, Ranger?"

That smile, his slow, wonderful zillion watt smile. He said, "I think Ricky Rodriguez just bought himself a new bimbo, babe."

Huh. I stood there like a moron, my hands slowly exploring his perfect 8-pack abs, up the hard chest, past the shoulder holster. My hands ignored my brain’s commands and gently touched his beautiful face, brushed his soft perfect lips, and sank into his wonderfully long silky hair. His eyes asked permission and we leaned in and kissed---forever? A moment?

And the five long sad years slithered away to oblivion.

I stepped back just a fraction of an inch, he raised his eyebrow, classic Ranger...

?

And I said, "Ok."

...   ...   ... 

Chapter Two

Freedom, well, freedom

That’s just some people talking….

Your freedom is walking

in this world all alone.

Desperado-The Eagles

I agreed to meet Ranger somewhere safe, away from NYC where he was still running the undercover op as Enrique Rodriguez. Typically Ranger, he refused to say the place name on our cell phones. He said to meet him in the place I went when life’s pressures made me feel smothered.

Ha! He expected me to remember all those years ago? During the Scrog fiasco when I ran away to Point Pleasant at the Jersey Shore and I had told him he was a little smothering. Sad to say, I did remember it, though I was surprised that he did. I guess I remember every conversation I ever had with Ranger, it’s not like he ever said all that much. Mostly I remember his eyes, his body---they always spoke volumes---in an unknown language that I, for one, could never decipher.

I got to the beach early, maybe 5 PM. He hadn’t set a time and this big wide beach was not in Jersey, but I was sure he’d find me, probably had a tracker on me already. Or still? All these years? But if he thought I was fighting rush-hour traffic and driving 2 ½ hours to the Jersey Shore, he was crazier than Morelli ever claimed he was. And I’m a New Yorker now, we call this the beach.

It was June so the light was still bright, the sand golden-white, the ocean a busy green-grey. It was too early in the season for there to be any crowds at this hour, just a few die-hard joggers, a couple wet-suited surfers and an illegal dog walker. I watched a big yellow Lab frolic—only word for it---in the waves and I smiled sadly, wondering how Bob the Dog was---- was he happy with Joe and Rita and the kids? Did he ever miss me at all? Did he even notice I was gone?

I sat with my arms wound around my knees, fighting tears. The nape of my neck prickled and I looked way down the beach to the lone figure of the man I was crying over. You didn’t really think I’d cry over good old Bob, did you? The black-clad figure moved easily, as graceful and athletic as ever. Not that Ranger or I were old, we were still thirty of course. Wonder how that works for Julie, she must be 15, 16 by now……

Despite his urban commando style, SWAT fatigues and mirrored black sunglasses, Ranger looked perfectly at home on this beach, his hidden eyes no doubt watching everything, trusting no one. Ranger was alone, as always, complete unto himself. He had his thoughts, his plans, his agendas all mapped out in that handsome head of his, but he had no desire to share them.

Free as the seabirds, alone as ever----though I had my suspicions about the surfers in their black wet-suits. Gidget Does Rangeman?, trying to picture Tank or Hal on a surfboard…no, more likely Lester, or Binky, they had the lankier builds.

As Ranger got closer I was struck again by how amazingly beautiful he was. It was ridiculous that a man with that face and that body had made an enormously successful career of undercover ops. And some things just never change. I sighed, watching the woman with the cute yellow dog. She was standing and staring open-mouthed at Ranger as he passed by, the dog’s Frisbee forgotten and dripping in her hands. The dog turned too and woofed gently, running to Ranger. Dogs--and strange women---love him. He patted the dog and glanced back at the woman, smiling. She dropped the Frisbee and clutched her fleece jacket at the throat. Ranger turned away and came over to me and she watched his ass as he walked on by.

Ranger dropped bonelessly to the sand by my side, leaned back on his elbows, crossed his ankles in his black high tech sneakers.

Silence, just the waves and the gulls and the Lab woman calling "Dolly" to come on, let’s go home.

"We need to talk, babe."

"Sure. Fill me in on this job. Will I be a cop gone bad, fell for a bad boy hottie? Or what?"

Ranger nodded so faintly that if I’d blinked I’d have missed it. Ranger never talked much but he usually was good about briefing his people for a job.

I made a little go-on motion with my finger. He said, "Not about the job, Stephanie." <whole name! uh oh! > "About us."

I said quietly, "There was never any us."

"The whole world knew you were Ranger Manoso’s woman, babe."

"Guess I didn’t get that memo, boss."

"It wasn't about work or Rangeman. It was about you and me…."

I huffed a little in annoyance. I said, "I was working part time for Rangeman and I was living with Morelli. You were off somewhere who knows where, doing God knows what, for an unnamed US military agency. And getting paid a shitload of money to do it. Remember? Any of these details ring a bell here, Ranger?"

"It’s my job."

I noted the present tense, not was---is his job. I shrugged, no point in asking for details, he’d never answer.

"I came home from 3 months on the job in some desert hellhole and Tank told me Morelli was married—to someone else. And you were gone."

"Surely you could’ve found me…."

"Why did you leave, Steph. You knew I loved you."

"I guess I missed that memo too."

For the first time since he sat down, he turned sharply and looked at me, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head. His black hair was very long, tied back neatly, silky straight and shiny in the evening sun. He had a little bit of designer stubble going, unusual for Ranger, very sexy. And he wore large gang-banger style diamond studs. I assumed all part of his Ricky Rodriguez cover because Ranger himself never went for real flash like those 2 carat solitaires he wore today.

 I peeked from the corner of my eye, I liked the earrings, they looked hot. But then again, everything…..

Ranger said, "That’s bullshit."

Um. Huh?

I covered my flub and said, "What is?"

"You didn’t know I loved you, Stephanie? I fucking told you a dozen times. I did everything I knew how to show my love."

His voice was flat and calm and quiet but a tiny bit of---what? anguish? bled through. I turned my head too and met his eyes. Surprisingly—or maybe not, I am the Queen of Denial still, you know---an emotional Ranger, even an itty bitty amount of that, wasn’t something I was comfortable with unless we were naked and at least partially horizontal.

I said, "Do we really have to dissect this all now, all these years later?"

Pause. The faint emotion in his wonderful dark eyes faded to an obsidian black as hard and empty as the lenses of the black shades.

He looked back out to sea, finally said, "I thought you loved me too."

Unexpectedly, tears flooded my eyes and all my hard won tough-girl bravado melted uselessly away. I cursed myself, my weakness, and cringed to hear the break in my voice. I said, "Nobody could have loved you more, Ranger. I loved you from the day we met. I saw right through that ghetto badass exterior and even beyond your beautiful face and flawless body and I saw a good man, an intelligent man, who worked hard, cared for his friends and employees, a man who did a difficult job because he felt it was right--and needed to be done."

And, oh okay, got paid a lot, but you know—really, he deserved it. And the people who hired him would never respect him unless they paid big-time. And he’s maybe a little boring, workaholics ARE boring, but so freakin’ hot, who cares? So....

He opened his mouth to reply, but I held up my hand to make him wait.

"I’m not talking about just Ranger the bounty hunter, or Carlos Manoso, CEO of Rangeman---I always knew what you did, Ranger, word on the street has always been that you’re a mercenary and a covert ops assassin. Oh, they don’t usually say that you’re one of the good guys. But I knew. And I loved you so much. So fucking much."

The tears dripped down my face and I wiped my nose with the hem of my t-shirt. Unlike years ago Ranger didn’t cuddle me in his arms and whisper soft Spanish gibberish to soothe my tears. He stared relentlessly out at the horizon, mulling over my words, my thoughts, my revelations.

Ranger said, "Why? Why didn’t you wait then?"

"Because even now, I still don’t know your real name. And even if you loved me---maybe love me still, you loved your freedom more."

                                      Desperado...by The Eagles

Don Henley and Glen Frey

  

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?
You been out riding fences for so long now
Oh, you’re a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
These things that are pleasing you
Can hurt you somehow

Don’t you draw the queen of diamonds, boy
Shell beat you if she’s able
You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones that you can’t get

Desperado, oh, you ain’t getting’ no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they’re driving you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that’s just some people talking
Your prison is walking through this world all alone

Don’t your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine
It’s hard to tell the night time from the day
You’re losing all your highs and lows
Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?
Come down from your fences, open the gate
It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late

Chapter Three 

WTF? She didn’t know my name? I disregarded the love and freedom issue for now, totally engrossed in the name thing. I have been Ricardo Carlos Manoso most of my adult life, I’ve been Ranger since the army made me volunteer for Delta Force all those years ago. Sure, I used other identities—I was Rodriguez pretty often, Frederic, Enrique, Miguel, you name it. I used Alvirez too, and my American alter ego, Marc Pardo, when I was being Italian-American instead of Cuban.
Dark haired, dark-eyed guys all look alike, people hear a Spanish name, they see Latino; Italian, they see Guido: Arab, well, I can do that too.
But those aliases are all AKAs for Carlos Manoso. I haven’t used my real name, my birth name, in so long I doubt I’d answer to it if I heard it. Even my mom calls me Ranger.
Stephanie was crying a little and I wanted to just hold her and make all this shit go away. When we met again after the botched Dance Club op she seemed happy to see me, ready to move on. But I guess we have issues.
She wiped her face on her t-shirt hem, my sexy goddess. And she started to get to her feet. I grabbed her arm, not hard, but to keep her with me and I settled her in the sand in front of me, her back to my chest, my arms around her waist. I nuzzled my face in her wonderful dark curly hair and breathed deep, vanilla and something more exotic, maybe frangipani or jasmine. The silence dragged on but she relaxed against me. I savored the moment even though her weapon was digging into my abs. She was a cop now and even off duty she wore a fairly heavy gun in the small of her back, felt like a Glock 19 like I always used.
I still didn’t know how to answer her. I glanced around this familiar beach, odd that her latent spidey sense would have brought her to this beach so close to my childhood home. I grew up in a New York beach town not far to the east, a typical upper middle class kid who played Little League baseball and ice hockey, golfed and surfed. My parents divorced amicably when I was in middle school. My mother is a doctor, a surgeon, and is Italian-American, my dad was an investment banker, second generation Cuban, from a wealthy Havana family. His office was in the WTC and he supposedly died in the 911 attack—but well, he was also old-school CIA, still fighting the Cuba Libre war, if only in his own mind and when he disappeared in 2001, a lot of his money went with him. I picture him on some beach in Bora Bora---or Maui?---drinking margaritas and happy he got out of the spook game alive.
It’s better than thinking he was annihilated by some crazy in a hijacked jet.
I know---you’re thinking that I was from Newark. No---Carlos Manoso is from Newark, not me. There was a very good reason Stephanie never met my family…uh, the Manosos do not exist. Sure, I married Rachel as Carlos Manoso and she was from Newark originally. She introduced me as a guy from the Cubano ‘Burg and people just accepted that. Hardly anyone really questions what you tell them, especially if you dole the details out in tantalizing bits and pieces. People are so thrilled to know something, anything, they don’t see the anomalies. Like how could a guy from the barrio with 2 years of college be a Special Ops officer—you gotta be a college grad, preferably West Point or a good university and Officers Candidate School. And would that guy be able to successfully run a complex multi-city corporation like Rangeman? While freelancing as the mercenary assassin that Stephanie thought I was.
Amazingly, Stephanie had seen right through my deep cover and she was right of course, that is what I do, what I was chosen for, groomed for, and paid big bucks to follow through. And of course I went to college, MBA from a good Ivy League school. I was smart and finished high school early so I crammed all that in before I became Carlos Manoso. Didn’t you ever wonder why there was a Rangeman Boston?
Morelli had never been able to dig up any dirt on me, on Ricardo Carlos Manoso—because, hey, he doesn’t really exist. That’s why there’s that old phrase I used for my dad---"spook".
I resisted sighing because Stephanie would feel it, leaning into me the way she was. I brushed a kiss on her temple and fell back on the old line I ‘d used before, "I’m always the same person. Don’t judge me by the clothes I wear or the name I use. I am always me, Ranger."
Stephanie moved out of my arms and the loss nearly killed me. But she just kneeled between my outstretched legs, took my face gently in her hands. She was wearing a very short jeans skirt and my eyes drifted downward to her lush thighs and the promised land. I jerked my attention back to her face. She studied my eyes in deep silent concentration and I made myself meet her scrutiny without my shield of blank nothingness. I let her see me, Ranger, the guy who has loved her all these years, loved her forever, it seemed.
My hands slid up under the back hem of her short skirt and I was really, really happy that the beach was, by this hour, deserted. Even the surfers had gone home.
She gave a little nod and kissed me.
And kissed me
… ...   ...

Chapter Four 

Ok, so now Sex on the Beach wasn’t just the name of a cheap incense or retro cocktail anymore. At least not for me. And despite the sand and the feeling of performing on a stage, even with no noticeable audience, it was as wonderful as ever with Ranger.
I knew I wore this short little skirt for a reason..

I said, "What if one of the wildlife / endangered bird guys came by? Or the local cops?"

Ranger leaned back on the sand, his head pillowed in his arms and he grinned. I was sitting—straddling---his lap. We were kinda re-dressed, but my underpants were AWOL. Beyond Ranger’s perfect, contented face I glimpsed a seagull waddling away with something red and lacey in his beak. Oh, ick. Ranger’s pants were zipped but unbuttoned and his t-shirt was scrunched up around his ribs, his lovely abs exposed for my pleasure-filled hands. His windbreaker had fallen aside entirely, his black double shoulder rig and 9mm Glocks plainly visible. It didn’t look comfy, but I supposed he was entirely used to wearing it, even when he was fucking on the open beach. Earlier he had reached behind himself and pulled his throw-down smaller gun out of the small of his back, shoving it into his cargo pocket before he laid back and set me on his lap. I guess Ranger’s weapons always take first place in his thoughts, even ahead of great sex with a long-lost lover---me! But it was so Ranger, it just made me smile.

Neither Ranger or I had ever been great at actually discussing issues of importance and judging by his satisfied smile, I figured Ranger thought he had bypassed the identity issue unscathed, my questions avoided and forever to be ignored.

I planted my hands on the sand on either side of his head, leaned in close, brushing my wild curls across his face, and with my lips brushing his, I whispered, "What’s it gonna be, boy? Yes? Or no?"

He instantly said, "Yes."
Huh. Now what….?
"Yes what?"

"Yes we are partners again, yes it is forever. Yes we’ll work the club drug op for the feds. I’ll have you added to the contract."

Partners. Forever…..he said…uh…

I forced myself to refocus. "Contract?"

"Yes. You’ll get a flat fee, plus a daily compensation. And a percentage of the take, what the street value of the drugs would be. Probably…." He named amounts that stunned me.
"Is this a Rangeman op? Will I be an employee?"
"No. This is one of my freelance gigs, all the money goes right in my—or your—pocket. I’ll help you set up an off-shore bank account for wire transfer payments. They have to pay in advance, of course, babe."
"They?"
"Whoever. This time it happens to be Justice and DEA."
Silent now, I mulled this over. I said, "What will my cover be?"
"What you said. Your guys gave you up as a cop last night, so we have to use that and go on. Your boss will put out the word that you deliberately botched our arrest so that I’d go free."
"Because why?"
"Because you liked what you saw, babe. Because you’re hot for me."
His hand reached between us and caressed me, I shivered but not with cold and said, "Jerk."

He grinned again and said, "We gotta work with what we have….Anyway, you’ll be reprimanded by the NYPD brass and Internal Affairs and instead of showing remorse and determination to do better, you’ll be pissed off and flounce out, make a scene, toss your badge and service piece in their faces. You get the idea. It’ll happen in the morning, so we can get moving."

"My career as a cop will effectively be destroyed, everything I’ve worked so hard for."
"Yes but you’ll have me."
Somehow I was not so reassured, but, well, it was Ranger and he was really all I ever wanted anyway, the rest was just filling time till I died, if I wasn’t with him.
Five years apart had not dulled Ranger’s ESP and he easily read my doubts. Before I knew it, he had us both on our feet, everything buttoned, zipped, and tucked, except my panties. He looked around, saw the gull with the red lace prize and shrugged, that annoying tiny shoulder jerk he used.
Grrr.
Ranger was still hot and I still loved him, but he is a very annoying man sometimes.
And now sexy, charming Ranger was entirely replaced by efficient, ice-cold Ranger. He put his hand on the small of my back and steered me back towards our cars. At last he said, "Do you need to think this over, Steph?"
"I don’t know…"
"You actually would not be ruining your career with NYPD. If you do the op and decide not to pursue ---something more---with me, I’ll make sure they take you back, that they either publicly acknowledge that you were part of an undercover sting; or, if you prefer, that they keep you on, but as a UC op. You can decide later."
He was offering me an out.
"You can pull those strings? Make that kind of thing happen?"
"Yes." I chirped my car unlocked and he opened the door for me. I looked up at him and was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. His quiet voice had fooled me, he was very upset or angry with me.
"What?"
"I am hoping that you’ll stay with me, Steph. I waited all those years while you fooled around with poor Morelli, then five more years watching your back and waiting."

"You watched my back?"

"Of course I did, babe. I love you." Please don’t break my heart---again.
 "What does your mother call you, Ranger? You DO have a mother, don’t you?" I circled all the way back to where we started.
His eyes dense and serious, Ranger answered, "My mother calls me Ranger."

"Not Carlos?"

"No."
"Oh. She’s in on it. I guess she’d have to be, huh?"
"Babe."
….

Chapter Five

This really sucks, I thought, keeping my poker face and trying to maintain my composure.

"And so Detective Plum, until the formal inquiry into the arrest of Enrique Rodriguez is complete, we have no choice but to suspend you indefinitely, without pay."
I stood in front of the Review Board and listened to my Lieutenant give me the bad news. I desperately tried not to burst into tears. Sure I knew it was all faked, arranged by Ranger for the undercover scenario, but these were men I respected, whose good opinion I had worked so hard to earn. So it was hard, very hard.
I didn’t care all that much about the Internal Affairs guys, but this was my boss and his boss, Captain O’Brian, who was the NYPD Chief of Detectives. My LT stopped talking and looked at me expectantly. He and the Chief of Ds were in on this, the other guys not. I guessed that this was my cue, tantrum time.
I reached deep inside myself and dredged up all my Jersey girl attitude and all the rage and frustration I used to feel every time Morelli said that I sucked at my job. Oh yeah, I was fuming. Zero to a zillion in 6 seconds flat. I took a deep breath and said, "What the fuck! This is how you assholes treat me after all I’ve done, all my arrests, all the jobs I’ve done, all my freakin’ hard work! And what the fuck---without pay! Are you out of your fucking minds! You think a woman can live on air? I don‘t think so!" I was yelling. Loud.
I had my shield in my pocket and with those words I pulled it out and slapped it down on the conference table where the men all sat, openmouthed and horrified.
Slap! "There’s my badge!"
Bang! "Here’s my gun!"
Huff huff huff. "Find some other bimbo to do your dirty work, gentlemen. I fucking quit!"
It was awful, it was unprofessional, it was embarrassing. I know my face was bright red, hope they saw it as anger, not mortification. I drew myself up to my full 5’ 7" plus 3" heels and said, "My resignation will be on your desk by end of day." I spun on my heel and stalked out, adding a flounce or two as per Ranger’s instructions. The door had been ajar (on purpose) and I had a good sized audience awaiting me when I left the conference room. Just for kicks I slammed the door hard behind me, surveyed the group of horrified looky-loos, put one hand on my jutting hip and said, with my best Jersey accent and attitude, "What!?!"
Everyone got really busy, no one in the detectives’ squad room would meet my eyes. I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevators. Since events had immediately made me a career leper, no one, not even that jerk Cancuso from the club op, followed me out or asked how I was. I stared at my reflection in the steel trim of the dirty elevator car. My eyes were teary but not a drop escaped. I pressed my lips together hard.
What had I done? And why?
I paused on the steps of the Manhattan South precinct building. My spidey sense felt a prickle and I took a look around. Oh lord. There was the reason I did what I just did. Leaning in his characteristic pose against the door of a new shiny Porsche Turbo---silver, he was undercover, remember?—was Ranger. He was in Ricky Rodriguez mode---shiny light grey silk Armani suit over a black silk V-neck t-shirt, diamond and platinum watch, the diamond earrings, a platinum chain with a too large diamond encrusted cross against the satiny brown skin of his throat and upper chest. His long hair was loose and blew gently like black silk ribbons in the soft June breeze.
He—Ricky? Ranger? saw me and straightened up, pushing his black sunglasses up on top of his head and smiling wide.
Playing my part, or so I told myself, I walked right to him, all confidence and bravado. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me til my knees buckled and I had no idea who or where I was.
I said, "Hey, Ricky."
"Hola, Officer Stevie." Then harder, being the badass, "It’s Enrique, remember?"
"Sure, I remember, Ricky. And just for the record I’m not Officer Anyone, not anymore."
He wanted to say "Babe", it was killing him. I grinned and kissed him some more.
I said, "Ricky, Stevie, what’s in a name? Right, baby?"
He said, "You can call me anything you like."
My love? My hero? My man? ……..I don’t think so.
******
He opened the passenger door of the silver Porsche and helped me in, his manners as nice as ever. Ranger was the only guy I’ve ever known who consistently opens car doors, building doors, puts his hand politely on one’s back when you’re walking with him---too bad his phone manners suck. Or maybe they've improved?
Nah.
He put the car in gear and laid some rubber, just to show off in front of the cop shop. He navigated the dense Manhattan traffic in silence for a few minutes, then he glanced at me and asked, "Are you Ok?"
My eyes filled with tears again, hearing his old familiar phrase in his soft deep voice. How many times has he asked me that? We never said, but we both always knew that these words were mercenary-speak for I love you, I care about you.
But that was then and this is now. I got a grip and nodded. I even smiled a little. "Oh yeah. Majorly obnoxious tantrum, Ricky. With flounces. You shoulda been there."
"From now on I will be, babe. Count on it."


Chapter Six
The Porsche made a loop over to the east side, turned uptown on the FDR Drive. At midmorning traffic was heavy but not parking lot dense. I could tell Ranger was enjoying the Rodriguez persona as he drove the powerful sports car aggressively and a little too fast for the city. We sailed over the 59th Street Bridge and with a few twists and turns picked up the LIE—the Long Island Expressway. I glanced at the Porsche’s dashboard, the compass read-out said East. There was a GPS screen too but it was blank, obviously Rodriguez knew where he was headed
I said, "Where are we going?’

"Nervous?"                

"I ‘m trusting you here, Ricky, but...well, I figured you for a place in Manhattan kind of guy." If Ranger could stay in character, so could I, at least til I knew I could let my guard down. Surely Ranger didn’t t think his car was bugged?
He said, "I have a flat in town, chica, but sometimes a man likes more space. And more privacy."
Definitely in character, he was still using Rodriguez’s slight, sexy Hispanic accent, more a tinge of the ethnic or the barrio than a true foreign accent, like maybe the imaginary Rodriguez was born here but his family only spoke Spanish at home. Ranger himself had no such accent. When he was being himself (whoever that is), not ghetto Ranger, he spoke with a generic, slightly military, educated East coast accent. Now that I thought about it he really never sounded Jersey at all. He also spoke what sounded to me like fluent Spanish but he never used words like chica or hola or had an accent when he spoke English.
"Deep thoughts?"
"Just thinking."
His eyes telegraphed his usual comeback, Always dangerous, but he just raised an eyebrow in query instead.
"You never said where we are going."
"Patiencia, bebe…momentito."
Uh huh. Even my rudimentary Spanish understood that.
We took an exit for Manhasset, drove through an area of golf courses, country clubs, through a commercial district of exotic foreign car dealerships, then past boutiques and shops similar to those on Fifth Avenue or Madison Avenue in the city. We were in the Gold Coast of northern Long Island. The scenery became residential, we drove through ornate iron gates that opened with a keypad and a hand scan--- circular drive, manicured landscaping, a mansion, brick and slate, Georgian or colonial. What? I’m from the row houses of the burg, what do I know.
We parked, got out and climbed the low steps to the double doors. Ranger pushed one side open and said, "Mi casa, su casa, babe." And he swept me up in his arms and carried me effortlessly up the wide curving staircase, down a long hall to the master suite where he gently dropped me on the king-size bed and followed me down, pinning me under his big hard body. He was smiling, his own not-oily, not-scary, Ranger smile and I had to smile back.
He cupped my face with his hands and studied me, his eyes warm but not expressive. Finally I squirmed, pushed at his chest, but he effortlessly held me immobile.
"I've waited so long to have you in my bed, babe, you’re not going to spoil it for me , are you?"
"No."
*** *** ***
Afterward—after, after—the sun was low and the sky turning rosy by the time we showered and dressed---Ricky said, "We have a meeting in an hour, here at 2100 hours."
Oh. Not Ricky, Ranger was back, bossy as ever. My stomach growled and I said, "I hope
you plan to feed me."
"Babe."
The house was huge and immaculate, expensively decorated with traditional elegance. It was even less "Ranger" than his Haywood Street apartment, which was rather impersonal and sterile but suited him. He caught my dubious look and said, " It’s a safe house. It came this way."
Oh. Oh, well. And at least his food fairies were on the job and the dinner we found in the warming oven was gourmet and delicious, though excruciatingly healthy. I cleaned my plate and I looked around for more. Ranger went to the fridge, returning to set a gorgeous big glass flute of chocolate mousse and whipped cream before me. He said, "I knew you’d need some comfort food after your ordeal."
"Ordeal?" Surely he didn’t think having an afternoon of wild orgasmic sex with the hottest man on the planet was an ordeal? I was sure I was more enthusiastic than that!
He did his ESP and grinned. "I meant your ordeal at work, you got fired, remember?"
"I did not get fired! I quit!"
"Uh huh."
I scowled at him. "You’re playin’ with fire, Ricky."
"Mmmm. And I hope I get burned, chica."
The doorbell rang.
...   ...   ... 

Chapter Seven
With Ranger’s elaborate security, the doorbell should not be ringing-------bong bongbong Boooong. Something obnoxiously classical.
 I reached behind myself for my gun, my fingers groping only my cotton shirt and finding nothing. Oh yeah, my tantrum earlier today, I flung down my gun and now I was unarmed. I turned panicked eyes to Ranger who said calmly, "It’s just my men."
"I thought this wasn’t a Rangeman operation?"
"It’s not, my core team works with though sometimes……."
I remembered they’d been playing bodyguards at The Club. As if Ranger actually needed a bodyguard…..not.
The familiar figures of Tank and Lester Santos appeared in the doorway. Tank was, as always, a tank—6"8" of hard black muscles; Santos was more of a Ranger clone, but with short hair---darkly handsome and Latino. Both men were good-looking with killer smiles, neither of which was in evidence at this time. They stared at me blank-faced and did their Rangeman teeny tiny nods, their eyes flat and cold. Ugh. Guess they were still mad at me from 5 years ago when I walked out on Ranger, or so they thought. They took seats at the long mahogany dining table, well away from me.
We sat in silence that was broken by the deep roar of a high performance engine. No doorbell, just light footsteps and a third man appeared in the archway. The newcomer was young and tall, hot and handsome, even younger than Ranger or Lester, I estimated him early twenties, a boy really. He didn’t t have a boy’s eyes though. His eyes were flat and black, quickly sizing up the room.
The kid was dressed in grungy cammo cargo shorts and a pale aqua surf shop tank top and he was beautifully Latino despite having pale blond hair in tiny beaded dreadlocks. He wore a shoulder holster with a matte tan Glock, no effort at concealment whatsoever. Tribal tattoos on his wrists and neck, diamond ear studs and a diamond Rolex watch completed his off-beat outfit….And oh yeah, the Uzi submachine gun held competently in his left hand.
Ranger said neutrally, "Anthony Stewart----my…"
The boy looked sharply at Ranger, their black eyes meeting in a warning clash.
"…banker."
"Antonio---Stephanie."
The only thing possibly related to banking on this kid was the slim black leather Prada briefcase/folio he held in his other hand.
Anthony tore his eyes away from Ranger, looked me over, and he smiled, all million bucks, all zillion watts, a perfect Ranger clone, even more so than Lester. A cousin? A younger brother?
I said, "Hi. Ummm—you work for Rangeman?"
"No."
He sat at the head of the table to my left, Ranger sat back down in the chair to my right. Tank and Lester stayed waaaay down on the other side, big house, big dining room, big table. They wanted to be safe from my Stephanie cooties, I guess.
Stewart ignored everyone, set the briefcase and the Uzi down without ceremony, unzipped the Prada folio, flipping it open wide. Inside he had a very slim laptop computer, a small pile of papers and another gun, a handgun this time, a Glock 9 like Ranger used.
He pulled out the paperwork and said, "This is the info for your off-shore account. I will finish activating it in a minute. This is your number, you’ll never use your name on any contracts with…whomever. Just this number. This is your password. For now I will keep it and also give it to Ranger, later if you want we can change it so only you have a password."
He looked at me to be sure I understood so far. I said, "Fine. I trust Ranger."
Silence, then ,".....you never know." I frowned and he went on.
"This is your contract with Justice, this is the contract with DEA. It outlines all the payment schedules. You do not have to complete the op to get paid, once you agree to participate, they are contractually obligated to pay each and all amounts specified."
Ok, so he talks like a banker. Or a lawyer.
"Do I sign the contracts?"
"No. Never sign anything. Just check that the account number is correct (it is ‘cos I just opened it, but…) and that the terms are sufficient in relation to the hazard."
"Um."
"Read it."
I glanced at Ranger who faintly nodded. I read. The amounts were huge, I’d be able to buy my own Porsche!
Ranger said, "We’ll provide the car, babe. This money is for you, for your future."
I nodded despite feeling overwhelmed and handed the papers back. Stewart opened the laptop typed fast and furious, and it was done. I was now an undercover black ops agent.
…
The guys seemed to like silence but unless the banker boy was gonna pull up a game of Solitaire for me, I just couldn’t sit here. I pushed back my chair, but Ranger laid a hand on my forearm, his fingers warm and gentle but authoritative. I sat back down.
Stewart said, " We are aware that you are a trained police officer, that you are an excellent shot with both handgun and rifle, a martial arts black belt." No one, not even Tank, seemed surprised; they really had monitored my life all these years. I was proud of my accomplishments though, wishing for a "well-done, Bombshell" or an "Amazing, beautiful", but their eyes never changed.
"A few things though about covert ops---always stay in character. You are yourself but remember at all times that Ranger is Rodriguez, even if you think you are alone or when you’re boinking him. That’s one of the reasons we try to keep his names similar, so you can quick change it to Ricky if you find yourself screaming, ‘Oh god! Oh Ranger!’ some night."
Was he being deliberately offensive? His face was bland and Ranger didn’t seem annoyed so I contained my anger. "Go on."
"And this is the important part. If your cover is ever blown, if you are cornered or captured, give up everything immediately. Don’t be a hero—blab it all as fast as you can, give up Ranger, give up me, the guys, any and everyone. "
"But…"
"No one can withstand severe interrogation, babe," said Ranger.
"And it won’t matter anyway because you can only give up Ranger—Carlos Manoso….not…."
"Anthony…" Ranger’s voice held a warning now.
"I’m just saying."
I looked at Ranger, his eyes were serious but calm. I said, "Why is he telling me this instead of you, why aren’t you briefing me here?"
"Because you might think, maybe just subconsciously, that I am only saying it to protect you. And you will disregard it and suffer needlessly. Antonio is unknown to you, you can believe him."
Stewart nodded, pulled out a thick creamy business card and handed it over. It read

Anthony Robert Stewart

World Banking and Financials, Inc.

NYC London Geneva Rome

www.one-shot.com

And a bunch of numbers, cell, land, fax, email, etc.
"Call me anytime, babe."
He picked up the folio and the Uzi, said nothing more and he left.
Ranger broke the silence. "Anyone want a beer?"
"Sounds good, boss."
The guys all stood. I was lost in thought, thinking it was funny that with these guys, these mercenaries as they freely called themselves, the pre-op briefing was all about money and safety, not a word about the job itself. Hmmmm.
And then the front door slammed and we heard light footsteps from the hallway. Not a guy in sneakers or boots, but the sound of high heels on marble, click, click, click. A woman’s voice called,
"Enrique, honey? I’m home!"



The Dance Club ~ 8

A petite dark haired woman in a tight white sheath dress and red FMPs appeared in the archway. She was followed by an exhausted-looking Bobby Brown, who trudged behind her, his hands weighted down with glossy shopping bags. He must have been on bodyguard detail today and whoever this bimbo was, she was a pro at shopping. She trotted happily into the room, ignoring me, giving the guys a cute little finger wave…really long red nails, diamond rings... and she hugged Ranger from behind and kissed him just above his ear.
Ranger pushed her gently away and said, "Esta es mi esposa, mi mujer---my wife, my woman. We call her Penelope."
I stood up fast, I knew my face had gone dead white, and my stricken gaze leaped back and forth between the woman and Ranger. Colored dots spread across my vision and I felt dizzy.
She was very beautiful, a Penelope Cruz look-alike, only younger and curvier. She had a Salma Hayek body on her 5 foot not much more frame, and she had long dark hair, an exquisite face, and a movie star smile.
I locked eyes with Ranger, trying not to give into the black fog that threatened to overwhelm me. The woman elbowed him aside without ceremony and stuck out her hand. I pulled back like she stuck me. She said, "Jerks. Are you ok? " She fumbled around in her Chanel bag and pulled out a slim credentials wallet, flipped it open. She said, "Sara Millar, DEA," and held out her hand again. I shook it mindlessly.
Ranger said calmly, "Sara is playing Ricky’s wife. She will be the catalyst for you to betray him---me—and a believable reason for you to turn to our mark, the industrialist from Germany who has developed and hopes to import the new designer drug. When she finds us at the Club and makes a scene you will be so heartbroken….."
I stepped up close to Ranger, poked him in his rock hard chest with my knuckles and ground out, "You are an ass!" And for the second time today I stalked out of a room of openmouthed men.
I hesitated, nowhere to go. The room we’d shared during the afternoon was their bedroom! Eeeuuuuw! Or not? Whatever. I pounded up the elegant staircase, ran full out down the long hall and flung myself on Ranger’s big bed, sobbing. It had been a long day with some very great highs but some extreme lows too and I just reached my limit, I guess. I was a little surprised Ranger didn’t follow me, he must have felt I needed my space or he was seriously rethinking adding me to his covert team. Emotion was a big taboo in black ops circles, I supposed. When I cried myself out, I rolled onto my back and took stock of my surroundings. I had seen no one except the guys and that woman the entire time I’d been here, but the room had been put in order, fresh sheets on the turned down bed, candles lit and softly glowing, the fresh herbal/ citrus scent masking any afterglow of sex that might have clung to the room. I got up and checked the en suite bathroom. Yeah, clean and sparkling, lots of fresh and fluffy white towels. All polished and pristine.
Not only did Ranger/ Ricky have food fairies, he obviously employed maid service fairies as well. Their invisibility was slightly creepy though I knew it was a luxury I could definitely get used to.
I washed my face, not caring that I smeared black mascara on the perfectly white hand towels.
"Babe?"
I came to the door of the bathroom and looked at him, wringing the towels furiously in my hands.
Ranger looked at me closely in return, doing his ESP thing, trying to read me. In fact probably ESP wasn’t needed, any fool could see I’d been crying and that I was hurt…hurt and mad.
He sat down on the edge of his big bed, his hands loose between his knees, head bent in thought or avoidance. I stirred, uncomfortable with the tension in the room and he looked up at me quickly, his eyes shadowed, almost sad.
He said, "I’m sorry."
WTF, he’s sorry? Hunh! I disregarded the apocalyptic moment of a Ranger apology and I said, "What the fuck was that little scene all about?"
He said, "It’s not enough for you to love me, Steph, you have to trust me too."
"I have always trusted you implicitly, Ranger, that’s not what this is about."
"What do you think it’s about, babe?"
"Felt like payback to me." Was this our first fight?     
He actually seemed to consider my words and finally shrugged. "Maybe."
"Why? All I ever did was love you, Ranger. I never betrayed you, never hurt you, not once, not ever!"
"You think it didn’t hurt when I came back from---uh---and you were gone? You think because I don’t show my emotions I have no feelings, Stephanie? I came home and you were gone without a word, no message, no nothing."
"I didn’t think you’d care, or even notice."
"Jesus Christ, Stephanie, I told you I loved you!"
He didn’t raise his voice, God forbid Ranger should yell, but this was his equivalent. Yep, first fight here….He rubbed the heels of both hands over his eyes and mumbled, "I loved you so fucking much……"
I walked over to him and fisted one hand in his long silky hair, tilting his head back gently. He dropped his hands away from his face and stared up at me, eyes dilated and solid black and maybe not entirely dry.
"So why the charade tonight?"
"I was in Ricky mode , you should have known it. It was necessary for you to experience the emotion, so that when we play the op next week, it’ll feel entirely authentic to Guttermann. You will have real emotions to tap into."
Bullshit.
"Bullshit. I’m a pretty good actress, Ranger. I don’t need your crappy Method Acting lessons. Maybe you don’t trust me!"
He shook his head, his tiny ¼" head motion that signified a resounding No! for Ranger.
"No."
"No you don’t?
"No. I do. I do trust you---it’s just that I love you and I’m so afraid…."
Yikes. Ranger admitting to fear wasn’t at all on tonight’s agenda for me, scary enough that he apologized and explained himself even if just a little. So I cocked a hip and did my Jersey girl attitude one more time. "Puh-leeze! I can take care of myself and a dozen low-life drug czar dudes! No problem. Bring ‘em on, baby. Ok?"
He said, "Ok." And we hugged, his face pressed into my breasts, my arms holding his big warm body.
I thought, Safe. Together.
I’m such a sap.
After awhile I stepped back a little and asked, "So do you want to tell me more about the plan tonight?"
Ranger toed off his boots and pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor for the housekeeping fairies to pick up. He stood up and unsnapped his jeans, saying, "Not tonight, babe. Let’s just get some rest. Been a long day."
I brushed his hands aside and unzipped his pants myself. I said, "Don’t tell me I wore you out, Ranger!"
"Babe, you have no idea."
 ...   ...  
the breakfast Interlude
We got a late start the following morning. Ranger woke me early but it took him quite a long time to fully make up for his exhaustion and obnoxiousness the night before. Then we had to shower and make up some more. It wasn’t easy having a fight with someone as understated as Ranger but he makes up afterward with truly awesome enthusiasm.
Then we had to shower again. And do our hair. Yeah, you laugh, but Ranger’s nearly waist length hair was a bitch to get all shiny and straight and perfect. He let me brush it dry in the sun on our balcony, almost purring like the big feline animal he truly is.
Now it was 10 AM on a sunny June morning. We were eating breakfast at the smaller table in the great room/kitchen area, by the open French doors overlooking the pool. The early summer breeze smelled of beach roses and honeysuckle and new mown grass.
The food fairy left us a wonderful meal of big, fluffy omelets stuffed with fresh basil, thinly sliced ripe tomatoes and feta cheese. Ranger’s omelet was egg white only, and the toast was whole grain, but my omelet was a glorious whole egg sunshine yellow. My mood was almost as sunny as my plate of food, the only downer being a note left on the fridge that said, in brilliant turquoise Sharpie-pen calligraphy:

Hi Honey,

I have my personal training session

this AM @ the gym, then a spa appointment,

followed by the hairdresser, so I’ll be busy
most of the day!

Call me if you miss me!

Smooches! J P

Not only did she actually draw a frickin’ happy face, she put little hearts over her i’s instead of dots. Oh man, Icky, ick, ick!
Ranger had read it and grinned, then tossed it aside on the counter. Sure, I know Sara, as Penelope, was just playing a role, but it irked me nonetheless.
Now we were eating in silence. Ranger had finished his omelet and was absently forking chunks of fresh fruit into his mouth. It should have been sexy, but while he chewed he was staring at the kitchen curtains like he might pull out his gun and shoot.
I knew the feeling. This kitchen / great room was spacious, sunny and beautiful. It overlooked a pool, a patio and a garden, then beyond all that was a section of a golf course, all rolling emerald green lawn. And beyond that, way off, miles in the distance, was a strip of hazy dark blue water---I was guessing Long Island Sound. Any ocean view---water view---would jack up the price of a house in this area by maybe a million bucks.
And whoever did the interior décor had made this space into a perfectly French country kitchen, with warm colors and rustic iron-hinged cherry cabinets and honey colored granite counters, red brick-like tile floor, and copper dust catchers---I mean pots and pans --- hanging above the work island. So far so good? Well, the thing was, all the curtains, drapes, chair cushions, sofas in the larger room, even the friggin’ placemats, you name it—were covered in coordinating tiny paisley-ish red and mustard yellow Provencal cotton prints—all different , all matching. I knew what it was because Valerie had dragged me to Calico Corners once to see a cut-rate version that she said she just had to have. (Lucky for us, Albert’s practice wasn’t doing so hot, so she had to just go with new cream-colored paint instead.)
Ranger kept looking at the café curtains behind me, his eyes dark and not pleased.
Finally he said, "Babe, I swear there are chickens and chicken wire fencing on those things." He jerked his chin and I turned to look closer. Yep—roosters!
"It looks like the street market in Guadalajara. Only worse," he added.
Oh man. I giggled and he cut his eyes to me. I laughed out loud and he finally cracked up too, our laughter banishing any lingering anxieties from last night. We laughed so hard, my eyes were tearing up. Ranger reached out and squeezed my hand, his hand warm and callused against my palm.
He said, "That’s how I love to see you…all rosy and laughing, babe. Memories of your face have brought me light in some very dark places…."
I held his hand and our eyes did the speaking for a long moment, til I got uncomfortable with demonstrative Ranger. See! His usual silent and deadly persona—actually it suits me fine.
I popped a strawberry in my mouth while I groped for a subject change and heard myself blurt out, "Sooooo, Ranger , how is Julie?"
Pause, pause, pause, pause. His eyes were watching me chew the ripe juicy berry and I wasn’t sure he even heard me. He squirmed a little in his chair, his ass on the bright yellow and red chicken print cushion and he answered, "She’s great."
"What is she, 15? 16 now?"
"She’s 15."
"Hard to imagine! Does she have a boyfriend yet?"
"She never said, she must want him to live."
"Ooooh. Scary! I can just see you being the big bad scary daddy."
"Ron is her dad."
"That wouldn’t stop you."
"I guess not. But actually she is a good, sweet girl, a serious student—gets good grades and so on. Plays softball and lacrosse and field hockey ."
"Mmmm-hmmm." Yikes! Very preppy. I wondered where she went to school these days.
"She’s already talking about colleges, wants to come up here, do the Ivy League college thing, maybe Harvard."
I figured Ranger could afford it, but still.
I said, "She must be very smart."
No point in asking if Julie was (still) beautiful---she looked just like him, only daintier. And we all now how gorgeous he is, right?
"She is smart, she wants to go into the family business someday…."
Now it was my turn to sit in silence. Finally I got hold of myself and cautiously asked, "Julie want to be a black ops assassin when she grows up?" What was he thinking!
"Babe. Cyber banking. It’s the future of world economics."
"Oh. Oh! Good!"
Maybe being an assassin wasn’t so bad after all--- poor Julie, what a future! An economist. Geez.
Ranger shoved back his chair and in his Ricky voice said, "Let’s go buy you a car, hermosita."