Tellings of the Time: Complete series

8. 7

The app on my phone lets me know there’s someone outside the front door later that afternoon while I am getting ready for a night of binge-watching something horrible and mind-numbing. By now every time the doorbell rings, my eyelid begins to twitch. There have been so many times that damn thing has rung in the last few months to announce awful things on the other side of the door that I’ve become anxious from just hearing the sound. I’m not expecting anyone, I haven’t ordered anything, and it makes me not want to open the damn thing.

So I check the front door camera feed on my phone before deciding whether to open up.

It’s Beckett.

Looking fine as all hell. He’s leaning against the wall right next to the door, scrolling his phone while waiting for someone to answer. He isn’t wearing his usual work attire, but seems to be dressed up in a fancy dark coat and navy slacks. What’s he up to?

My phone buzzes and I stare down.

Beckett: Quit staring at your screen and open the damn door.

I chuckle, forcing myself to get moving and answer the door. Perhaps I fucked up by starting to date a profiler. He knows my next move before I do.

“Hello there, Special Agent,” I answer the door, trying to pull off a seducing move but fucking it all up because I start laughing at myself straight away. He smirks anyway, the glint in his eyes telling me he’s up to no good.

“You were staring at your screen, weren’t you?” he gloats.

“Don’t make me slam the door in your face,” I warn him, holding a finger up and giving him my best bitchy look. I’d really do it too.

“You want to put on your fancy pants before you slam the door,” he says.

“What?”

“Last time I took you out on a date, without you realizing it was a date, you said you’d put on your fancy leather pants instead of your regular ones if you had known it was a date. So, go put on your fancy leather pants.”

“We’re going on a date?” I say incredulously, my mind trying to catch up.

“Yeah.”

“What are we doing?”

I don’t wait for him to answer me. I just turn around and hurry upstairs to go change into said fancy leather pants. Beckett doesn’t follow me in, so I don’t hear if he answers me.

Wriggling out of my jeans, I grab the black leathers that make my ass look great, all plump and biteable, and make my legs look athletic. Feeling a little giddy, I decide to go commando, put the pants on and give myself a quick glance in the mirror. Yeah. Fancy pants indeed.

From the depths of my closet, I grab a burgundy top that’s more lace than fabric, because I know the color matches the tone of my skin, and it makes my boobs look about as awesome as my ass.

I finish the look with biker boots, but I can’t be bothered to do my hair or make up. This morning’s look is this evening’s smokey eyes. I’m sure there are influencers out there who agree with me.

I rush downstairs, finding Beckett in the same position. When he notices me coming down, he looks up from his phone, and his smile lights up my life. He grabs my forearm when I’m in reach, pulling me to him and giving me an appreciative once-over.

“You clean up nicely.”

“Well, these are my fancy pants.”

He grunts and spins me so that my back is against his front, and he starts walking me towards his car.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises!”

“You’ll love this one.”

I’m pretty sure he can’t see me rolling my eyes, but he softly chuckles anyway.

“I love this surprise!” I shout when I take a sip of a Belgium Owl, a whiskey from Belgium’s only whiskey distillery. I taste hints of vanilla combined with ginger, topped off with something citrusy. It’s a really nice whiskey.

“Told you,” Beckett says, taking a sip himself. He isn’t much of a fan himself, but he kept telling me he wanted to take me out for some fun, something just for me. And it might be the booze-talking, but I’m really having a good time.

The Portland Whiskey Festival is busy with people drinking their little hearts out. I see people from all walks of life – old dudes in fancy suits drinking expensive aged whiskeys, hipsters trying out some brews from lesser-known houses and some biker guys, throwing them back like they’re drinking water. I’m unsure which category I fit exactly in, but it feels like I fit anyway.

Draining my glass, I feel the alcohol go to my head. Whoo. This one was so smooth I didn’t feel it go down my throat. Sure, most of the time, I’ve got a pretty high tolerance, but the evil alcohol can get to me sometimes as well.

And I might be a little drunk on my date.

Beckett has been the perfect gentleman all night, buying me all the different whiskeys I wanted to taste, ensuring I ate something between drinks, and keeping a pleasant conversation going all evening. We haven’t talked about work once, just getting to know all the tiny details about each other like you normally do at the beginning of a relationship. We talked about hopes and dreams, the present and the future, even if I haven’t asked him what ‘staying here’ entails exactly. Not even whiskey can make me brave enough for that.

“Wait!” I suddenly yelp, grabbing Beckett by his forearm. His pretty, pretty, mouthwatering forearm. God, I’ve got a thing for pretty arms, and his are up there, especially when he’s aiming a gun.

“What for?”

“You drove us here!” I say. There’s a possibility I might be shouting louder than I should, but my inhibitions are practically nonexistent right now.

“Yeah,” he says, smirking, making that little dimple appear. Damn. It’s like fucking kryptonite, that thing.

“Are you going to drive drunk? You’ve drunk almost as much as I did! Wait, why aren’t you plastered? You seem so cool and collected. You’re always cool and collected. I’d like to see you board the hot mess train.”

He chuckles. “I’m not breaking the law, I’m not driving drunkenly, and I’ve got a way of getting us home.”

“Is it the hot mess train?”

This time, he laughs out loud. “No.”

“Sad.”

“Come on, pick one last drink before we hit the road for the road, and then I’m getting you home. Even if I’m convinced, you’re already on the hot mess train.”

I flick my hair, trying to make a statement, and failing epically because I lose my balance and Beckett has to grab me. “I’m an awesome drunk, thank you very much.”

“Never said otherwise,” he says, his eyes glistening as he looks down on me in amusement.

We start walking, passing the different stalls that sell all different kinds of whiskey, and they all sound amazing, which probably means that I’m more intoxicated than I think, because usually I’m more picky than this.

“You know what?” I say, coming to a standstill. “Let’s skip the one for the road. It’s only going to do more harm than good.”

“Look at you, being all wise.” He grabs his phone and starts texting while he walks me in the opposite direction of where we just came from towards the exit.

“Yeah, I’ll be terrible in the sack if I become a sloppy drunk.”

Raised eyebrow. Amused look. Confusion on my part because all I did was speak the truth.

“Are you putting out on the first date?” he asks.

“This isn’t our first date. We went on a date without me knowing it was a date, and then I put out after you took me chasing after a serial killer.”

He laughs out loud. “I like you this relaxed, not thinking so hard. You don’t let go all that much, right?”

“Never. Control is one of my best qualities.”

“What’s so different that you can let go tonight?”

I squint my eyes, trying to figure out what’s different tonight. Because the man has a point. I am letting go more than I normally would, and I don’t even mind it. The answer comes easily.

“It’s you.”

All sounds around us disappear, leaving us with a deafening silence.

“You make me feel as though I don’t have to be in control all the time because I know that no matter what happens, you’ve got my back.”

His eyes light up like fire.

“It’s freeing, really,” I conclude.

The tension between us remains, and I notice how easily I can remain silent with him while still remaining comfortable. Before I know it, we’ve gotten our coats from the wardrobe and were standing outside of the event. We’ve reached Beckett’s car, and we’re leaning against it. I’m tucked beneath Beckett’s arm, feeling the cold air chill my cheeks. For once, I like feeling like a little girl who can be protected by her big alpha man. I’ll never admit to that soberly. I like being the one with the biggest balls all the damn time.

“How are we getting home?” I suddenly ask. We can’t stay here all night, can we?

“Patience,” he says.

“Young grasshopper,” I finish for him, earning me a confused look. “Oh come on, you know Star Wars, right?”

“Never seen it,” he says with a smirk.

“Never, ever, let Chester hear that.”

“Never ever let Chester hear what?” Chester says, hanging out of the open window of a familiar car that passes by. And I’m now really questioning my sanity and exactly how drunk I am. Chester can’t possibly be here.

“They’ll never ever tell, love,” Remy says from behind the steering wheel. I know that steering wheel. I know that car. That is my car.

“Spoilsport,” Chester says as he opens the door and climbs out of my car. Beckett holds out his dangling car keys, which Chester proceeds to take from him. He opens Beckett’s government-issued car and takes place behind the wheel.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“Chester is driving us home, Remy will take your truck back.”

It’s like a light bulb goes on. “You planned this.”

“I sure did.” He opens the door for me and waits until I get in. I scooch over to the other side of the car, and Beckett sits down in the seat next to me. Motherfucker even goes as far as to fasten my seatbelt, leaving me with a sickeningly in love, droopy smile on my face.

Chester starts the car, only to furiously start browsing through the radio channels, not finding anything he likes, so he pulls out his phone and starts playing Chop Suey by System of a Down. Beckett’s face contorts, but he doesn’t say anything about it. It’s the perfect mix between melodic rock and utter eardrum-puncturing noise.

“You’re all in on this,” I say, staring at Beckett’s pretty, pretty face.

“We all thought you could use a night off,” Chester answers.

It’s the exact moment I know that they’re all willing to make this work. This crazy, ridiculous form of a relationship. In every other reality, this is bound to end badly. This isn’t supposed to work, but they’re making certain it does. Robin and her husbands are the living proof it can happen, but I didn’t see it working out in the long run for myself until now.

I unbuckle myself, sliding over to the middle seat and grabbing Beckett’s face in both of my hands, kissing the shit out of him. He reciprocates the kiss for a second before pushing me back.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

“Really?” I exclaim, outraged. “That’s what you have to say to that?”

“We’re being driven by someone who forged his driver’s license. I’d feel infinitely better knowing you’re at least wearing your seatbelt.”

Chester cackles, but I have to admit the man has a point. So I strap myself in but wiggle my arm out of it, so I can turn towards him and continue my kissing. This time, he lets me.

I can still taste hints of the whiskey in his mouth when he opens up for me. It tastes really good on him, and a moan leaves my mouth.

“Don’t moan like that. We’ll never make it to the house,” Beckett says while he takes my bottom lip between his teeth and bites down. I’m sure that sober, I’d have a lot of objections to that, but right now, it’s just lighting a match and throwing it in a barrel of fuel.

“Twenty minutes is too long,” I whisper, recognizing the whining tone of my voice.

Beckett grunts, agreeing with that assessment. I start kissing my way down his neck, letting my hands roam over his body. I can feel the hard ridges of his muscles beneath his clothes, and I kind of want to lick them.

I really must be drunk to risk getting arrested for indecent exposure with a federal officer. But there isn’t a cell in my body telling me this is a bad idea right now.

My hands disappear beneath his shirt, gliding over his warm skin. I don’t know about him, but he makes me feel all kinds of tingly. In my state, I can understand the appeal of marking him because I’d sure like to do that right now.

His hands weave through my hair, guiding my head while I kiss him all over.

I fumble with the button of his pants because I need to get in them. Right fucking now.

“Why are you wearing such tight pants?” I ask between my kisses.

“They weren’t tight a couple of minutes ago,” he says between gritted teeth, his hands going up over my bare back, humming and biting down on my earlobe.

“This is getting interesting,” Chester says from up front, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

“Eyes on the road, hacker boy,” Beckett says.

I finally get Beckett’s pants loose, and am about to unbutton my pants so I can crawl into his lap and have my wicked ways with him, but then I remember it. The fancy pants. The fancy leather pants make my ass look incredible, but will be utterly impossible to get off on the backseat of a car. Going commando is doing me a fat lot of good when I can’t even get to the good part.

Fuck.

“Sometimes I hate your ideas,” I mumble, calling him every curse name in my arsenal.

“What did I do now?”

I sink my hand under his briefs and grab the silky skin of his shaft, taking it in my hand and out of his underwear. “You insisted I wear the fancy pants,” I say, giving a few good pulls while he throws his head back and grunts, grabbing my hair in his fist. “And now I can’t get them off in here, because they’re too tight.” I slide back in my seat, bend forward, and line the fat head of his cock up with my mouth. “So now, instead of being reckless and riding you while we’re getting a ride, I’m just going to have to give you the best head of your life.” I twirl my tongue around his tip, lowering myself and licking him from the base of his shaft all the way up.

There might be some overconfidence going on because of the inebriation.

“Sucks,” bob, “to,” lick, “be,” bob again, taking him deeper, “me.”

“Doesn’t suck to be Beckett,” Chester says. I catch him checking his rearview mirror every chance he gets, but I soon get distracted by what I’m doing. One of those whiskeys turned me into a horny drunk. The only other logical explanation is that I’m always horny nowadays. Which might be true.

Beckett keeps grunting, either too drunk to care that Chester is in the car or just generally on board with him being there. His breathing becomes harder the more I suck him.

“Ten minutes until we’re home,” Chester warns us, but his voice’s raw edge lets me know he’s enjoying this little show himself.

I try to answer, but my answer is shut off because of dick-mouth.

“Go around the block if you have to,” Beckett suggests. I don’t know whether to feel good about myself that he wants this to last or insulted that he thinks I won’t be able to get him off in ten minutes.

“Just use the hand you have in her hair and get a little rough with her,” Chester says, and I can feel his eyes on me even if I can’t see them right then. “You’ll be doing both of you a favor.”

He hesitates before he grabs my hair more firmly and uses the hold he has over me to push me down. Just a little at first. When he meets no resistance or objections, he starts guiding my head more forcefully.

And I can’t help the sinful sounds that come out of me.

He hits the back of my throat, making me gag and my eyes water. I force myself to relax my throat some more, but he takes it as a sign to cut back on the roughness, which is about the last thing I want.

Chester’s got me, though.

“Don’t stop now, keep going.”

I hum in agreement, trying not to think about how I’m soaking my pants right now. Beckett seems to get the message now, guiding my mouth up and down his shaft. I scrape my teeth a little, adding some fire, earning me a hissed ‘Fuck’.

I try to twirl my tongue, but I’m hopelessly being mouthfucked, so all I can do is hollow my cheeks and suck him off best I can. I fondle his balls, but I can’t really reach them because his pants are only halfway down.

“Five minutes.”

Beckett responds by lifting his hips, hitting me even further in the back of my throat. His free hand reaches around me and he grabs my boob, massaging it, squeezing it roughly. He seems to no longer be here, completely lost in sensation. Grunting and groaning until he picks up his pace, keeping it up for a good while.

I can feel his dick throb and grow in my mouth, so I make sure to keep a steady rhythm, working him up into a frenzy. Everything is wet from saliva and precum. It’s sloppy and wild, and it’s everything my little heart can possibly hope for.

When his body goes rigid, his hand pulls my hair so hard I’m pretty sure he’s ripping hair out, until I taste salty cum being shot against the back of my throat. There isn’t much swallowing to do when you consider how deep in my mouth he releases. I suck him down some more, making sure I’ve got all he has to give and try to clean his cock up as best as I can while slowly releasing him from my mouth.

Our eyes meet when I sit up again, tucking his cock back inside his pants and giving him a drunken and satisfied grin. A look that is mirrored by him.

“Damn,” Chester summarizes, while he pulls up into our driveway.

Remy is already there, leaning against my car, arms crossed in front of his chest and his hands tucked beneath his armpits. While he looks cold, he looks happy.

“Took you long enough,” Remy says when we get out of the car.

“Blame Becky,” Chester says.

“What’d he do?”

“Have the perfect cock and distract me.”

Remy tilts his head, his line of sight set on said cock, now neatly tucked away beneath his pants. I check out what Beckett thinks of all of this and find his cheeks pink.

“Sure you don’t swing both ways?” Remy asks, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry,” the FBI agent answers, staring at me because I’m all who he has eyes for.

“Shame,” Chester says, grabbing Remy by the arm and tugging him to the front door.

“What’s the hurry?” Remy asks, the smile in his voice clearly audible.

“Well, you try to drive with real-life porn on the back seat and not get horny. I think Beckett has a date inside Abby’s pants, so I will ravage you, Mister Ashburn.”

All four of us hurry inside after that, because that sums it up pretty perfectly.

I’m off today, just slightly, but still off. I don’t hit my targets the way I usually do. I blame it on old age and alcohol. You know that myth that your hangovers get worse once you get older? Turns out that’s not so much a myth. The older I become, the longer I need to feel up to speed again.

So here I am, a day after my date with Beckett, on the shooting range, and I’m off. Which is really annoying the freaking crap out of me. I take pride in my gunmanship and being able to perform under some pretty bizarre circumstances, but today, I’m defeated by a hangover.

I push the red button with way more force than I rightfully should. The paper target flies toward me and I’m cursing silently when I take it off.

Chester, who sits on the counter at the front of the shooting range, looks up from his laptop. He gives me a questioning look when I crumple the target in my hands.

“I’m off,” I explain.

He frowns, puts his laptop down and takes the paper from my hand, skilfully smoothening it back out again. He studies the target.

“You mean that instead of only the head and the heart, you also managed to make a few shots to the abdomen and the neck?”

“Yes,” I hiss.

“Those are still pretty lethal.”

“Yeah, but they were not what I was aiming for,” I sulk.

He gives me a panty-melting smile. “You’re being too harsh on yourself.” He walks around me, hangs another target and makes it fly back out again. Then he reloads my gun and hands it to me, safety on, of course.

He stands behind me, brings his mouth close to my ear, and says: “For every hit in this target, I’ll make you come.”

It’s the very last thing I expect him to say. I swallow hard and bite the side of my lip softly. It’s a very good incentive. He doesn’t move away, staying directly behind me, putting his hands on my body, and letting them roam. The backs of his fingers stroke my sides before his hands glide over my thighs, from my knees up, until the back of his thumbs almost graze my pussy.

I get my breathing under control before I get my head into the game and take aim, emptying my clip as fast as I possibly can. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep a clear head.

When one of his hands slides upwards over my stomach until it’s between my breasts, I’ve completely forgotten why I was letting my day be ruined by target practice. I quickly hit the red button so we can take score.

All the hits are perfect.

“Guess you have a busy evening ahead,” I say.

“Worth it,” he says, kissing the nape of my neck. “All you had to do was stop thinking about everything going wrong and focus on your goals.”

“Yes, now that I don’t have to become a bitter old bitty with seven cats because I’ll end up alone, I’ll just become a grumpy old woman because I’ve lost my aim. But at least I’ll be getting some.”

I meant it as a joke, but Chester stiffens behind me. His hands suddenly leave my body and he takes a step back. When I turn around, I find him with his hands in his hair. He’s looking, but he isn’t seeing, somewhere stuck in his mind.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I don’t see what I said that was wrong, but perhaps I triggered something with Chester that I’m not even aware of.

“Bitter,” he says.

“Bitter?”

He grabs his laptop and starts typing away on it. Screens fly past and he types so fast that I can’t keep up. I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on, what I did wrong or even how to start fixing this.

“You’re freaking me out,” I state because I don’t know what the hell I should do. One second, we’re all hot and thinking about a night filled with orgasms. He’s almost hyperventilating and not talking to me. He’s not spinning his thumb ring at least, which is a good sign, but it’s even more confusing.

“It’s just…” he says, before he falls quiet and his eyes go over his screen. “There!” he yells. “It’s right there!”

“What is right there?” If this was anyone other than Chester, I’d be freaking the hell out.

“Bitters!”

“I’m still not following…”

“Bitters is the name of the lawyer Farid used, you know, child trafficker, had a nice house, now ruined by a bomb?”

“Remember him. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“My father’s lawyer is in a firm called Barnes, Barclay and Bitters. It’s the same Bitters as the one who’s representing Farid.”

I squint my eyes. “So?”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence that my father has ties to a lawyer who just happens to be a partner at the same firm of another lawyer who represents a child-selling scumbag of a man. I’m pretty fucking sure my father is up to no good, suddenly offering money, showing up left, right and center. What if we’re getting too close for his liking because Bitters and all the others are a bunch of dirty assholes who cover up for rich men who have stuff to hide. Stuff like a child molesting nanny?”

I take a moment to let that sink in.

“We don’t believe in coincidences,” I answer.

“Exactly.”

“So what does this mean?”

“That this whole thing stinks. And I need to get to the bottom of it.”

He keeps typing on his laptop, opening and closing screens again. I wouldn’t even know where to start or what it is he’s looking for. Chester gets frustrated with it as well, because it’s not even a minute later when he throws his hands up in the air and declares he needs more screens to figure this out.

So we pack our stuff up and head back to the office.

Instead of things getting better, everything seems to get more complicated. It’s not like I don’t know there are people out there doing bad things, but there seem to be more and more every day. Rationally, I know that isn’t true – there are just as many out there today as there were yesterday. Lately, everyone around me seems to be going to the dark side.

We always knew that Chester’s parents were bad news, but this makes it that much more serious. What have they got to do with this child trafficking ring?

And someone high up inside the FBI is dirty. That one makes my stomach recoil.

Other than that, there’s Wayne. Motherfucking Wayne. Waiting, running, killing women.

It’s personal.

That’s the difference. There were always criminals out there, and we were catching some of them and making the world a better place. Now? We still do that. Trouble finds us personally as well.

It’s demoralizing.

But at the same time, it lights a fire. We’re getting to the bottom of this.

And we’re going to get them all.