One To Watch
Fantasy Heights, Book 5
A vengeful crime lord put a bounty on ten codes. He captured the code writer and handed him over to us. We have three days to interrogate the writer and extract his codes. If we can’t deliver, we become liabilities who know too much. Say anything, do anything it takes. We need those codes. Our lives depend on it.
Derek and his crazy organic scripts.
Amanda tucked the scene pages back into her carryall. “I can do this. I can play a bad guy’s henchman.”
She blew out a breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to focus on what mattered. The client mattered. The fantasy mattered. Much better she obsess about her performance than fall prey to the fears and suspicions awaiting her outside this set.
Discipline, she reminded herself. She focused on the list Derek had taped by the door. The top said ten pieces of code. Beneath were blank lines numbered one to ten.
Already she could see Derek’s prediction was coming true. He’d said the client would give up a few pieces right away and make them work harder and harder for the rest. Halfway into their first day, Derek had filled in the top two blanks with North and down-down .
So far, so good. Pity she was only scheduled on the first and third days of this fantasy for brief, specific scenes. She liked working with Derek. Disruptive chemistry aside, she learned a lot from his specialty scripts.
Besides. It felt good to channel the tough, edgy henchman energy onto a harmless client. Others, like Thomas or Josh or Fiona Cornell, might not escape unharmed. They would be lucky to leave the set without bamboo shoved under their nails.
A yellow LED light blinked above the set door. Almost time to go on. She turned to check herself in the mirror. Her hair sat in a bun cinched tight atop her head. The wardrobe was pure tart: black pushup bra and burgundy shirt showing maximum cleavage, black pencil-slim skirt hiding black thigh-high silk hosiery and garters.
To her mind, she didn’t look terribly threatening, but every detail matched the client’s vision. He wanted a dark temptress to call upon desires he wouldn’t dare indulge in everyday life. If all went well, he would likely never forget the next twenty minutes.
The green cue-light above the door began to blink. Time to go on.
She wrapped her hand around the doorknob, then closed her eyes. Codes. Desperate. Stop at nothing.
Hardened through, Amanda turned the knob and entered the compact, ten-by-ten interrogation set. A wide two-way mirror dominated the wall to her right. Everything else was drab. Grungy green walls faded into industrial gray floor tiles. Someone had shoved a scarred gunmetal table into one shadowed corner. Overhead, a bare-bulbed fixture sprayed raw light on Brent, their client. Youngish. Average-looking guy. Dark hair, recently cut. Scruffy beard on pale white skin.
He sat in a plain wooden chair, wrists bound behind his back, ankles bound to the chair legs. He wore a black tank top and nothing else. His penis, half erect, began to stiffen slowly as his eyes sought and clung to Amanda’s breasts while she neared the circle of light.
Behind him in another chair sat Derek. He leaned forward, unseen by the client, to speak quietly, calmly, right next to Brent’s ear. “She can give you what you want.”
The client’s jaw set stubbornly, and his gaze travelled to the black stilettos on Amanda’s feet.
She clasped her hands behind her back and watched Derek. Unlike their client, he looked fresh as the proverbial daisy, brown hair at its unruly best, his unconventionally handsome features alert and mischievous. He continued to murmur in the client’s ear, too softly for her to make out what he said. His eyes swept up to meet hers a couple times but there was nothing in them for her. Not a greeting, not warmth, nothing. He was completely focused on the client.
Left to wait, she fixed a guarded expression on her features and allowed her attention to wander
Fantasy Heights, Book 5
A vengeful crime lord put a bounty on ten codes. He captured the code writer and handed him over to us. We have three days to interrogate the writer and extract his codes. If we can’t deliver, we become liabilities who know too much. Say anything, do anything it takes. We need those codes. Our lives depend on it.
Derek and his crazy organic scripts.
Amanda tucked the scene pages back into her carryall. “I can do this. I can play a bad guy’s henchman.”
She blew out a breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to focus on what mattered. The client mattered. The fantasy mattered. Much better she obsess about her performance than fall prey to the fears and suspicions awaiting her outside this set.
Discipline, she reminded herself. She focused on the list Derek had taped by the door. The top said ten pieces of code. Beneath were blank lines numbered one to ten.
Already she could see Derek’s prediction was coming true. He’d said the client would give up a few pieces right away and make them work harder and harder for the rest. Halfway into their first day, Derek had filled in the top two blanks with North and down-down .
So far, so good. Pity she was only scheduled on the first and third days of this fantasy for brief, specific scenes. She liked working with Derek. Disruptive chemistry aside, she learned a lot from his specialty scripts.
Besides. It felt good to channel the tough, edgy henchman energy onto a harmless client. Others, like Thomas or Josh or Fiona Cornell, might not escape unharmed. They would be lucky to leave the set without bamboo shoved under their nails.
A yellow LED light blinked above the set door. Almost time to go on. She turned to check herself in the mirror. Her hair sat in a bun cinched tight atop her head. The wardrobe was pure tart: black pushup bra and burgundy shirt showing maximum cleavage, black pencil-slim skirt hiding black thigh-high silk hosiery and garters.
To her mind, she didn’t look terribly threatening, but every detail matched the client’s vision. He wanted a dark temptress to call upon desires he wouldn’t dare indulge in everyday life. If all went well, he would likely never forget the next twenty minutes.
The green cue-light above the door began to blink. Time to go on.
She wrapped her hand around the doorknob, then closed her eyes. Codes. Desperate. Stop at nothing.
Hardened through, Amanda turned the knob and entered the compact, ten-by-ten interrogation set. A wide two-way mirror dominated the wall to her right. Everything else was drab. Grungy green walls faded into industrial gray floor tiles. Someone had shoved a scarred gunmetal table into one shadowed corner. Overhead, a bare-bulbed fixture sprayed raw light on Brent, their client. Youngish. Average-looking guy. Dark hair, recently cut. Scruffy beard on pale white skin.
He sat in a plain wooden chair, wrists bound behind his back, ankles bound to the chair legs. He wore a black tank top and nothing else. His penis, half erect, began to stiffen slowly as his eyes sought and clung to Amanda’s breasts while she neared the circle of light.
Behind him in another chair sat Derek. He leaned forward, unseen by the client, to speak quietly, calmly, right next to Brent’s ear. “She can give you what you want.”
The client’s jaw set stubbornly, and his gaze travelled to the black stilettos on Amanda’s feet.
She clasped her hands behind her back and watched Derek. Unlike their client, he looked fresh as the proverbial daisy, brown hair at its unruly best, his unconventionally handsome features alert and mischievous. He continued to murmur in the client’s ear, too softly for her to make out what he said. His eyes swept up to meet hers a couple times but there was nothing in them for her. Not a greeting, not warmth, nothing. He was completely focused on the client.
Left to wait, she fixed a guarded expression on her features and allowed her attention to wander
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