The beginning of the flashback scene near the end of this chapter is a brief rated-R scene. You have been told.

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Casey

As part of his 'lovely' hotshot-rising-criminal career act, Casey was led away in handcuffs by an FBI agent. Another agent had bloodthirsty ninja handcuffed, half-dragging them since they were still unconscious. Casey wondered what they looked like underneath that hood and mask, but he figured in due time he'd find out. As he was being ushered into the backseat of an FBI agent's SVU, he saw Khartov and Markin (sporting some pretty handcuffs and fresh bruises) also being forced into separate vehicles. Who knew what they were thinking, but Casey hoped the last thought on their mind was suspecting Casey was the squealer here.

The car door shut, the engine sputtering. As the SVU took off, Casey tried to get as comfortable as one could get with a fucked-up thigh, but it wasn't easy. On the bright side, he finally had his first bad-ass scar! He survived a ninja attack! Whupee!

He tried to focus on something else— like 'White Knight', for example. Why was he there in the first place? Why was he at odds with another ninja? Could there be more of them out there? But of course, the million-dollar question was how the hell White Knight knew his name. What other things did he know about Casey? Did this mean. . . Casey was being watched?

God, he hoped not. White Knight had no business knowing that Casey wasn't going keto like he told his hockey buddies he would, or that Casey and his ex-girlfriend role played, where he had the cuffs on and she was dressed in a super sexy police costume.

Anyway. . . after what went down, Casey had no idea whether this White Knight was a 'good guy' or a 'bad guy.' It wasn't like he was a total 'bad guy'— saving his ass and everything— but still, he was hiding something. And calling out Casey's name? Yeah, that totally wasn't super suspicious or anything.

"First we'll take you to the hospital to patch up your wound," the agent driving said. That was Agent Murphy, the guy who pushed Casey so hard that it made him angry. There was already so much pressure to say what he had to say and do what he had to do when he was in a room with a gangster who would put a bullet in his head if they found out who he was, but it was like Agent Murphy didn't understand.

Okay, that was an overstatement. Agent Murphy was the senior agent here; he understood perfectly. God knew how many times he went undercover and did things out of the norm just to keep his cover intact. Maybe Agent Murphy knew what it was like, but why wouldn't he back off sometimes?

"Thanks," Casey breathed. "But can you take these handcuffs off? They feel a little tight."

Agent Murphy signaled a hand wave.

The agent next to Casey said, "Sorry. The arrest had to look good." She had Casey turn diagonally so she could reach behind him. Her name was Agent Hudson— Mr. Pushy's partner and one of the few agents who actually seemed to show a twinge of sympathy towards Casey's situation here. She was seriously pretty— curly hair like spaghetti, sparkling brown eyes, and those kiss-me lips— enough to impress any modeling agency, but it looked like her interests laid elsewhere that didn't include wearing skin-tight dresses and posing in front of the camera. Oh, well. Hot and in a position of charge? Exactly his type!

"What happened back there, Casey?" Agent Murphy asked. "Everything was going fine and we were about to make the arrest until—"

"Look, I have no idea what happened," Casey said. "I mean, the buyers' clearly knew something was up before Khartov and Markin did. At first I panicked and thought they knew about you guys, but. . ."

". . . But what?"

Casey sighed. "Out of nowhere came this group of guys. They kinda wore the same costume the buyers' were wearing— ninja suits. I tried to stop one of the buyers' from escaping, but one of the guys who crashed the party saved me from the buyers' aim of doom. The other buyer got away with the drugs, so. . . sorry about that."

Agent Hudson looked like she was taking in Casey's story. "Dressed in ninja costumes, you say?"

"Yep. They also used swords and other ninja weapons. Pretty weird, huh?"

Agent Murphy grunted. "Pretty outdated, aren't they? Well, at least the buyer left behind can explain his 'interesting' costume choice when we question him at headquarters. On the other hand. . ."

"The drugs, I know. The one thing that could put away Khartov and Markin so they can give up their gorgeously blood-sucking boss is gone and I've screwed up badly." Casey thought about something for a moment. "But you guys can still throw Khartov and Markin's asses in jail, right?"

Agent Hudson tsked. "We can try, but Petrova's lawyers will have them out before the midday. And then we'll be back to square one."

"Don't forget Khartov and Markin are only small fish in the big pond," Agent Murphy reminded. "We need them to lead us to the guy who manufactured the drugs that was going to lead to a successful arrest— The Count— and in turn, The Count would give up the big fish."

"What are we going to tell the Chief? A bag of drugs is gone and—"

"He'll be displeased, I know, but we can still do this. We can question the buyer in custody. We still have Casey."

Casey batted an eye at that last statement. "No offense, but what more use do I have for you guys? I'm pretty sure that buyer knows way more than I do."

"We can question the buyer all we'd like, but sometimes they're not in a chatty mood." Agent Murphy took a hard right. Casey crashed right into Agent Hudson. Ooh, what was that scent she wearing? It smelled like a dusty flower in the spring and— Agent Hudson shoved him off. "You're the best we've got. We'll send you back in and then—"

"Wait, what?" It was extremely rude to cut off the senior agent when he was talking, but Casey's manners were not so important right now as to his confusion towards what Agent Murphy said— or what he was about to say, actually. "Why? I—I mean I gave you every ounce of information I've overheard among those goons. What more do you need?"

"It's not enough. We either need The Count or something solid to take down Petrova. Besides, her men seem to like you."

"If by 'like' you mean glaring at me and whispering behind my back while I serve them their vodka, then yeah."

"They trust you."

"Clearly not if we haven't reached the 'shake hands and confide your secrets' stage."

"You have for Khartov and Markin."

"I did everything you've asked from me! You said I had one job and then I was done." Casey crossed his arms and stomped his foot like a child having a hissy fit. He hated how almost childish he sounded, but you can't back out on a deal!

"We needed the drugs in our possession so the arrest could be rock-solid, but since it wasn't, Agent Murphy and I can't let you off the hook just yet," Agent Hudson explained calmly.

Never trust a pretty woman, someone said. Unfortunately. . . "Then I quit," Casey announced.

In the rearview window, Casey saw Agent Murphy roll his eyes. "You can't quit, Casey."

"I just did."

"Are you forgetting that Agent Hudson and I are the reason why your home isn't a six by eight feet room with no windows? You're done when we say you're done."

Playing the staying-out-of-jail card now, are we?

Casey harrumphed. He decided to stare out the tinted window to distract his mind from this bullshit.

Agent Murphy blew out a sigh and took his tone down a notch. "Look, Casey, all you have to do is complete what we're asking you to do and then you'll be done."

Casey's reflection stared back at him. What more could he do if he was stuck? Agent Hudson and Murphy were only trying to pull him out, so he couldn't— shouldn't whine about it like a little bitch. But he hated what working as an informant did to him— feeling jumpy and anxious, a new fear of one day being dragged to a secret hideout to make him disappear permanently, isolating himself from his little sister and friends. Casey then went to thinking: one day in the future, will I be Agent Hudson or Agent Murphy? Tasked with prepping and taking care of my informant? Because that day would come, for sure; it was part of his dream job.

But just because it was part of the job, didn't mean he had to like it. Casey tugged at the cuffs of his aviator jacket. "Okay," he said.

A silent agreement passed between the three of them. Casey was no fan of how the atmosphere was so awkward without some music playing. Were FBI agents just not allowed while driving in case they had to respond to an emergency? Agent Murphy kinda looked liked the guy to listen to rowdy country music, while Agent Hudson. . . actually, Casey had no idea. But maybe she was into those ninety's songs. Yeah, that made sense.

"Hey, you guys are still investigating the other thing I asked, right?" Casey asked the agents several minutes after.

Once again, that very awkward moment of silence Casey hated so much returned. Seriously, where was that good music when you needed it?

Agent Hudson and Murphy simultaneously answered, "Right."

***

THEN, SIX MONTHS AGO

Lust was in the air. The moans and breathless grunts that reverberated off the walls were evidence of the pleasure Casey and famed beauty dancer 'Siesta' were lathering in at the height of their climax. Ah, this was what Casey needed after a hard day— her riding him like a fucking cowgirl. The thrusting of her hips as she rotated between moving forwards and backwards was enough to send Casey's sex drive into a frenzy. His past relationships were good at this, but Siesta was beyond good; she was phenomenal. Out of this world like she was a beautiful alien goddess waiting to fill her suitors with her foreign love and infect them with her supernatural touch.

At last, Casey gave this delightful performance the final finish. His stomach tightened and he released his load, satisfied that Siesta's tubes were in plentiful supply of his seed. Ana elicited a long moan that sent shivers through every part of Casey's body. Breathless, Siesta collapsed onto Casey, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

The warmth of her body pressed against his made Casey hold her closer. He could feel her rapidly beating heart against his chest, and her sweet, velvet scent enveloping her as if she were the goddess of love herself. Well, she had to be if she could make him feel this way, something that no one had ever done before.

"Is this why your stage name is 'Siesta'? Because you prefer sleeping with your clients during the day?" Casey asked between post-coitus breaths.

"So I can sleep with another man at night?" Siesta replied in her sultry Russian accent. "You could not be more right."

Casey found his lips tilting into a grin, followed by a deep chuckle. Okay, he knew what you were thinking: how did he end up being the lucky guy to be under the sheets with a revered hooker? To tell the truth, it was a funny story, really. See, the only reason their paths crossed was because they both worked at the same place— 'The Igloo' a club that was no icy hut, but rather a haven to get the best drinks, listen to the best music, and meet the most exclusive people. But the best part? The H-O-T girls that came with the package that would have you wagging your imaginary tails and sticking your tongue out. While Siesta was skilled in the art of lap and pole dancing, Casey's main skill was to wait tables.

Siesta had taken a break from practicing and went to the club's bar to distract herself when Casey clocked in early to get in some extra hours. He made a passing comment about how one of the 'gentlemen' spilled champagne over his favorite shirt last night, to which Siesta replied that those guys were regulars and it was a special habit of theirs to get drunk and spill any kind of alcohol they had in their hands over their waiter's shirt. She had asked Casey if he was new (in her mind, only a new employee would not know that), but Casey answered he had been here for quite a while. She flirted with how she definitely would've noticed a fine man such as himself, which needless to say, got Casey's attention. A conversation sparked between them before Casey gave her a kiss. It all happened a little fast, but whoop-de-doo and it was back to his place to make some noise.

"Is this your first time?" Casey asked Siesta. "Sleeping with another employee, I mean?"

Siesta shrugged. She swept her strawberry blonde hair behind her nape. "Not usually happens. My normal clients have big cash."

"Oh, trust me, baby. I may not have a cool mil on me, but I know other ways to pay you."

Siesta looked doubtful. "My time valuable. I no play games."

"Neither do I, Tsarina." Casey reached a hand to open his nightstand drawer, took out a pen and a waded five dollar bill, wrote something on the back of the dollar bill, and handed it to Siesta.

Siesta looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or slap him. "You take me for some cheap whore?!"

Casey laughed. "Relax." He grabbed Siesta's slim waist before she could get off. "I don't have any paper around here. But the back has my phone number so you can call me so we can get a coffee sometime together."

Siesta's outraged expression softened into something that looked like genuine confusion. "You. . . asking me out?"

"Like as a date? Sure, let's go with that. There's got to be more to your life than dancing and servicing men six days out of the week— which, not that there's nothing wrong with that. But when was the last time someone took you out for a coffee, hmm?"

Siesta stared at the scrunched-up dollar bill in her hand. Then she looked at him with suspicion, jabbing one of her long and lean fingers into Casey's chest. "What is the catch?"

Casey shook his head. "What catch? Is there something wrong with a fine man such as myself simply taking you out because I wish to know you better?"

"There is no such thing," Siesta said stubbornly.

"Of course there is. And you know what? I'm glad I'll be the first person to treat you to such a date."

Siesta still didn't look too sure. She looked at the dollar bill, then at Casey, and then back and forth like she was weighing her options. Deciding that she had nothing else to lose, she relented.

Casey smiled. "It's settled, then. But I don't want to be calling you by your stage name when we're on our date. Do you have an actual name I can call you by?"

Siesta was hesitant, but she uttered, "Ana. Just Ana."

That name had such a short, mysterious ring to it. Ana.