complaint. Sometimes a man’s survival depended on knowing when to shut up and do what his woman said.
He switched places with Ozzie, taking the stool at the makeup station she’d set up in their master bathroom. She tilted his face up and started to work, her cute face scrunching in concentration as she smoothed and dabbed, spreading God-knows-what sort of crap on his face for so long he thought he’d get a crick in his neck.
“Dang,” Ozzie said in amazement. “Wait until you see yourself.”
Blaze tried to turn his head to peek in the mirror, but she stopped him. “Not yet! Now for your hair.”
“Don’t cut—”
“I know, I know. I’m not going to cut it, I promise.”
“Okay.” As she dug in a plastic tote on the floor he could feel the unspoken question hanging between them. She still wanted to know what his deal was, and their two friends were regarding him curiously. Suddenly, for the first time in years, it felt right to confide in friends. Safe.
Clearing his throat, he heard himself say, “When I was seventeen, my father came home early and found me on my knees, servicing his best friend’s son. The guy was three years older than me and dominant. He had a good grip on my shoulder-length hair and was rather enthusiastically telling me how much he loved holding on to it while he fucked my mouth.”
Emma stood up straight, a wig in hand. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah. I’ll never forget the shock and then hatred on my father’s face when he stared at me, seething with rage. Here I was, this young, hot-blooded kid trying to figure out his sexuality, and I didn’t believe I’d done anything wrong. My father thought differently and sought to show me the error of my sinful ways.”
“What did he do, honey?” Emma stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder. Ozzie and Willis remained silent.
“He beat the hell out of me, and while I lay there damned near unconscious, he left and returned with a pair of shears,” he said quietly. “Cut off every single strand, down to the scalp, and said, ‘Let the bastard hang on to that.’ I still have the scars on my head, which is the practical reason I don’t wear it short. The other is pure rebellion.”
Without a word, Emma hugged him and rested her cheek on his head. For once, Ozzie had nothing smart- assed to say. Blaze had always thought he’d feel too ashamed to tell the story, but instead he felt liberated.
“I’ve never told a soul about it, until now.”
Emma bent and pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must’ve been for you. What happened after that?”
“I left home and never went back. I haven’t seen my father in twenty years.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. My life turned out just fine, thanks to my uncle and the rest of my family.” He gave her a smile to punctuate that statement, and she returned it. “We about done?”
“Almost.”Taking her cue that he’d closed the subject, she worked on stuffing his hair under a rubbery thing fitted to his skull — no easy task.
Next came the wig, styled clean-cut, over the ears… and silver. By the time she had the rug situated to her satisfaction and taped into place, he was dying of curiosity. Especially when she stepped back to survey her work and their two friends exclaimed in disbelief.
“Holy crap!”
“No way.”
“Can I look yet?”
She giggled. “You sound like a little boy. Sure, I guess I’m done.”
He stood, turned to the mirror. And his mouth fell open. “That’s kind of freaky. At least I don’t look anything like my father, thank God.”
“I think you make a very handsome older gentleman!”
“I’m glad you think so. You did an amazing job,” he assured her. “Everyone know their part?” Three voices answered in the affirmative. “Good. Let’s get going.”
They filed out, he and Ozzie wearing blue uniforms that included polo shirts stitched with the logo PARADISE CATERING over their pockets. The difference between them was that Blaze wore navy pants and Ozzie wore a skirt that showed off smooth, shapely legs and blue pumps.
“You’d have quite a future as a drag queen should you ever decide to give up dangerous covert op stuff,” Blaze remarked.
“Bite me,
He laughed. Oz sashayed down the stairs, and he thought it weird and fascinating that a guy would be able to move like that, so gracefully. But that’s what made Ozzie good at what he did — being undercover and catching bad guys.
In the surveillance van, which Willis had parked in the back so it wouldn’t be seen from the street, Willis took the wheel while Emma sat in back with Blaze and Ozzie. Wouldn’t do for her to be seen, and besides, she was busy outfitting them with their electronics.
“These gold name tags are actually pinhole cameras. The hole in the center is hardly visible to the naked eye. They’ll ensure that Willis and I see and hear everything you do.”
“Cool.” Blaze took his, embossed with the name
“Yes. It’s not much thicker than a sheet of paper, and it’s no bigger than the nail on your pinkie.”
“Awesome,” Ozzie said, fascinated. His name tag had JANIE on it. “This high-tech stuff never ceases to amaze me. I feel like freakin’ James Bond.”
“Make that Janie Bond,” Willis snickered.
“Shut up, asshole.”
Blaze smothered a laugh. It really looked funny to hear that masculine expletive coming out of a “woman’s” mouth. “I sure hope you can halfway talk like a girl if you’re forced to say anything.”
“I can when I need to, hot stuff,” Ozzie replied in a sultry falsetto.
Blaze blinked at the younger man. “God, that was creepy. But good.”
“Thanks.”
Willis made a scheduled stop at a restaurant, picking up the catering they’d pass off as their own. Ozzie helped Emma load the white boxes of food onto the silver cart they’d stowed in the back of the van, and then but one crucial detail was left. Blaze palmed several tiny bugs and handed some to Ozzie.
“You know the drill — once we locate Kosta’s office, plant them wherever you can.”
“Got it.”
The rest of the ride progressed in silence, and the tension stretched taut. Each of them knew the dangers involved, but the risk must be taken. They couldn’t count on gleaning enough damning evidence simply from infiltrating Kosta’s group at the Velvet Underground. A good agent never put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak. The bugs would provide extra likelihood that they’d gain information they could pass on to Bastian and the president.
The building that housed Kosta’s company was twenty stories, the company itself taking up several floors. A bit of recon by Willis and Ozzie the day before had revealed Kosta’s office and conference room to be not on the top level, as they’d feared, but on the fourteenth floor. If they were stopped, it would be much easier to make the interrogator believe they’d gotten the wrong floor than if they had to go to the top.
Willis parked the van in the front drive and then got out and walked around back, casually helping him and Ozzie remove the serving cart before climbing in the back and closing the doors. A glance told Blaze that few people were about and none were paying them any attention. Lunch was still an hour away, and nobody would care about a pair of caterers setting up for a noon meeting.
He hoped.
Ozzie pushed the cart inside, and Blaze smiled at a pretty receptionist in the lobby, who gave him a blank stare and then completely ignored him. Shit. He’d forgotten he looked to be nearly seventy. Being old must suck. Though it was better than the alternative.
Once in the elevator, he let out a deep breath. They didn’t speak as it ascended, and when the door slid open, they found themselves in another lobby area facing a slightly more curious receptionist.
“May I help you?” Polite, but to the point.
