pleading. “Please, I have to suck your cock. Let me suck you off, I want to so, so bad. I want to swallow your cum and have you cum on my face and tits. Then I want to make you hard again so you can fuck me in my pussy, and make me cum like I did for you.” He fucked her mouth for a few minutes, but stopped just as he was about to flood it with spunk, then pulled her to her feet, reached under her skirt, ripped off her panties and played with her clit right before he fucked her into…
There was something else, something the smartest part of Brad was begging him not to remember; a memory pushing at the edge of a creeping horror.
The next thing he remembered was getting the fuck out of the bathroom and running back to the bar where the something that had to be worth it was waiting.
Brad saw her standing at the bar.
More memories flooded his brain, muddled, almost too much to absorb.
It had only been five minutes or so since his last explosion, but Brad was back to twelve inches and throbbing. He wrapped five fingers around his cock while the others curled into a pillow.
The impossible pleasure from a few minutes earlier was only a warm up for now, as every jack of his shaft sent a new and sudden bolt of lightning soaring through his body.
Brad smiled, remembering three things: Red Breath, her, and the case that would change him, and the face of human sex, forever.
But there was something else… something his brain was hiding from him, and as he emptied himself again, a different feeling overwhelmed him — dread that he’d done something awful.
Then a memory flashed through him — not his memory, but a memory nonetheless. Something in the bathroom, and a note on the mirror.
What the?
He got up and walked across the carpet to the heavy hotel room bathroom door and pulled it open.
In the tub was a nude woman with dark hair and a yin-yang tattoo on her left bicep. Dead.
And on the mirror, a note.
Chapter Two — Brad Hammer
24 hours earlier…
“I was the one who single-handedly brought down the underground mob outfit that was growing the porn star lips in that seedy, two-story lab, right?”
Agent Courtney Grayson rolled her eyes and made her face ugly, which was hard for a looker like her to do. Brad wasn’t sure if her expression was directed at the conversation, which she was surely sick of after the hundredth time hearing it, or the memory of the lab and the forty or so rows of mouth pussies, grown in a sub- basement beneath an apartment building filled with squatters and drug addicts. She said, “Yes, you were the one.”
“And I’m the one who proved the link between the Red Square bombings and alien orgies at the Kremlin, right?”
She nodded, rolling her eyes again. Like Brad figured she would, Grayson finally put a stop to it. She had to. Otherwise he would have kept going, case by case. Brad was relentless on the topic. He was sick and fucking tired of being called “Agent BallGag” by the other agents.
“Look, Hammer, it doesn’t matter how many nicknames you think you’ve earned. No one gets to choose their own. You’re stuck with BallGag until something funnier comes along. If you didn’t want the nickname, you shouldn’t have agreed to wear it.”
“I didn’t know it was a dude,” Brad insisted for what felt like the billionth time. “And I didn’t know the room was under surveillance.”
“For the last time, Hammer, live under the assumption that you and I are always under surveillance, including right now, here in the car. The work we do affects the entire world, and yet no one can know we exist. That means Division wants to know what we know, as we know it, if not before. If you can’t see that, then you need to have more than your overactive libido checked.”
“Doesn’t that bother you, to always be looking over your shoulder for the very government you’re working for?”
Grayson shook her head. “Not at all. Keeps me honest, which is what you need to be when working Division 13.”
“Ah,” Brad said smiling, “I see what you’re doing. You wouldn’t say it even if you did care. You think we’re actually being watched right this second.”
Brad looked into the rearview mirror, raised his middle finger to whoever might be watching, not that he thought anyone really was. For as paranoid as his partner was, Brad knew that budget cuts meant that it would be impossible to track them to such an extent unless there was good reason to do so. Sure, their phones and computers were tracked, traced, and recorded, but nobody gave a shit what they were doing in their car. Hell, of those who even knew it existed, few even cared about Division 13.
Division 13 was a mostly secret division within the FBI that investigated paranormal sex crimes. Oftentimes they worked hand-in-hand with Division 51, which investigated non-sexual paranormal cases. For some reason, Division 51 was a respected group which many agents aspired to join, while Division 13 was considered something of a joke, since most paranormal sex cases turned out to be of the delusional crackpot variety. Most, but not all.
And it was the real cases that made the work rise above being a joke. Cases where they could help bring closure to people’s lives or help the guilty to justice.
Sex was the one thing in the world that everyone was interested in. Yet few admitted exactly how much they were interested, which meant it seeped into every crevice of life, and bubbled beneath the surface like a brewing volcano. It was in that soft, pink underbelly where Hammer and Grayson got most of their cases. Sure, they had to deal with horny ghosts and aliens, and even a Bigfoot in heat every once in a while, but those were the sorts of cases that were reported at the fringes, then dripped into the culture, schlocked up, with their truth twisted into unbelievable tabloid cover stories, Internet B-Movies, and trashy eBooks.
Division 13 had plenty of more ordinary cases, too. The sort where the circumstances of the sex crime were just odd enough to defy explanation, like the case they’d been brought to Atlanta to solve.
They arrived at the hotel just as the sun peeked out from the clouds for the first time since they landed at the airport that morning.
No one could explain the crime scene, but anyone who had seen the far side of puberty knew what they found in the hotel room wasn’t humanly possible. At least not human alone.
“Got nothing to say?” Grayson turned to Brad, wrapping up their ‘Agent Ball-gag’ conversation. “Have I really finally shut Agent Hammer up? I thought you were the man with the 10 mile tongue.”
Brad grinned like the rascal he was, then said, “No chance, Grayson. I was just thinking. I do that every once in a while whether I need to or not, you know, just to keep the gears moving.” He tapped the side of his head.
Grayson tried not to smile, but Brad saw it anyway. She turned the Lincoln into the hotel roundabout, then pulled up to the front valet. “You ready for this?” she asked, gesturing toward the mob of cops and reporters crowding the entrance of the St. Regis Hotel.
“What the fuck?”
“Cool it, Hammer.”
Grayson had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t like he would charge from the Lincoln and start clocking reporters. Not again, anyway.
“I’m fine,” he said, loosening his tie and scowling out the window. “But this is the sorta shit that makes a hard job a helluva lot harder. I’d like to know why we can keep pregnant werewolves from hitting the six-o’clock news, but this pedestrian crap gets the paparazzi posse? Is it so hard to keep simple shit quiet?”
Grayson didn’t need to say a word, Hammer already knew what she was thinking. Of course it was hard to keep the simple shit quiet. Much harder. It was as easy to clean up a pregnant werewolf as it was to bury anything paranormal. It was easy to discount witnesses of paranormal events as crackpots and often just as easy to
