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Constant In All Other Things - Chapter 01 free porn video
Constant in All Other Things
Chapter One
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected])
"Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent."
Much Ado About Nothing
I stand with the gun pointed at his head.
The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago I
would've sworn to having never seen a handgun before--not outside of one
of those movies Tom likes and I hate, or on the TV. The thought of
holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified
hysterics. Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip. The feel of the
cold metal is once again familiar, as is the weight and the heft of the
weapon.
Many new things have become familiar in the last two year: the flash of
colour on my painted nails curled around the pistol's grip, the sweep of
long blonde hair at the edge of my vision, and the texture of lipstick on
my lips. The precarious balance and high arch of 4-inch stilettos is
comfortable now. I've even gotten used to my breasts, their feel and
weight and heft--to the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them.
But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that... that will never be
familiar. The bastard responsible now sits tied to a chair, face bloodied
and back bowed. I stand with a gun pointed at his head. There is a simple
beauty to the image we present. My slender bared shoulder and dainty
outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the
flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles only slightly
with indecision. There are a few feet of empty space, and then Tom's
battered face, eyes squeezed shut in fear. Not for the first time I
admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence.
After all I've endured: revenge.
The moment he opens his eyes I'll shoot. I want to see the look in my
husband's eyes one last time.
"Oh, God. Please... don't do this." His voice pleads and I thrill at the
power I hold over him. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. "I'm so-
-it doesn't-- have to be this way. I'm so sorry."
I don't answer. The gun begins to feel heavy. I'm a lot weaker than I
used to be.
"Cindy," he says. "Please."
"My name is not Cindy," I hiss.
He takes a deep, shaky breath. "David," he says.
"Say it again." I want to shout but my voice catches in my throat and
finally escapes hardly louder than a whisper. "Open your eyes."
"David," he repeats.
"Look at me!"
He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so
clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most alluring feature of
a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle
depths. I did.
"I'm so sorry," he says.
But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger.
***
***
"You did the right thing," Agent K said. Her grip on my shoulder was
strong and she looked straight into me. "Trust me."
"Yeah, sure," I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one stepping in
front of a courtroom full of people, in front of Jeremiah fucking Steele,
and accusing him of murder. This guy wasn't some backstreet thug who'd
knocked over a liquor store. He was one of the richest and most powerful
men in the world, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty guy.
Rumours had him involved in all kinds of stuff. Shady stuff, you know?
Don't get me wrong. I don't scare easily. Growing up I got involved in
some pretty heavy shit, the kind you don't tell nobody about. I'm not
particularly proud of my past. I'm not ashamed of it either. But if
people knew some of the things I've done? Yeah, I wouldn't even have the
one or two friends I do.
But for all the harrowing shit I've been through over the years, even I
know better than to mess with a mean bastard like Jeremiah Steele.
Squealing on him was asking for a whole world of pain and retribution. So
Agent K didn't need to reassure me I was doing the right thing. I knew
full well what I getting myself into and I had my own goddamn reasons for
doing so.
See, I'm a mean sonuvabitch myself. I really am. I'm not a nice guy. Now,
being an asshole has done me really well in my current line of work. It's
a whole different world than when I was a kid. Back then I ran with the
gangs and did--other shit. Not that this corporate existence of mine is
any friendlier. Oh sure, there's swanky suits and air-conditioned
hallways and some mighty fine ass walking through the office, often ready
for a quick tumble for a wink and the right line... but there's also a
lot of self-serving pricks and political shit going on. Seriously, I
thought I was a jerk, but then I started working at NeoPharm and.... wow.
Some of these guys? They make even me feel good about myself. And yeah,
NeoPharm. You buy their products. It's a subsidiary of this-and-that and
part of Jeremiah fucking Steele's corporate empire.
I didn't know who I was really working for when I got the job, of course.
I wouldn't have taken it if I'd known that scumbag was in charge. Like I
said, I'm an asshole... but even I've got my limits. Some things I just
won't do. I'd like to think I've got a, you know, moral code or
something, although that makes it sound far grander than what it is. It's
not like I've ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it.
Trust me, I'm not that clever. It's not the bloody Hagakure or anything
like that. I'm no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and
what I think is wrong.
For instance, I'll never backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that's
the worst thing a man can do, because a friend--a real friend?--is the
most valuable thing you'll ever have in this world. When you get down to
it, there ain't much I wouldn't do for a friend. Not that I've got that
many, though, which is why I take care of the ones I've got.
And so, yeah, I didn't need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right
thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steels blow some guy's head off,
right there on the top floor of where I work.
Did I same 'some guy'? Ha! Georgio Antazzi wasn't just some guy, any more
than Katherine was that girl I 'liked'. Fuck. And yeah, I said Antazzi--
that guy, the son of the mob boss. The apple of his eye, the High Street
golden boy, the one who'd done good. All kinds of implications there, you
know? Mob connections, murder, some of the scintillating dialogue
overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the
floor, and of course, what they were up to before Tom and I stumbled into
the room....
Tom? He's my best friend. I've known him for a couple of years now, ever
since I started at NeoPharm and dedicated myself to living all, you know,
normal-like and shit.
Tom was there as well when Steele offed Georgio. He shouldn't have been,
of course. It was my fault, see. It's not like Tom and I were supposed to
be hanging around the top floor, yeah? That's why he's also a witness.
Between our two testimonies, Agent K figures there'll be enough on Steele
to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries
that'll be launched into his shady dealings. If that doesn't get him,
well, the backlash he'll suffer from his power-mongering allies and
enemies should do him in, she figures. K seems to have some kind of
personal grudge against that bastard Steele.
So, yeah, chance to take down the bad guy? Of course I'm going to do it.
Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. It's the
right thing to do. Not heroic, not brave--just the right thing.
Problem is, doing the right thing gets you killed. Pissing off a guy like
Jeremiah Steele gets you worse than killed. I'm lucky that way, I guess.
I don't have any family to worry about. The few really good friends I
have I haven't seen in years, and they can take care of themselves. The
dumbass that goes after them will deserve what he gets. As for myself-
-well, normally I wouldn't be too worried. I haven't had to in years but
I can make myself disappear if necessary. It's one of the few benefits of
a messed up childhood: you learn to take care of yourself. This is
different, though. This is... you know, Steele. I've rubbed shoulders
with the powerful before, but nobody in this guy's league. The dude's
seriously dangerous. Vengeful. Even if only half the rumours are true,
you don't get away from this guy. Unfortunately, rumours are usually only
half the real story. In my experience, it's the really scary stuff that
people don't know about.
My only real concern in all this is Tom. He's way out of his league with
this shit, and yeah, I feel guilty for dragging him into this. No doubt
he'll get buried away in witness relocation as well, but it's not fair
he's been placed in this kind of danger.
But hell. I'm a man, dammit, and a man's gotta do--well, you know. This
Agent K woman's promised me some witness protection-style help. I've got
my doubts, but who knows? Maybe they can hide me somehow really good.
Otherwise, I'm a dead man.
"You ready?" K asked.
I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the mirror. "Yeah."
***
It went well. Of course it went well. I'm a good-looking guy. No,
seriously, I am--and I don't mean that in a conceited way. But hey, good-
looking people get treated better, everyone knows that. Ask that sexy
chick flaunting it when she steps into a store. Who d'ya think gets
better service, her or the little mousy one scurrying along in her
shadow?
It's not as extreme for guys, but yeah, I get listened to and treated
well, and it's not fucking fair but there you have it. The only thing
that works against me is my height. I'm only five-foot-five-and-a-half.
So what if I'm a bit short for a guy? I couldn't care less. Seriously. I
don't. Listen, if some girl thinks I'm too short to date then fuck her.
Bitch. It's her loss.
Otherwise I do well. Better than well, to be honest. I'm not too big into
the fashion thing but keep myself looking good, know where to shop and
wear nice clothes and I've got just a touch of that long-haired bad-boy
thing going on, left-over from my teen years, I guess. I keep my face
smooth, though truth is the best I can manage is some rough stubble after
a week or so. I've got green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey.
I look younger than I am, and that boyish-charm thing can manage wonders,
sometimes. Even in the boardroom, especially if it's some chick CEO I'm
trying to impress.
Another thing the girls love is the body. I keep myself in shape. Now
there's an understatement. I keep myself in really good shape. Some might
call it obsessive. Some habits just die hard. Chicks love the abs of
steel. Couple that with money and, yeah, I do pretty damn well at the
clubs on a Saturday night. I'm no millionaire, but I'm better than just
well-off. Chicks, they love everything that a man with cash represents.
It helps that I'm a smooth talker when I've got to be. I don't like doing
it too often, because it feels very phoney to me, but it's a necessary
skill when clinching a marketing deal or convincing some girl to come
back for the night. So working that court over was easy. I didn't lie, of
course, but there are ways of persuading people of your point of view,
especially once you've figured out who you're dealing with. I'm pretty
good at that, sussing out what people want and then giving them the
details they expect. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I
explained the how and the why of Tom and my race to the top of the office
tower, and what we saw while hiding in that executive secretary's office.
Perhaps I overdid it. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn't
the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to-head
thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took my accusations very
well. He sat behind his table, towering head-and-shoulders over his team
of lawyers, and seemed highly amused by the proceedings. The man
should've been nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk
the whole time. I think that's what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate
arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in some details
that, strictly speaking, were true but very much unnecessary.
Steele kind of lost it when I got to those sketchy implications. Hard to
make out exactly what he said, what with all the ranting and flying
spittle, but I'm pretty sure I heard: "You're a fucking dead man,
Sanders!" and "I'll have your goddamn balls on a plate!" and more threats
of that sort. Shouting in front of everybody, rushing the witness
stand... it took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me.
Well, from trying, that is. I don't throttle easily. Saying that--the
man's not small. Over six feet tall and all muscle, the guy reached the
witness stand, bowling his way through the security and swearing the
whole way, before they managed to pull him back.
They rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was
waiting for me.
"We should get you out of here," she said. K's damn sexy--in that severe,
short-haired, lesbian kind of way--but not big on small talk.
"Hey, I'm feeling okay," I said. "Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. So
yeah, I'm feeling pretty good about myself."
"Please try to focus, Mr Sanders," K said. "You know what kind of man you
are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, you can be sure he
intends to follow through. Mr Steele is a very vengeful man. More
importantly, he can not afford to look weak in front of neither his
allies nor his enemies. Especially considering the nature of your
accusations." She hesitated for a moment. "Were they true?"
"Yup," I said. "Every word."
"Why did you include them?"
"Dunno. The bastard was just pissing me off." Which was true but only
part of it. Floating around in the back of my mind I'd also been thinking
about Tom. Best way I could think of protecting my friend was by having
Steele focus all his ire on me. If I pissed the bastard off enough, maybe
Tom'd slip beneath his radar.
K sighed. "You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very
powerful people, Mr. Sanders. Simply testifying was enough to put you in
a very precarious position, but now... I fear Mr. Steele will stop at
nothing to make an example of you. Even if made in the heat of the
moment, he has no choice but to stick by his words. That was not just a
threat; it was a death warrant."
She's not so good at inspiring confidence, this woman. I nodded. "So what
do we do?"
"First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new
identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steels has time
to declare open season on you."
She walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel
bag. I enjoyed the view as K's tight skirt strained against the rounded
firmness of her ass. Hey, like I said, she was a real looker, even if she
went in for that real severe look, what with the past-the-knees skirt and
mannish jacket and clunky heels. Tall and slender, she gave an impression
of tightly-coiled strength, somehow, and at a glance you knew better than
to fuck with her. She was pale, with a long face and thin lips that
seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild disdain. Her hair barely
reached her shoulders and flipped up slightly at the tips, which somehow
softened her look, an unexpectedly feminine touch on a woman who seemed
eager to shed the outward trappings of her gender.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We'd only
met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me
safe and hidden before the trial. There's something very off-putting
about her, to be honest. Like she knows more than she's letting on. The
fact that she didn't respond to my charms didn't help either. That's her
name, by the way, as far as I know. K. It has to stand for something but
I'll be damned if I know. I had this feeling that she didn't particularly
like me. At the same time I honestly felt like I could trust her, which
is saying something. I'm not a very trusting person. You could say I've
got commitment issues.
"So how do I get outta here alive?"
"With this." She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she
moved it without much effort. She zipped it open, reached in, and pulled
out a colourful bundle of fabric.
"A dress?" It was a sexy little number, red and tight. "What the fuck,
you're gonna disguise me as a chick?"
She looked at me oddly. "That would be idiotic." She reached deeper into
her bag and hauled out a heavy vest--the kind with Kevlar in it. "I think
this would prove more helpful, would you not agree?" she said, handing it
to me. "Unless you had your mind set on the dress, of course. I have some
darling heels in here that match."
"Very funny," I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight reassuring.
"There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come
around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You
should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents,
dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously,
hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will
carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation
and new identity."
I nodded.
She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the
vest. It was a bulky Gap thing--nondescript, and it hid the vest. I
wondered if Tom would go through something similar. He was a tough guy,
but he didn't have my... background. I'm sure that I would have been
shitting myself if I hadn't been through some rough times as a kid. I
wondered where Tom was right now. He was due to appear in court after me.
I had no idea how the case against Steele was progressing--it's not easy
to get news while in hiding, especially when the trial is behind closed
doors.
Standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher-
than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay
pigeon, my most pressing concern was that I'd never see Tom again. K was
going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was
thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy would be okay. He's a
good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we'd never meet
each other again. Man, I hate losing friends. It wasn't the first time,
you know? But it still sucks every time.
"Are you ready?"
K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like
a fucking federal agent, if you ask me. What's the point of me putting on
this shitty sweater if I'm hanging around with someone who just screams
"secret agent"? I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach.
Focused. Nodded.
She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back
corridors of the courthouse, our footsteps echoing through the narrow
halls. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. Nondescript
faces flowing past. The sudden pungent smell of gasoline. A solid metal
door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath and I
felt coiled like a spring. Instincts long forgotten and forcefully buried
awake began to awaken.
God, I was loving this. I hadn't felt this alive in years.
We pushed through the door. The first bullet hit before I managed a
single step.
***
"Mr. Sanders?"
The voice reached me through layers of pain. The darkness slowly receded.
I took a shaky breath. I wasn't dead, but the way I felt nearly left me
wishing I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach
test of black and blue.
I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn't look all that
sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my
line of sight and brought back a glass of water.
"Can you sit up?" she asked.
Yeah, wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Pain flared
across my chest as I struggled to sit. Just as expected: one massive
bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess.
The bastard who shot me must've been close. K placed some pillows behind
my back to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed
with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple.
"These will help with the pain," she said and for a moment, as she handed
me the glass of water and two white tablets, she actually looked worried.
Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-
being? I popped back the pills and the glass of water.
"You're tougher than I imagined, Mr. Sanders," she continued, that moment
of sympathy apparently gone. "The assassin was standing right outside the
door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that both caught you
right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your
head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you
in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was dealt
with."
It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. I
must've hit that doorframe pretty damn hard to mess me up like this. Like
I said, I'm in good shape and I'm pretty tough. I've taken some harsh
beatings in the past. Then again, bullets at point-blank range? I was
lucky to be alive. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal.
K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. Breathing
deeply helped clear my head a bit, and finally my vision stopped swimming
and the buzzing in my ears eased somewhat. There was still a faint
worrying hum in the back of my mind, similar to a mild concussion but a
different somehow. Mostly I just felt really tired. Funny how bullets to
the midriff can knock the wind out a person.
K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before:
same clothes, minimal makeup, angular features pinched into an expression
of severity. Too bad, really: she'd be damn fine if she tried a little
harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single
bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably
some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be
asked. "Where the hell am I?"
"I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr
Steele's agents appeared. We took a very indirect route; it is unlikely
that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to
stay here for any length of time."
"Yeah, great." Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the
room. I must've been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest--it felt a
bit like tenderized beef. I should've hurt more, but those pills of K's
worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. The cloudiness in
my head wasn't retreating, though, and that had me a little worried. "K?
I'm not feeling so hot."
This one time at work I got really sick. It was some kind of crazy flu
that landed all kinds of people from the office in the hospital. We're
talking an over-40 Celcius temperature kind of sick, with swimming vision
and that floating, detached kind of feeling. But I didn't tell nobody.
There was work to do and an important presentation to make to a client,
and I got through it. Afterwards I passed out for something like 48 hours
straight. When I got back to work I'd earned my first promotion and
suddenly had a secretary and all that jazz. She was a real hottie, too. I
think that's when I met Tom, and the whole friendly rivalry thing
started.
Which is to say, I don't usually complain when ill. If I do, it's
probably serious.
K nodded. "I see." She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit
eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you
straight in the eyes. It's a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy.
I'd be damned if I'd look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous,
the way she looked at me. She looked hungry. Or angry. "Mr. Sanders, I
want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you
alive."
I nodded. I already knew that. Like I said, I'm a good judge of
character. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who's a
proper asshole and who's likely to screw me over and when someone's a
phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I
know who I can trust.
"And Mr. Sanders? I need you to trust me."
I'm not a trusting person. Tough childhood. I've been screwed over far
too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes as I lay
battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing--somehow,
it renewed my belief that I could trust her.
"This is just a temporary safe house," she said. "To call the medical
facilities here 'limited' would be generous. Those shots you took were at
very close range. Even with the vest, I am concerned for your well-being,
especially with the hit to your side."
I nodded.
"You may need professional medical assistance. But I fear that to bring
you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk."
"Yeah, and?"
K gave me a long look. I stared back at her blearily. "I have a
proposition for you," she said.
She'd done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out
of the courthouse--even considering I'd been shot four times. I mean,
this was fucking Jeremiah Steele; I couldn't help but wonder how many
other agents turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the
guy. But not K. I wouldn't say I trusted her implicitly, but even with
the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue,
compared to most other authority figures I'd met. Besides, who said shit
like "I have a proposition for you," anymore? People just don't talk that
way. But K did. I think I liked her.
"Yeah? What is it?" I tried to sound tough but could hardly stay awake.
"I fear you won't like it, David." That's when I really started to worry-
-when she called me David. I certainly woke me up a bit. Every
communication we'd had, every meeting, she'd called me Mr Sanders. Just
like she called that bastard Mr Steele and Tom, Mr. Smith. So if she was
suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad.
She gave a sigh. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige
ones. "This is you," she said. I looked at the folder and focused and
eventually could read my name. David Sanders, age 25. Yeah, that's me.
She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small
summary of who I was and where I'd come from. The picture was from my ID
photo at NeoPharm, looking goofy. I had to strain to read the summary of
me, and it looked at lot like a basic CV, just with some extra details. I
had to choke down a laugh when I looked through my educational and
childhood history. Nothing about the gangs. Or the other stuff, Sakura
and all that. Which is what I'd been promised, of course. Just a nice,
ordinary high school past, complete with passing grades and a smooth
ticket into university and a slick degree.
"And this is who I suggest you become." K hesitated a moment and slid a
second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it
open.
There wasn't much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age:
Cindy Long. Age 20.
To be continued...
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