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23: Sapphire Framed

The half-eaten hot dog in front of him grew cold. Eric looked out the tiny shop's window, across the L-shaped strip mall to the fabric store on the other end. He could just make out Angela making herself busy straightening bolts of fabric up front.

"Hi, Angela? Know who I am?" No.
"Hi sweetie. Long time no type." Ugh.
"My God, you're even more beautiful in person." Lame!
"We need to talk." Jesus, just shoot her.

Maybe he should write a note instead. No, then she'd just run. He wished he could just explain it all in an email, but Eric knew that they'd cracked his system by now. For all he knew a Company man was chatting her up every night trying to get a fix on her. Probably Andrew. Certainly Andrew, if things were still going to plan.

Eric was conflicted. He longed to now have the clarity that had been his just six months ago. The brutal clarity that had been his all his life.

Steal the jewels. Set up your backstabbing protege. Retire rich.

That was the plan.

What's the plan now?

The plan is fucked.

Now that he thought about it, it hadn't even been his plan. Ginger had put it all together. Eric was just the guy who could make it happen.

He didn't even remember why the hell he'd been thinking about retirement. He hadn't exactly been the type to sit on a beach sipping a Corona, not while he was at the top of his game. Why retire?

Oh, right. The game had gotten dull. Or at least that's how Ginger put it. And she was pretty convincing when she had some part of her body wrapped around his dick.

Eric had an encrypted PDA he used to keep track of every one of his girls. He kept a dossier on their families, their friends, their activities, their habits. He took copious notes on what they talked about, what they did, where and when they did it. Every conversation, every rendezvous, in explicit detail, with digital images where he could manage. It was his own personal pussy network, and it'd helped him with his profession as well as his perversions on more than one occasion. He had to document fastidiously to keep up the illusion that he cared deeply about each one of them. No matter what anybody says, once you've fucked about two hundred teens and twenty-somethings all over the world, they start to all run together. Which one collected old Hello Kitty school supplies, and which one acted out pornographic Hello Kitty fantasies? You can't tell the players without a program.

But he needed no notes on Ginger. The woman was a phenomenon.

Like that first time they met over five years ago. Transferred from another unit after another analyst had died in a car accident, she had all the guys in the office drooling. But she wasn't about to settle for an analyst; she was looking for higher-grade meat, and she found it when Eric came in for debriefing after a mission. This was before Andy, and Eric's analyst Mindy was a hot little number herself -- whatever happened to her? -- but she looked like a schoolmarm next to Ginger. Five years older at 32, wiser, and willing to show a scandalous amount of leg. Eric had never thought of himself as a leg man before Ginger, but it was her legs that drew him in. He still vividly remembered the first time in the conference room; she'd spent the first part of the meeting playing footsie, then after her presentation she sat next to him and kept crossing and uncrossing and recrossing her legs, her skirt inching higher and higher... stocking-band... garter... silk panties... after the meeting he'd asked her to stay behind for some follow-up, and two minutes later he had his hands all the way up her skirt and her breath hot in his ear begging him to fuck her, right there on the table... how could he refuse?

Ginger.

It was Ginger that had laid it all out for him.

Ginger who'd come back to Eric after a five-year hiatus, still hot as a firecracker even at 37, twice the age of Eric's typical field conquests but experienced in ways they could never be.

This time it was her tits. No way they were real and still that firm-looking -- a bra could only do so much, and her choice of undergarments tended toward whispy lace nothings that presented more than supported. It was his duty as a field agent to do the undercover work and closely examine this woman to determine if her threats were real or augmented. If they weren't real, he never did find the scars, and his hands and lips and dick didn't much care. The tits were just the tagline that got you into the theatre, the real show was in the woman behind them. And she never failed to elicit a standing ovation. Usually several. He didn't know women could have such incredible muscle control...

It was Ginger who'd told him about Andy's awkward attempts to put him out to pasture -- fucking Eric's boss behind his back, and when that didn't work, conducting an unsubtle smear campaign with anonymous memos and tweaked field reports that cast Eric in the worst possible light.

Ginger who'd suggested he take advantage of any opportunities to secure his retirement in light of his employer's uncertain future.

Ginger who'd pointed out the Chinese gemstones were just such an opportunity.

Ginger who'd figured out a way he could not only retire, but take her with him, and fuck his self-serving protege besides.

The sapphires had landed in his lap. A Chinese official had been charged with shepherding the mysterious artifacts eastward to a military R&D centre. He foolishly let his westernized teenage daughter try them on, hoping to impress her with the wonders of the homeland. His daughter foolishly showed them to Eric, her American traveling companion and teacher. Eric smiled at the memory -- she'd always liked being tied up . . .

The old Eric's instinct said to just sell them back, pocket a finder's fee, feed the balance to the Company kitty, ensure the Unit's (and his own) future, and call it a day.

But that was boring.

A little birdy whispered in his ear: *this is your Big Bang.*

Eric hesitated.

*The Company's shutting down the Unit at the end of the year.*

Eric considered.

*Andrew wouldn't settle for a finder's fee; why should you?*

Ahh, jealousy. Competition. One-upsmanship. And a big Fuck You send-off to everyone.

The old Eric jumped at the chance to screw Andy, to serve up the little prick on a spit. Get him fired? Amateur Hour. Let him bleed out a hole in his neck in an alley? A satisfying performance. But leave him holding the bag on the biggest Company fuckup in a decade? The Oscar Goes To... Eric.

With Best Screenplay honors for Ginger.

Now why didn't he see that one coming?

Ginger had played him. She'd been playing him against Andy. And Andy against him.

Now that he recognized what Ginger had been doing, the game wasn't dull so much as it was unsettling. Spy games were never a particularly noble venture, but now it was just a corporate-ladder pissing contest with the safeties off. Or something.

Whatever, Eric didn't want to play anymore. He just knew that everything was fucked.

Now that he thought about it, Andy probably didn't even have anything against him.

Damn, Ginger was fucked up. She wasn't happy unless everybody was fucked and she was on top.

The first clue was subtle: an hour before he was to meet a Family representative to negotiate a price for selling back the sapphires, he'd been talking to Ginger on the phone and she said "goodbye." She never said goodbye, always "see ya!"

The second clue was more obvious: he got stopped at Customs. The Company simply didn't fuckup anything so basic as getting a man home. It was a message: you've been cut loose. Somebody back home didn't like him. It took all his experience -- and a little help from a flight attendant who'd been an old playmate of his on hops between Hong Kong and Tokyo -- to get back into the States.

But really, he should have known much earlier. Like when she dumped him for Andy. Or dumped Andy for him.

Easy to say that now. Harder when she's riding you to a fourth mutual orgasm in one session. Things like that just didn't happen to a 41-year-old man, not without the little blue pill anyway. But she knew just what buttons to push.

Like the one marked "schoolgirl." Ironic that Eric had had at least a dozen real naughty schoolgirls in his bed -- even that one in Bangalore who except for her darker complexion and black hair was a dead ringer for Britney Spears in that early video -- but none of them lived up to the fantasy the way a 37-year-old woman could. Maybe it was the twenty years of experience with men since actually being a Catholic schoolgirl, or the way she accessorized the standard uniform with all the right adult-fantasy touches without trying to be a grown-up in the process.

"The headmaster issued our new uniforms today, and I'm a little nervous about it. He swore all they did was change suppliers, but I know our old shoes didn't have heels this high." She stumbled a bit as she transitioned from little baby steps to full hip-wagging tit-jiggling strides on her way across the room toward him. "I don't know if the heels just make my hips sway more or if the skirt really is shorter, but it seems to move around a lot more than before." She turned and walked a few steps away from him to demonstrate; he could see quick glimpses of her sweet little ass in white panties with each step. "And if I drop something and bend down to pick it up I'm afraid all the boys will see my new panties!" She backed up a few steps before bending at the waist over-dramatically to demonstrate. Her skirt, hardly long enough to cover the swell of her cheeks when she stood up straight, slid up like a theater curtain to expose most of her perfect butt. The underwear was hardly Sears standard issue schoolgirl cotton, being not only of a daringly-brief cut but made of nylon so thin he could clearly make out her crack -- and with an unlined gusset as sheer as the seat the girl's hairless puffy lips were lewdly on display. She spread her feet a few inches apart -- his eyes darted down with the movement to see the frilly little ankle socks were just as transparent as the panties -- and slipped one hand between her legs, her middle finger tracing a lascivious line from between her cheeks to press the see-through garment against her labia before retreating up to linger over her clitoris. "I knew it!" she exclaimed in over-the-top mock surprise. "You can see everything! I'm so ashamed..." She hesitated an eternal moment before snapping upright and spinning around to face him, making sure to get her skirt to twirl and lift enough so that he could see the bikini panties were just as see-through and even more daringly cut in the front. He heard himself groan as he slumped in his chair to relieve the pressure in his pants. She continued to lay out the charms before him. "Headmaster says we always wore little black chokers like this, but I'm sure last year it was a tie! Then there's the new blouse. Headmaster said there was a mixup in the ordering and all the blouses were made two sizes too small and without buttons so we have to tie them off." Her hands traced the curves down her sides, stopping to push her breasts together. "And the bras are backordered for weeks, so it's a good thing they made them out of this really stretchy stuff that -- hey, it's awfully thin. You can't see my boobies through my top, can you?" She made a show of cupping her tits pretending to cover them. Her tight nipples are plainly visible. "Well, can you?" She stepped forward, leaning her knees to either side of his on the edge of the chair. Her ripe little melons were inches from his face.

It was easy to see how his vision had been clouded. At the time he'd even thought it was him seducing her. Andy probably thought that too.

Now he was hung out to dry, and Andy was set up to kill him, and Ginger was happy to cash out his retirement fund.

Of course his professional practices served him where his instincts didn't.

Specifically, Ginger didn't know where the payload was.

And that gave him the next move.

The old Eric would have made that move by now. He'd spent enough time setting it up.

The old Eric would have confronted the girl at home, strong-armed her into coughing up the jewels, then pumped her full of heroine and dumped her body in an abandoned tenament.

The old Eric was even better at fixing a situation than he was at breaking it in the first place.

But Angela had killed the old Eric. Never mind that the old Eric habitually used naive teens like a drug; something about Angela had pierced his armor with a teflon bullet. Their relationship had started like most others -- a few hours of careful research with privileged information led to a "chance meeting" in an Internet chat room, he knew all the right things to say and all the right moves to make, and like clockwork in thirty days somebody's sweet innocent daughter was engaging in all kinds of naughty online play. But circumstances had prevented Eric from converting his latest online plaything into a real-life groupie fuck-toy. From Hong Kong to Yangon to Dhaka to Karachi to Milan to Minsk to Prague and back to Yushu and Xining, his vacation kept getting delayed by urgent Company business. Pick up a package here, drop it off there, shepherd this or that person out of this or that country. He was an expert traveler, the consummate Ugly American.

So he simply kept the embers burning online. And Angela, like all girls, improved her game the more she played. Girls like her didn't decide to become teases -- men begged them to.

Come to think of it, he usually did the majority of the typing in their online romps. (The dictation software really helped, once he'd gotten it trained.) But she always knew how to interject just the right comment at just the right time.

"Darn, I knew I should have tied better knots on my bikini bottoms..."
"Is it a 34B? If it's not I'll just have to go without a bra again..."
"Ohh, baby, I think you found it. Oh, God, now you *really* found it!"
"Do you mind if my friend Bambi gives it a squeeze before you come up to my room? That way I'll have time to get ready for you..."

But there was something more to Angela... the way she was serious without taking it seriously... the way she never really lost her innocence, she just suspended it to please her partner...

Angela was everything Ginger wasn't. Young, sweet, utterly guileless, untainted by man-hating ambition. Keeping up with Ginger was draining. Keeping up with Angela was invigorating.

Or maybe it was as simple as the fact that he never got to fuck her for real. The world was full of men who did stupid things for the promise of new pussy. Men who'd ignore their slut girlfriend for a preseason NFL game would lay down their lives for a good girl. Heck, they'd get married to a good girl who held out long enough. Maybe he was one of those men. Eric had never been so tested before. Simple scheduling screwups and unstable situations (or had that just been his boss playing him again?) turned weeks of online-only rendezvous into months. Ironic that his standard stalling technique was now screwing with *his* head. Normally he'd keep his girls at arm's length until they were ready to do anything to make the fantasy real. In Angela's case, he was the one jonesing. He might have actually developed feelings for the girl.

Worse, the disruption in his normal globe-trotting nymph-fucking routine made him start to question his path in life. How could an 18-year-old girl who'd never left her hometown have something in life that a 41-year-old international man of mystery lacked? Impossibly, she did. And it wrecked him.

The old Eric may not be dead, but he wasn't in the driver's seat.

The new Eric -- Angela called him Scott -- had the wheel.

It took two hundred nubile hotties to start to fill the void left when Ginger dumped him. But it only took one innocent girl to make him sick at the thought that Ginger had taken him back.

Angela had infected him. The taste of her naive playful bliss was there on his lips. After more than twenty years of steeling himself with cynicism, he longed to succumb to this new drug.

And so he wrung hands like a silly teenager, agonizing over how to approach a cute girl.

Only the stakes here were much higher than a chance at getting to third base.

Forces were no doubt converging on him. And Angela. Forces that'd kill them both. Forces he'd helped set in motion. And all he could do was sit here picking sourkraut out of his teeth and wonder how to talk a girl half his age into... into he didn't know what. Give me the jewels? Pretend we never met? Here's some money, sorry I ruined your life? Run away with me?

Whatever he was going to say, he needed to say it soon.