Page 25 of Penny for Your Saints

“Maybe we should have waited on this till everyone re-upped on their suppressants,” he manages to bite out, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he makes a bid to swallow—Quentin’s gaze drops to my cock, already at half mast in my unforgiving black denim pants.

“You better get movin’ before I get too distracted to make it to the interrogation room,” I growl, reaching down to adjust myself before trying to run my ‘bad cop’ routine on Louise.

Quentin nods sagely, gathering his silk robe tightly around himself as he pushes off the door—giving me a wide berth as he retreats to the safety of the next room.

I burst through the door, kicking it closed behind me—my fresh pack of cigarettes rolled into the right sleeve of my black cotton t-shirt.

Louise’s eyelids threaten to flit closed as my alpha aura, my scent—crashes into her.

Patting down the back pocket of my jeans, I slide the small, cylindrical aluminum and glass atomizer to the far side of my left pocket, pinching the edge of the folded bandana just behind it—pulling the bit of cloth from its place with a magician’s flourish.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t my little lucky Penny,” I cluck my tongue approvingly as I slink toward her. She sits bolt upright in her metal folding chair—her chest rapidly rising and falling with ragged breath as she watches my hands, eagle-eyed.

“I’m here for a little show-and-tell.” I grin manically, whipping the square of red paisley printed cotton open with a snap.

“Enjoy your soliloquy, asshole,” she manages to grit out through her bared teeth—pearly and perfect. “I’m done talking.”

“You seem to misunderstand the situation here, sweetheart,” I chuckle, carefully folding the bandana into a triangle—pinching the corners at either end as I draw them up toward my face.

“Since you decided to do things the hard way, I’m going to show you a little something that your parents cooked up—and then you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

For the first time, I see something like fear flash in those cinnamon eyes.

Good. Be afraid.

I see her eyes dart from me to the camera to the door.

“Ah, ah, ah!” I scold, wrapping the bandana around the lower half of my face—covering my nose and mouth, tying the corners at the nape of my neck. “Don’t think about making a run for it—there’s three big strong men and a full syringe of night-night-juice on the other side of that door if you think you’re going to get past me.” I wag my finger, aware of the flex of my biceps under the bare bulb’s light; incentive for her to cooperate.

Louise’s jaw juts forward slightly, her sternum lifting, her eyes—though glittering with furious tears—still defiant as she presses her lips together into a hard, unforgiving line.

“Now—this little beauty.” I pull the atomizer from its hiding place, twisting the small, brushed aluminum cylinder until the push button nozzle rises from its top.

Louise’s entire posture becomes loaded—as if ready to spring into action, but before she can move a muscle, I press the button down and a fine, pale blue mist clouds around her face.

She reaches to cover her mouth with her cuffed hands, but the mist is pervasive—her eyes water. A chain of violent, wet coughs force her to double over with the effort of drawing a breath of untainted air.

“You see—this fun stuff is a little number your mom and pop cooked up for the US Military,” I explain dutifully as Louise struggles against her choking lungs—nearly falling forward out of her chair. “This aerosolized spray was developed to be able to completely cut through the effects of all known suppressant drugs in the short term, while also diminishing the half life of the remaining dosage in the affected person’s system,” I explain academically as I drop into a low squat, my face level with Louise’s as she finally begins to gulp down fresh air.

“You were only about a week or so out from your next dose, so you were already on the ropes—but now…” I rumble, grabbing a handful of her fiery copper hair before I rise to standing pulling Louise upright—her eyes wild and unfocused as they roll up to meet mine, her pupils dilated so large that her eyes look like pools of endless black. “I’m willing to bet you’re really feeling it.”

Louise lets out a little breathy moan as I close my fist tighter in her hair, drawing her head back.

“I know you’ve been wondering why we took you. I think it’s about time I gave you a little explanation,” I growl, watching as her lips part—her pink tongue gently lolling over her bottom lip as she pants with need, her glazed eyes half hooded as her gaze falls to my erection, valiantly straining against my jeans.

“I’m Francis Stone, but don’t fucking call me anything other than Frank if you value your life.”

Though she’s been swept far beneath the tides of her desire—a glimmer of the real Louise, the vitriolic fighter, can be glimpsed from the surface as I say my name aloud. No doubt I’ve rubbed up against one of her memories from the bureau, but that’s not what I’m looking to stroke right now.

“I used to work for the FBI… till we had a little misunderstanding and I had to make my exit. Now the Saints and I clean up the messes left by your parents' dirty work.” I gloss over the details, reaching down and begin to work my silver belt buckle open.

As if through the haze of intoxication, a lazy smile spreads across Louise’s petal pink lips, a slow croaking laugh creaking eerily from deep in her chest.

I’m about to ask her what’s so funny when she speaks; a funny little sighing sound compared to her voice earlier.

“Cazimer, Sébastien, Quentin, Francis.” She gives a girlish giggle and a chill runs up my spine. “I get it now.” She blinks in slow motion, her eyelids fluttering closed before slurring open again. “Where are your birds?Saint Francis,” she laughs.

“Shhh, I’m talking right now, Sweetheart. You listen, and when I start asking the questions—that’s when you can unzip those lips,” I shush her, letting go of my belt to press the pad of my index finger against her lips; my other hand still fisted in the hair at the crown of her head—my grip like iron.

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