|
SEXDROID II
By
Jaide Fox
© copyright by Jaide Fox, January 2008
Cover Art by Eliza Black, January 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-128-0
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
Rob Nash enjoyed kicking his heels about as much as he would’ve enjoyed having his fingernails torn out one by one. After scowling at the chief’s closed door for several moments, he flicked a glance at the clock on the wall across the room and settled his shoulders against the wall behind him. He’d been told to report promptly at 4:00. He’d arrived at 3:59. It was already five minutes after.
Dragging his worn note pad from the back pocket of his jeans, he flipped it open and frowned at the notes he’d taken the night before, not because there was anything about the notes that particularly disturbed him but because he had a hell of a time reading his own writing.
He still preferred the old fashioned note pad and pen to the new fangled gadgets most of the other detectives carried around with them—which was just as well since most of the supplies the city furnished them with was a bare minimum of ten years behind the times if not considerably more.
Of course, the city didn’t actually provide the PDAs most of the other detectives used. That was a personal expense, but one he figured there was no sense in wasting his hard earned money on. As sure as shit, if he’d bought one of the damned things, some asshole would decide to jump him in the alley and that would be the end of it. The notepad, he could drop, step on—hell kick—and it still worked.
It had its drawbacks—the main one being it generally took him a while to figure out what the fuck he’d written when he finally got around to making out his reports.
Giving up on deciphering his notes after a few minutes, mostly because he was antsy about the purpose of the meeting the chief had called, he dragged out the small, antiquated note pad he’d filched from the duty sergeant’s desk. Personally, he couldn’t see where the thing could ever have been very useful—which probably explained why nobody made them anymore. The pad wasn’t any bigger than the palm of his hand, which meant it must have been for shit for notes, unless somebody wrote really small. Beyond that, although he could see the duty sergeant liked being able to peel the sheets off and stick them all over his desk, he didn’t know why anybody would want a writing pad that came apart so easily.
Shrugging mentally, he began doodling on the pad, absently sketching the rookie sitting nearest him at her desk—or, more specifically, the bodacious tits straining against her uniform.
She was a class A bitch, but she had a nice set of knockers and a pretty good ass if it came to that. It might actually be worth a slap and a citation to cop a feel if he could catch her leaning over her desk.
He caught her glaring at him as he flicked another glance at her.
Oh yeah! She wants me, he thought, grinning at her provocatively.
The smile faded as he caught sight of his nemesis, Dirk Rambo, striding confidently across the room, his lip curling in a sneer as he took in the high dollar suit his competition was dressed in.
What kind of name was Dirk Rambo, anyway?
The kind that had his nails done, he answered himself derisively as Rambo slid his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased trousers and cocked one perfectly arched black brow at him.
He’d be willing to bet the son-of-a-bitch got his brows waxed, too.
“Afternoon Nash,” Rambo murmured in his hoity toity upper crust accent. “What brings you out of your cave?”
The class A bitch snickered.
Nash ignored her, favoring Rambo with a feral grin. “I was just about to ask you what you were doin’ here. It’s too early for tea, ain’t it? Your date for the ball stand you up?”
Rambo dragged one of his hands from his pants pocket, extended his arm to hike the sleeve of his thousand dollar suit jacket up and checked his five hundred dollar watch. “Nope,” he said coolly, slipping his hand back into his trousers. “I’m supposed to pick her up at eight—right after my interview with Cheryl Marks for CWN.”
“Ooooh!” Nash cooed. “Is that what the penguin suit’s all about? What case did you crack this time? Somebody knock over a pinball machine?”
Rambo gave him a cocky grin that made him want to put his fist through his perfectly even, perfectly white teeth. No way was he going to believe that smile was natural. The bastard must have spent years in a dentist’s chair having every tooth aligned with perfect precision. “As a matter of fact it was a tri-state white slavery ring.” He looked Nash up and down, taking in every detail from his dirty sneakers, ragged jeans and armless t-shirt to the long blondish/brown hair he had tied into a pony tail beneath his ball cap. “Is that a fashion statement, Nash? Or are you doing undercover as a janitor this week?”
“Ha! Ha!” Nash faked a laugh. “As a matter of fact, I just cracked an international gun running cartel.”
Rambo looked him over speculatively. “That a fact?”
“That’s a fact, jack!” Nash retorted, grinning more easily now that he realized he’d cracked a bigger case than Mr. My-shit-don’t-stink Dirk Charleton Rambo III.
The chief’s door swung open abruptly. “Nash! Rambo!” He jerked his head at them to enter and turned away from his door, heading for his desk.
Nash and Rambo eyed one another with a mixture of hostility and distrust like two dogs that had just decided to piss on the same fire hydrant. “After you,” Nash said with a wolfish grin.
“Oh no! You’re obviously the man of the hour. You first, by all means.”
“Get your asses in here!” the chief bellowed.
Coming away from the wall, Nash sauntered toward the chief’s door. “Beauty before age, eh Rambo?”
“I just wanted to be downwind,” Rambo retorted as Nash swaggered into the chief’s office.
“Will you two cut it the fuck out!” the chief snarled. “Shut the door Rambo!”
Nash and Rambo exchanged a speculative glance as Rambo moved away from the door and settled in the nearest chair opposite the chief’s desk. Nash sprawled in the other chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
The chief wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“I told him to quit using that aftershave,” Nash retorted.
“Smell’s like shit!” the chief snarled, getting up from his desk and moving to open the window. “Damn it, Nash! You been crawling around in the god damned sewer again? Why the hell didn’t you stop in the locker room and bathe before you came up?”
Nash shrugged. “Can I help if the perp decided to take a swim in shit? You said promptly at 4:00, Chief. I just got through booking Realto. If you want, I can go now and then you can talk to me when you’re done with the pansy.”
The ‘pansy’ cupped his dick in his hand and sent him a savage grin. “Suck my dick, Nash.”
Nash smirked at him. “Is that what that is? I thought maybe you’d lost your pen.”
The chief pounded on his desk with his fist. “Knock it off, you two! I’ve got a damned important case, and I need both of my best on it. You two are just going to have to drop the competition shit on this one! I need you to work together and I need results fast, god damn it!”
Nash and Rambo shrugged indifferently at almost the same moment.
“What’s the case?” Rambo asked, completely focused on the chief.
“An extortion ring.”
Rambo and Nash exchanged a look. “I can handle it, chief,” Nash retorted. “I don’t need a partner.”
“I don’t give a fuck whether you think you need a partner or not!” the chief roared. “This is too big for a one man operation. I need some god damn results fast.”
Nash’s dark blonde brows rose almost to his hairline. “So, what do you know so far?”
The chief dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “We don’t know how big it is or how deep it goes. You remember Councilwoman Tyler?”
“The Councilwoman that ate a bullet last week?” Rambo asked in surprise.
“Yeah, that one,” the chief said dryly. “Thing is, now we’re not so sure she did herself. Forensics says no and our routine investigation turned up evidence of extortion. Their primary target seems to be women of wealth and power.”
Nash shrugged. “Somebody found some dirt on a politician! Wonders never cease!”
The chief glared at him. “We’ve got reason to believe this is bigger than one minor politician—a lot bigger. We’ve got an informant that’s telling us that’s just the tip of the iceberg and it’s somehow connected to the pleasure-droid trade.”
Neither Nash nor Rambo looked that time. Both men frowned and shifted uncomfortably. “Connected how?” Rambo asked finally.
“Somebody’s reprogramming them.”
“So—you want me and Rambo to get inside and figure out which one of the techs decided he wasn’t getting paid enough?” Nash guessed.
“We’ve got a man inside—had one inside before Tyler got hit,” the chief growled.
“Whoa! Somebody took the undercover cop out?”
The chief shook his head. “We’re pretty sure the shipments are being intercepted, the droids reprogrammed, and then sent on to their destinations. Our man inside hasn’t turned up anything and it’s starting to look that way. That’s what I need you two for. There’s a shipment scheduled to go out at 6:00 AM tomorrow. I want you two to be there and track that shipment, get what we need to put this bastard away for good. You got that?”
“It’s a piece of cake,” Nash assured him, leaning forward to grab the information chip the chief took from his desk and held out before Rambo could and then surging to his feet. “I’ll have a look at the files.”
“We’ll have a look at the files,” Rambo said, getting to his feet as well.
“Good! And watch your backs! Whoever’s behind this is pulling in some big money. They’re not going to be happy about having their party interrupted. We’re just guessing, but it looks like Tyler could be the third politician that got tired of paying and decided to blow the whistle.”
Rambo clapped Nash on the back as they headed for the door. “Don’t worry, Nash. I’m sure they didn’t figure it was worthwhile to tamper with your girlfriend.”
Nash slid him a false grin wide enough to display the deep dimples in either cheek. “I ain’t worried about it,” he said, patting Rambo on the back with vigor. “You should probably check your girlfriend, though.”
Rambo gave him a toothy grin that looked more like grimace. “My girlfriend didn’t come with instructions on her ass. After you.”
“Oh no, after you. Age before beauty,” he murmured with a chuckle when Rambo led the way out and he got a look at the sticky note he’d attached to the back of his expensive suit jacket that read ‘insert foot here’ with an arrow pointing to his asshole—not that he wasn’t asshole over!
Rambo caught up with him at the elevator. A wave of snickers had followed him through the office to the elevator and Nash was feeling pretty damned cheerful in spite of being thoroughly pissed off about being teamed up with Mr. My-shit-don’t-stink Dirk Charleton Rambo III. “Why don’t you just give me the chip? I know it’s way too high-tech for you to figure out. I’ll set it up and you can drop by my place so we can go over the reports.”
Nash held the chip in question up to gloat. “This chip? You gonna plug in your ass and read it?”
As quick as a lightning strike, Rambo drove his fist into his belly. It was a sucker punch. A girl could’ve hit him harder, Nash thought derisively, but he flinched, sucking his stomach muscles in tightly to counteract the blow, and dropped the fucking chip in the process. Rambo palmed it and shoved it deeply into his trouser pocket.
Nash glared at him in impotent fury. No way in hell was he dumpster diving next to Rambo’s balls and they both knew it.
Rambo grinned at him and it took all he could do to keep from punching his teeth down his throat. “My place, say … two hours? You think you can boil the smell of shit off in that length of time? Or should we make it three?”
“Now why would I be worried about that?” Nash growled. “Obviously it smells better than that shit you wear or you’d’ve noticed it before the chief did.”
Patrick came up behind Nash as the elevator doors opened, plucking something from the back of his t-shirt. He slapped a small square of paper in Nash’s hand when he whirled to see who it was. “You might not want to wear that through the booking room downstairs,” he said cheerfully, heading back to his desk when Nash looked down at the small piece of paper.
‘Kick me’, it read.
He sent Rambo a narrow eyed look as he stepped onto the elevator with him. “Real adult behavior, Rambo,” he said chidingly, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
It soothed him somewhat, though, to know the prick hadn’t found the note he’d tacked to the back of his jacket.
Almost on the thought, Rambo folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the elevator wall. When he did, it dislodged the note, which fluttered to the floor. Before Nash could retrieve it to reattach it on the way out of the elevator, Rambo leaned down, snatched it up, and read it.
It at least wiped the cocky grin off his face. “Real original, Nash,” he growled.
Nash grinned at him and shrugged. “I thought so, except everybody knows you’re an asshole.”
Rambo narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah? Well if it was original, I wouldn’t already have had the note in my pocket when we got to the chief’s office would I?”
|
