Page 121 of At Her Pleasure
He shook his head. “No official agency can stand up to that kind of scrutiny. Nor should they. But it’s required of confidential informants and free agents like Mick. The depth of his cover has brought us that level of intel, at those kinds of costs.”
He paused, his eyes moving to lock with hers. “To this day, he will ask if an op accomplished what was intended, but he won’t let me tell him the details of who has been saved, what specific horrors have been prevented.”
“Because there are types of pain even a masochist can’t bear,” Cyn said, remembering what she’d told Vera about calling Mick a hero.
Tyler’s expression shadowed. “He says no ends will ever justify the means, not to those whose suffering he had to disregard or exacerbate with his actions. He says if I want to incapacitate him, fuck with his head, I should tell him he’s done a good job. So I bite my tongue. I don’t add to his load. We’re fighting a hydra. Every one of them we shut down, others crop up, because trading on human misery for sex and labor has been going on since well before biblical times.”
She rolled that over in her mind. “So what’s the answer to my question, Tyler? How close is he to breaking?”
From his earlier expression, she knew his response, but it still hit her hard to hear it aloud.
"It's time for him to come out. He's at that point all deep undercovers reach. He’s starting to cannibalize himself to keep going. Statistically, his odds of getting his cover blown are also getting higher, no matter how damn good he is.”
“Why don’t you pull him out?”
“It’s not my call. It’s his. Neither of us is officially working under government authority. If I told him I wouldn’t back him anymore, he’d just keep doing it, doing what he can. So I will back him as long as he refuses to quit.”
“But you’ve told him it’s time.”
“In several different ways.” Tyler’s flat expression reminded her of Mick, cloaking deeper and darker things. “He’ll either figure it out, or become a casualty. An unknown hero, only remembered by the angels.”
“And me. Who’s nothing like an angel.”
“There are all kinds of angels. I think he needs someone like you in his corner.” Tyler’s faint smile returned. “He could do a hell of a job advising, heading up a task force, letting fresher minds and souls wade into the shit. I’ve told him that, too. So far, deaf ears.”
Tyler rose and pulled out his wallet, removing a business card. The conversation was about to be over.
When Cyn took it, she started. “I knew your name sounded familiar.”
She was a little disgusted with herself for not immediately recognizing it. However, what that name was associated with in the business and BDSM world hadn’t been a ready fit for an undercover handler at an orchid festival in Small Town Texas.
A lot like imagining a cop in a New Jersey cemetery as a kink event planner in New Orleans.
Tyler Winterman. Old Georgia wealth, co-owner of several BDSM clubs and executive producer of erotic films. Hell, Skye had done the visual tech for a recent NOLA charity function where one had been previewed.
“The best cover is a highly visible one,” Tyler told her. “Especially when it’s my actual job, a field I entered after I left government employ. It was that thought which made us decide to nudge Mick toward event planning, to pay for his gas and lavish lifestyle.” Tyler’s gaze glinted. “It was a pleasure, Cyn.”
As she accepted that parting handclasp, she had one last question. “How do you know he needs someone like me?”
“He’s never chosen a Mistress to keep.” Tyler’s intent look would have woken a dead woman’s libido. “And you appreciate orchids.”
* * *
When she returned to Mick, he was still at the Whittler’s Bench. His arms were crossed over his chest, eyes closed, while the man talked to him. He nodded every once in a while, making a comment or two.
As she approached, his eyes opened fully. He said something to the man, shook his hand and came toward her. His expression showed obvious pleasure at her reappearance. Nothing else. No awareness of what she’d been doing, who she’d been talking to. Damn, he was good.
“I’m ready for lunch,” she told him.
For the rest of the day, it was as if that interlude with Tyler, that part of Mick’s life, didn’t exist. She honored his obvious desire for that, and enjoyed the unfettered pleasure of it herself, but what Mick had not asked Tyler to discuss with her stayed in her mind.
It's time for him to get out.
The RV park was a nice place, as he’d told her, with vending machines, bath houses and a pool. After they set up at a campsite on a perimeter spot and shared a light dinner, Mick suggested lighting their fire pit. Despite the warmer daytime temps, evenings could get chilly.
He'd put out two camp chairs side by side. They enjoyed the fire and looked up at the stars. He’d brought her a beer and had his legs stretched out, head tipped to the side as they talked about a lot of things.
She told him about her arrival in New Orleans in the battered Cadillac. He shared things he’d seen on his travels. Out of the way locales with interesting characters, like the man beside him on the Whittler’s Bench.