Ebb Tide Ch. 04a

I stood up.

"Been real," I mock-saluted the GCB crew. "Soledad, next time you decide to fuck me over and abuse my confidence in you, make sure you forget my address first." I strode out of their section of LVMPD's 400 S. Martin Luther King Boulevard HQ. I would have never fallen for such an obvious ploy.

Last night Soledad convinced me the past hour and a half was necessary because the LVMPD had a powerful rumor mill. To give her some cover with her fellow cops, I had to play the part of disgruntled curmudgeon, talk just enough to cause some trouble without giving anything away. Soledad would open the door and I'd slam it in her face.

Now five GCB officers would publicize my displeasure with her, giving her cover to help the Disloyalists (I swear if anyone mentioned codenames, decoder rings, or team costumes, I was burying every last one of them in the desert) gain access to anti-Vardanyan investigations inside the regional police force. We couldn't use TC because, as an IAB hot shot, she was universally distrusted.

It was our division of responsibility; I handled the covert side of things. TC would ask all the tough questions inside and out of the police force. Soledad would keep tabs on both homicides and any people looking into me. Reagan ... they knew she could do things like provide information and agreed to not ask where it came from.

The three aforementioned ladies didn't think much of the other two members of the team. G ~ a sexy, used up ex-trophy wife and Dabney, the ex-escort and star of every young man's virgin-killer dream. I hadn't bothered to inform anyone, even G, that she was about to become Georgianna Norquist, multi-millionaire and one of the 100 Richest people in the State of Nevada.

G would have worried too much, Dabney couldn't have kept quiet about it, Reagan would have tried to stop me from doing it, and, since it was technically robbery (in another country), the two cops might get pissed with me. Monday morning I'd give everyone the good news, provided we were all still alive.

The rest of my morning was 'fun', if you consider a primitive version of a root canal, or driving a nail through the arch of your foot to be 'fun'. I had to cut 80 square feet out of my living room to create a closet for all of Dabney's clothing. To make matters worse, my impromptu roommates decided to help me.

Absent either one of them having any kind of construction experience, I predicted this would be a bad idea. By the time I arrived with my rental panel truck and all the required materials (I'd already retrieved my required equipment, which I normally stashed elsewhere), they were awake, fed (on last night's leftovers), dressed and ready to help.

By dressed ... groan ... they meant racy pink boy-shorts for Dabney with a white, wife-beater and high top canvas sneakers. Skin-tight clothing - no bra, or underwear. I can reliably detect a thong. G wore khaki shorts (complete with pockets) sized for a third grader, an old, faded black 'Hard Rock Café' t-shirt that hugged her like a second skin and maroon slippers. She had panties (I could see the tops) and no bra, though she, like Dabney, clearly needed one.

G was self-conscious about her presentation. Dabney flaunted it. She ran up, hugged me and humped me playfully.

"I see the two of you are dressed to help me get the lumber and equipment inside," I grumbled.

"Oh pooh," Dabney pouted. I needed to find a way to convince her she didn't have to play Sex Kitten around me 24/7. Nor, am I one to ignore life's lessons. I reached out, lifted up G's right breast, rubbed my fingers under its weight and finished up my appreciation by tweaking her aroused nipple.

"Ah," she gasped. My sexual advance had caught her off guard. She smacked my hand away.

"Hey, stop that!" she protested. She was protesting with a smile.

"I told you going bra-less was the right thing to do," Dabney teased her.

"I'm not used to being pawed by young men," she teased right back.

"That makes two of us," I stated totally deadpan.

"Come on G, why don't we paw some young men this weekend?" Dabney volunteered to spend more of my money.

"Dabney, you need to get a job before we have a 'Girls' Night Out'," G reined the younger girl in. "We can't keep relying on V's money to get us by. You need to get a job and I need to get a better paying job so I can pay off my debts before I retire."

"V, do you really mind me borrowing a little money?" the young vixen turned to me, very doe-eyed and sweet.

"Yes, I mind. I'm not lending you money, Dabney. I'm gifting you because you're my friend, not because we have sex. My friendship doesn't have a price tag or expiration date."

"But you said you mind?" she was confused.

"Making you dependent on me isn't my plan, Dabney. I want you to be financially independent because you've been vulnerable long enough. With me, you have freedom. I want you to have freedom away from me," I explained, "so if you wish to stay with me you can do so without consideration for anything else but us."

Dabney jerked slightly while G glowed with happiness. I wanted to get to work.

"That's ... poetry, Vance," Dabney tear-ed up slightly.

"I think it is a wonderful sentiment, V," G added.

"None of this is getting Dabney's closet space built," I grumbled. "Let's get to it.

We brought everything outside then set up our work stations and chores. I would measure out and mark the wood in the lengths I'd need. G would cut timber and sand the ends. Dabney would lug the old wall pieces out to the van for later disposal. I'd break down the old wall and build the new one.

We worked surprisingly well. The two girls held up the new drywall once I finished the framework. The only snags happened at the end of the project. Dabney wanted a 'softer' color for the inside of her closet, a fancier light fixture and an air vent dedicated to ventilating the space.

Out we went and made the day for several Home Depot employees. Dabney teased me about these two far too young ladies ogling me ... I triple checked them for weapons and deftly evaded their phone's camera function. And, because Dabney is Dabney ...

"So, are you his sisters?" an ambitious Assistant Manager named Chuck inquired.

"Oh no," Dabney corrected him. "Me and my sister," she put an arm around G ... and her perky nipples, "are his sex toys. We feed his voracious sexual appetite and kinky erotic desires."

In a sane world, that would have been seen for the cock-teasing bullshit it was, but this was Vegas and Dabney looked capable of crushing lightbulbs with her cleavage and bending steel rods with her thighs. The combination of her provocative lip & tongue play while sucking hungrily on her thumb caused the guy to cum in his underwear.

It was also the first time I saw G loosen up outside our home. She allowed herself to revel in the male and sometimes female attention aimed her way. Dabney could be overwhelming with her vivaciousness ~ a passionate one night stand with you waking wondering who the hell just devastated your life. G's eyes and saunter promised a long, casual weekend in bed you'd never forget.

We dumped the trash in the landfill with a short detour to the site's main office so I could pick up the grid pattern and schedule of which district was used to bury what and when. After that, it was duct and electrical work, done and done, then the primer and the first coat of paint. We used two large fans to blow the fumes outside. Dabney got to the shower first while G and I prepared an early dinner. She had to be back to work soon.

The second coat of teal paint was drying before Dabney exited the shower. She was very pleased with the way her closet had turned out. I got the drop cloth and tape guards out of the way then it was my shower time. G gave me a minute then followed me in. Sex ... warm passionate, slow-burn sex.

It was G getting into the sensuality of the act, reawakening that spark within her that triggered the kiss, the muttered word, the gentle touch of affection that was the true art of lovemaking. Penetration came later, in an awkwardness enforced by my shower's limited dimensions. We still managed it. G did the equivalent of a standing split, facing me, before my cock penetrated her.

Several pulse-quickening minutes later, when I was close, we separated and G finished me off with a hand job. Fellatio would have been nice, but those space constraints would make the act more of a quick, face-fucking experience; not a thing with any degree of artistry or consideration.

"That was nice," G moaned contentedly as we were toweling off. She shot me a curious look. "It was more than nice. It reminds me that I'm a human being and I think you know what I mean by that." She was looking for confirmation.

"People want to shed their masks and indulge in being themselves from time to time, G. That is something you were denied for a long, long time," I nodded. "I get it."

"Don't you be hogging my Man," Dabney gave us a nervous smirk when we exited the bathroom. I wasn't angry with Dabney's territoriality. She hadn't been free a week yet. Truly understanding independence and interdependence took time. In the service, it took me several months and I had skilled trainers to help me along that path.

The modern military is a dichotomy few outsiders understand. They want you to be part of a team that has a group cohesion, yet at the core of that trait is each soldier, marine, sailor and airman being able to do their job independently. Your officers and NCO's had other jobs to do, so you were pretty much on your own in fulfilling your task.

Rarely does anyone pat you on the head and tell you you've done a good job. Oh, you get yelled at if you fuck up, it's true. For doing your job - nothing. Because doing your job on your own, acting free of any direction, is what you are supposed to do.

My very first combat assignment taught me and my Lieutenant that lesson. I had run to the sound of the guns to do my assigned task - taking care of the wounded. I hadn't sought out my commanding officer for permission since helping the wounded was my assignment. Only later did we both realize that.

His task was to place me where I was needed only if I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing. By acting independently, I had freed him up to do his job - ordering his shooters to engage the enemy utilizing his coherent battle plan. We both succeeded in our tasks. We beat the bad guys and got our worst casualty to the hospital facilities in a speedy and efficient manner.

Dabney and G were both in the Basic Training of this lifestyle. G was used to acting alone and unsupported. To do otherwise would have invited pain from her ex-husband. Now she had to learn to accept and work within a team ~ the Disloyalists (the name was growing on me) ~ who would back up her plays and expect to be backed up in turn.

Dabney had to learn that standing on your own two feet didn't mean standing alone. I had created a solid group for her to work with, not for. She'd have to pull her weight and discover what a wonderful feeling that was. She would come to know what it was like to be part of an organization that valued and trusted her. She would have to learn to be trustworthy and to trust others as an equal.

I had my work cut out for me. Step one was physical training. The more your body can do, the better you can deal with fatigue. And the more benchmarks, you conquer the higher your confidence becomes. Once your body reaches a certain progressive state, your mind is ready to embrace both positive reinforcement and new knowledge.

The girls hated me for putting them through this, shooting me evil looks and flaunting their sexuality in the attempt to make me relent. The only place we could exercise was in the back yard, which was blistering hot. We stayed hydrated. G followed Dabney's lead in pouring water over her shirt in order to distract me.

Nah, I was adaptive. My RDC's (Recruit Division Commanders) had given me multiple techniques to motivate trainees. Pinching, twisting and plucking nipples and slapping the available buttocks wasn't in that repertoire, but no future squid I'd trained with had dressed in their manner either. They flaunted their femininity and I turned that around on them.

Getting G to work was actually seen as joyous by those two after I informed them this was going to be their lives two times a day for the foreseeable future ~ and, as I assured Dabney, sex was not a substitute for exercise; it was extra credit. We grabbed an early bite to eat then I took Dabney out on our second date.

She was excited until we rolled into our destination, the Green Valley Range. Yes, Dabney was getting gun lessons. We initiated the process of getting her a Ruger III .22 Target Pistol and a Benelli M4 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun. The Ruger would take a while to own legally, so I had her rent one from the range.

She exhibited some genuine displeasure until the third round from her pistol. The first one stung, the second was a bit of a surprise and then she fell in love. A .22 target pistol is a great starter weapon. It has a light recoil and is pretty accurate, so the shooter gets the rush of hitting (in general) what they aim at.

We did thirty minutes with the pistol and thirty more with the shotgun. She loved that too. Twenty minute of each period was basic safety with ten minutes of careful target practice. A person two lanes down went full-auto with an MP-5; lots of noise and damage down range. He knew what he was doing, as in he hit what he was aiming at, but it was really just macho bullshit for his date.

Dabney begged me for the opportunity, even getting playful. My glare told her I did not consider this fun and games. Dick-wad chose to intervene.

"Hey buddy, I don't mind," he chuckled. He was also eyeing Dabney with the intent of taking her home with him with, or without, his current hanger-on.

Perhaps my ear protection and shooting glasses disguised me, or maybe he didn't watch the news. Either way ...

"She has no firearms experience, you haven't introduced yourself as a firearm instructor and I don't know you, so you are not my buddy," I replied.

"I'm Oliver Jackson, trained marksman and former Marine Force Recon," he grinned. "You serve?"

"None of that is relevant to your ability to train others in the use of firearms," I met his gaze.

"Vance is a hero," Dabney proclaimed. Douche-bag's woman of the moment had wavy, black hair and a complexion of the southern portion of the subcontinent; tall and cute enough to be a model. Dabney would still be a major upgrade.

"Hero?" Oliver scoffed. He assumed I was playing his game of the bad-ass war hero and that would be one hero too many in this room.

"Dabney, this is not a conversation we are having," I told her. My lady was contrite. She knew I thought bravado was for the mentally deficient.

"Ah, come on Dabney, it will be fun," he attempted an end-run around me. I was given a reason to be proud of my companion by her response. She was merging her highly cultivated call-girl empathy and bullshit detection with her analysis of me and a sense for what Special Service operators were really like.

"Fun ... oh," she pursed her lip in an erotic 'O', "who are you?" to Oliver's date.

"Sara Patel," the girl said. "I'm in town at the International Wireless Expo," she smiled. "Oliver is in private security with one of the Canadian firms."

"Well, that's a total load of crap," Dabney giggled. "Conventioneers who bring their own private security with them - Sara is it - don't give them the night off."

"Those who can afford them definitely don't hire private security from out of the country ~ firearm regulations are different from nation to nation. Besides, the Las Vegas Strip has its own LVMD station. It is one of the most secure areas on the planet," she informed the new girl. "All the major hotels have their own private security forces ... who normally don't scout out guests at their place of business."

"Lady, you don't know what you are talking about," Oliver got defensive.

"Oliver, I'm a former professional escort," she shook her head. "I know my conventions, which people are the real deal and who are the conmen. Sara, did he tell you he'd come down with a client from Canada?"

"What's that got to do with anything ..." Oliver stammered.

"Yes ... yes, he did," Sara's caution was belatedly kicking in.

"If he was an out-of-towner on the job, Honey, he'd still be working. Real bodyguards would be on the job 24/7 for the three to five days their client was in town."

"I'm from Vegas, Bi ... Miss," Oliver evaded. "I handle overall security for ..."

"I cry bullshit," Dabney laughed at the guy. "Visitors don't need security during the day; they need it at night ... like right now." Sara was starting to get the creepy vibe from her 'pick-up' as Oliver shed his 'cool'.

"Celer, Silens, Mortalis," I said.

"What?" Oliver turned angrily on me. Anger and guns - not good. Even unloaded, guns are bad news. There was also ammo close by. There was something else getting 'closer-by' as well. One of the real gun pros who worked for Green Valley.

"Celer, Silens, Mortalis," I repeated.

"What does that mean?" Sara asked.

"Let's get out of here," Oliver put a hand on Sara's elbow.

"It is the motto of the United States Marine Force Reconnaissance battalions," the firearm's instructor answered for me.

"It means 'Swift, Silent, Deadly'," I added. "Oliver, I know some real Force Recon marines. I was a SARC and I served alongside them. Using their reputation to score a girl ~ that's low." Oliver paled. "Dude, no Force Recon marine I know would give a damn about you because you aren't worth the mud beneath their feet. You are a sleazy loser. Put the guns down and go home."

Oliver stumbled back to his stand. He flashed a look to Sara. Sara weighed her options and went to stand by Dabney. The instructor visually made sure I was calm before walking over to Oliver.

"Mr. Jackson, why don't we check you out?" he suggested.

"Ummm ... Sara?"

"I think I want to go back to my hotel," she shook her head.

"Buddy," Oliver glared at me, "I won't ..."

"Mr. Jackson, do you even know what a SARC is?" the instructor asked. Jackson didn't. "Those are the tiny handful of Naval Corpsmen who serve with real Force Recon Marines and SEAL teams and I know for a fact Mr. Vardanyan did both."

"I'm a former US Army Ranger ~ 2nd Battalion/75th Regiment," he stated.

"Tree-hugger," I muttered. He laughed. The 2nd Battalion was based in Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington State, thus the 'tree-hugger' crack.

"Little Green Man," he shot back. SEAL's were (rarely) called the 'Men with Green Faces'. I liked this guy.

"Sara, do you want us to give you a ride back to your hotel?" my date offered. "I'm Dabney Curtiss and my date is Vance Vardanyan."

"That name ... it sounds familiar," Sara mused. "Were you really an escort?" she asked Dabney. She swept up Sara while the instructor, 1st Lt. (ret.) Jase Carson, Oliver and I checked all the ammo and weapons.

It was dark by the time we exited to the parking lots.

"Ah ... Mr. Vanyan ... I was just playing around," Oliver prevaricated.

"You are a Marine, right?" I asked. That implied he'd left service with an Honorable Discharge. An 'ex-Marine' implied a dishonorable discharge. I didn't bother correcting him about my name.

"Yeah ... a 2800," he confessed. That was a Basic Data/Communications Maintenance Marine. Electronic systems didn't fix themselves and someone had to do the job.

"A piece of advice," I suggested. "Full-auto is Hollywood. Keep your eyes on the target and use three round bursts. A three round burst to center mass looks just as nice."

"Oh."

"That would require you to practice," I reminded him.