Okay, so I’m just fucking this up more so.
Here’s the thing, I’m getting a headache from this short story. I’m not sure what’s going wrong with it. What I’m doing with it. Or more so, what the fuck I want out of it. But it’s here, and it’s in my head, while it’s not giving me anything new.
So I thought, well, I’d let you have a quick look and see if you… I don’t know, but I bitch and I thought, well, maybe you’d like a sample.
Anyway, it’s not edited, it’s not research edited, and no one but me has read it before you get your hands on it. Oh, yeah, and it flips a little near the end, but it’s for a reason I’m not sure if anyone else well get but me.
Can Shane finally bring Joel Home?
Joel Kidnel had a great head; he had always been good at turning off his personality and become someone else completely. He should have used this gift to become an actor—it would have paid a lot better. Instead he took it and used it be become one of the better undercover cops in his unit.
The thing was, after three years of being a ‘bodyguard’ of one of the ruthless men in town, Joel is having trouble coming back. Maybe he did like that life a lot better than the barren one waiting for him at home.
Then entered a little bit of a man claiming to be able to help Joel out. And who knows, maybe he can in a way neither men had thought of.
Maybe Shane can finally bring Joel home.
What’s there to say, I’m fucked in the head. Yeah, that’ll be a good place to start.
It was once screamed at me that going undercover was having the moral high ground as you shoot the man point blank. It was the idea of fun, adrenalin—adventure, with the safety net that you weren’t doing this because you wanted to—because you carved the taste of fear on your tongue. But because you had to. That at the end of the night you were able to put your head on your pillow and tell yourself that what you’d just done was for the good of the world, and not because you craved that power under your fingertips as a man twice your size knelt in a puddle of his own piss.
I’d scoffed at that idea.
I’d rolled my eyes and told the arsehole he’d no idea what it was like to fight with yourself as you witnessed things you didn’t want to see. That you had to stand there and let it happen because you had no other chose.
I screamed at him, that it wasn’t freedom that I got from being undercover. There was no freedom to be what I wanted. To do what I wanted. I had a code, and I had to forsake it in a way that I never thought would happen.
That I’d been naive. Even agreeing when it first came across my table. A question for my taking.
There wasn’t anything pleasant about going undercover. Half the time you feared the fact that people actually did know you. And there simple fuck up could cost you your life. That a little nod or wink could be the difference between where I stood one day and where I stand the next.
That was before you added in the paranoia and the infighting.
That was before you took that gun in your hands and were asked a simple question. One, that in any other light, you could have let go. Turned your back, and the guy handing you the gun would have respected that enough to allow you to go.
Because, unlike popular belief, respect was earned in a lot of different ways. Under a lot of different lights. But, in this game, you had to do what was done or you weren’t allowed into the big boys bathroom.
It wasn’t that you were completely boxed out. They would use you, and treat you the same, you just weren’t invited to things that had a possibility to escalate. Because if you didn’t pull the trigger yourself, what was to say you wouldn’t dob in the guy who did.
That’s how this life worked.
The bad guys didn’t dress in killer suits behind large desk with a look of death in their eyes.
No, the bad guy was usually the one that was willing to take anything, and had a mouth that could sell you shit on a stick and you’d eat that bad boy up with a moan of delight.
They were sales people with a pitch you generally couldn’t pass up. It was the reason they sucked so many people in. people, you wouldn’t think were weak.
They were regular guys who could talk to regular people. Fit into regular worlds and not be seen. It was those men that were the most dangerous. They also happened to be the ones that would eventually get too big for their britches and end up lording themselves over other. Believing the bullshit they spat at their disciples until those big arse men saw threw them and ended up taking out the king.
I’m getting way off the point.
The difference between being one of the bad guys and being undercover is that you don’t have a hell-no factor. Even if shooting some lowlife. Watching its brains paint the wall would have you vomit up your last three meals. You are forced by those above you to suck it all back. Grow some balls and do what the fuck they said.
They want you in the top three; you bet your curls that’s where you had to make it. it didn’t matter what you did—hell, a lot of the time, they wanted you to be creative, because if you could get there in three month rather than 2 years, they’d promote you—as long as you could be in that type of lime light at the end of it.
You generally can’t be.
Undercover, it seemed, was more a for-life thing than anything else. You get that caught up. You did that good a job, and you’re stuck out there in the wilderness, because that’s where you do best.
They don’t care about your mind. They give you a shrink for that. They aren’t paying you to cry about the unfairness of your life. Or that you can’t have a family or a life. Your job—what they pay you to do, is stand there looking tough and play a part you have no hope of ever returning from.
They don’t give two shits about your worth other than what you can do for them. And for them, undercover are no better than the criminals there pulling in. because, as far as they see it, though they trained you for this job, you’re not really one of them anymore.
How can they trust that you won’t just change sides now that you had a taste? How are they sure you haven’t already?
“You know that’s not true, right?” a soft almost feminine male voice said from behind Joel, making him jump. It sadly, lifting his heart slightly that he didn’t yelp along with it.
“What?” Joel managed to get around his thumping heart.
“That they don’t see you are anything but a criminal?” he muttered softly. It was a nice voice, Joel thought, made you want to lean into it, just so you could catch everything that was being said.
Joel looked down at himself; he was in the locker room with only his pants on. His arms bludged out sightly from the side of his body—he’d put on way to much muscle mass for this assignment. But with his build he knew it didn’t look bad. His shoulders nearly eclipsed most people. They defiantly put a shadow on the world around him. Add six foot height, with his thick waist, and massive thighs—before he’d even started working out. Made him perfect for high body count jobs. He looked mean all on his own. Adding the born tanned skin from his Maori ancestors. The sleeve tattoos up both his arms, and the dragon tattoo that ran from his right arse cheek across his whole lower back and ended up tucked under his arms, its tongue licking at his left nipple, which held a heavy silver bar threw it.
It’s hadn’t been one of his finest thought. But he’d at least gotten a killer artist to design and ink the whole thing. With the slight design threw the dragon’s scales that were seen when close up, he wouldn’t have given up the thing for the world.
He knew the rest of him looked as big and as rugged as he was born to look. He was his dad’s son, that was for sure, and that arsewhip looked like shit run over. Though, he’d been told, his mum’s Irish genes did add a softness to his face that made him somewhat attractive.
However, he’d never looked like anything but a reason for his mum to beat on him as she screamed at him for being just like the dead beat that left her impregnated with his lazy arse before he jumped ship and headed on over the Tasman sea, and home.
Joel’s first contact with his dad had been in his teen years. Apparently, he’s been an All Black, and his mum a slut who just wanted to say she’d banged a footy star—a New Zealand one at that.
Aussies lasses were kinda weird that way. They all wanted to get with a Maori—hell any male with that NZ kick to their speech would do it for some.
“Joel,” that soft voice spoke again, closer this time, as that little body came and sat down on the bench.
With a sigh, Joel sat down next to him. He didn’t really want to but he couldn’t seem to stop his muscles from following orders that weren’t given. It was almost a relief to sit there, quietly with the man’s heat next to him.
“Did you know you were speaking out load before?” he asked, his mouth lifted slightly at the side.
Joel felt his shoulders slump, and, because of his work, the flowed that flow. He wasn’t meant to show this type of weakness. He couldn’t. And so he ended up with his arms on his knees, his fingers entwined between his legs, his face turned to look—hell, nearly on level with the other man’s face. He must be quite short.
“It’s happened before,” he smiled at the man.
“Hmm,” the guy smiled back. It was a killer smile, that was for sure, all teeth and lips that screamed—hell, made you want to beg at the guy’s feet to fuck him. Joel had the impression that he knew it too. That he’d never had to pay for a drink in his life. That if he turned that smile, just slightly seductive, he’d get the whole fucking world.
Joel liked that type of smile. Like the fact that it would work. That it would keep this little man alive, just because Joel knew the guy could use it to its full advantage.
“What’s your name?” Joel asked, after a few beats. He didn’t really understand why he almost whispered the question, but it was like sitting there with this man had turned the locker room, the bench under his arse, into somewhere better. Far away from everything that was running around him.
“Shane,” he smiled again, this one a little less full of bullshit and fairy bread. It worked even better for him.
so there you have it, I’m 3 chaps into finishing this sucker—or at least that’s the min word count I have on this bad boy.