Games Girls Play

By BA Tortuga

Hands-on assassin Rose has the best job in the world and no issue at all with taking out the bad guys in the world. In fact, the only problem Rose has in her life is the game of sexy one-upmanship she's playing with her biggest competition, Jane. Jane is a sniper who likes to do her job from a distance, but no matter who manages to do the job first, the ladies like to get together afterward to argue over who gets the fee, and have hot make-up sex at the same time.

When Rose is burned by the family of one of her marks, though, the game changes. When Jane's handler tells her she gets the honor of taking Rose out, Jane knows she can't just kill her best girl. Can Jane rescue Rose in time to keep both of them alive, or will their ultimate contest end with a bang from which they can never recover?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives
• Release date: Jul 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942831167

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rose checked her bustier in the mirror, adjusted a few pins in her carefully coiffed updo, freshened her Oh Fuck Me Now lipstick, and grabbed her flogger.

Show time.

"Señor Marquez? I am ready for you." She headed into the playroom, the huge bank of windows staring out over the lights of Houston. She got a smile from the handsome man, kneeling for her on a pile of silken pillows, body bared and bound with a dozen leather straps.

She smiled at him and sashayed over to the bodyguard who waited, arms crossed, staring her down. "So grumpy. You cannot play, señor?"

He shook his head, eyes on her breasts, the nipples barely staying contained.

Rose took a deep breath. Then another, leading his eyes in an up-and-down dance. She needed him distracted.

Shame. She turned her back on him, shaking her tail feathers. Okay, the main door was closed, locked from the inside, and there wasn’t much surveillance, if any, if big, tall and nasty was allowed to watch.

Rose slapped the flogger against her thigh, the sharp snap making Marquez jump, the heavy club of a cock filling. "Mmm. Someone is eager, si?"

She kept her face calm, the urge to wrinkle her nose strong. Hairy pig of a man. Still, she had a part to play.

A part to play and a job to do.

She swatted one of the man’s nipples with the flogger, keeping it light, keeping it easy, and Marquez groaned softly.

Perfect.

"¿La musica, si? She walked over to the Bose, looking at it, then over her shoulder at the bodyguard. ¿Ayudame?"

He came over without a word, turned on the iPod, the music loud and driving, sudden, filling the air. Rose smiled at him in thanks, pulled a hairpin from her hair and tagged him, right through the trachea, then sent a second alongside, slicing the jugular with as little spray as possible. He blinked at her, blood bubbling on his lips, making not a sound as she eased him to the floor.

Now for the rest of her job.

She turned back to Marquez, staring at him, savoring things a moment. This setup had taken some serious work on her part, and she was damn proud of it. She started toward him, specialty hairpin at the ready.

"Get your ass over here, chica. I’m waiting."

Bossy, bossy. She slowed her steps. Thought I was in charge.

The violent son of a bitch was in the business of selling little girls. His specialty was the six to eight range. Anything older than twelve was out altogether and it was time for this shit to stop, no matter how much money and power his Columbian daddy had.

"Get over here and do your fucking job, puta."

"That would be my pleasure, Señor." She was less than a foot away when the bullet sent his head back with a snap, the satin cushions flying as he fell.

Oh, son of a bitch. Her eyes hit the big window, the tiny hole. Motherfucker.

Rose never even hesitated. She hit the bathroom, stripping off her wig and leather gloves, bustier and heels, dressed in a turtleneck and sneakers before the bodyguard in the front room had finished bleeding out. She headed up into the maintenance tunnel, making tracks for the room she had rented as Cathy Martin, the music from the suite behind her getting softer and softer.

There were four people on earth who could make that shot. Maybe five, depending on how many meds they’d given Crow. Four people and one was in Gitmo, one was working a job in Afghanistan. Out of the other two, only one got off on fucking up Rose’s life.

Fucking bitch. It had been two years since that hard-assed, self-righteous twat waffle had walked out on her, bitching about how she was on the edge, living dangerously. Two years.

In her room, she showered, the makeup changing her from Hispanic to milky white in seconds. Her hair was dry, the huge mass of copper-red curls encouraged to fly wildly. She went for a prairie skirt and a lacy peasant blouse, no makeup. Glasses... Glasses. Right.

She took out the dark-brown contacts too.

Better.

Now instead of a statuesque Mexican Domme, she was a tiny Irish hippie, granny square bag and all.

She slipped her piece in the foil lined hidden pocket and grabbed her room key.

It was time to find Jane and find out why the fuck the bitch had taken her mark.

Jane sat in the corner booth, on the right side, which was easiest to get out of and slip into the back room, should she need to make an escape. It was entirely possible Miss Rose would decide she was tired of playing and take Jane’s happy ass out this time. Unlikely, but possible. She’d ordered a plate of Irish nachos, and she had a Guinness and an appletini on the table in front of her.

She was waiting for Rose, pretty sure the stacked little redhead would show up. The last time they’d played this game had been less than successful, but Jane missed Rose, missed the quick wit, the sweet curves, the sound of needy moans.

Jane smiled to herself, thighs rubbing together as the thought of her favorite on-again, off-again made her ache. Rose had been pissed off enough that Jane imagined you could smell the smoke coming out of her ears. She’d timed that shot perfectly, damn it, and she’d managed it from a hell of a distance. Honestly, you’d think after working as long as they had that Rose would have learned not to get so emotionally involved in her marks.

Sometimes Jane had to just keep things from getting too personal.

What the fuck are you about? The rainbow colored purse hit the table first, then Rose’s fine, fine ass hit the seat across from her, right on the edge.

Is that an existential question? Jane chuckled, sliding the appletini across the table. Drink?

Nice long fuck?

That job was mine. The palest blue eyes on earth snapped and crackled, and Jane could smell Rose’s soap -- sandalwood and roses.

Yum. She wanted to wallow in the scent, get it all over the hotel sheets. You were taking too long. Jane shrugged, casual as all get out.

Taking too long? I was trying to make sure the thirty assholes in the other room didn’t crash in.

Uh-huh. Have I mentioned that you make a shitty Mexican? Jane asked. Your skin is all wrong.

I’m going to hurt you.

Oh, Rose might try, but there were things they did better together. Like fuck. Have a drink with me first.

Rose picked up the martini glass and sipped, smiling around the rim.