somerealnerd

  John’s pn to topple Bryce Calhan hinged on a few key pieces—one being the mole lurking in Hensley’s Haul. But Tammy doused that hope like a bucket of ice water. “No way you’re sniffing out that leak, babe,” she murmured, nestled against him on her bed, her bare skin warm against his chest. Her fingers traced zy circles over his pecs, nails grazing just enough to tease. They’d just torn through two rounds of stormy, breathless fucking—her initial shock at John’s beyond-normal stamina melting into eager delight, her eyes now soft as they lingered on him, a strange swell of feeling tightening her throat.

  John stayed quiet, lost in thought, his brow creasing as he weighed the hit to his pn. He’d figured not every mole would surface, but zero? That stung more than he’d expected. Tammy caught his silence, fshed a small grin, and wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, pulling him close. “I’ve got something else for you, though—our SubOnly’s got a big fish, someone you’ll wanna know about,” she said, her voice a conspiratorial hum against his ear.

  “Who’s he?” John asked, turning to meet her gaze, curiosity sparking—how could some subscriber help him take down Calhan?

  “It’s a she,” Tammy corrected, smacking his forehead with a quick thwap, her go-to move when he missed a beat. “CC8501—that’s her handle. I know it ‘cause Bryce once forwarded me a bank credit card bill by mistake, bitching her out in the email.” She mimicked his tone, dropping her voice: “‘Stop wasting my fucking money on this dumbass shit—buy a couple vibrators and fuck yourself instead, you horny bitch.’”

  “Wasting his money? So this subscriber’s Calhan’s wife?” John’s gears clicked, his pulse picking up.

  “Yep, my clever Johnny—his trophy wife, Camil Calhan,” Tammy said, her grin widening, a glint of pride in her eyes as she leaned back against the pillow.

  Holy fuck, this is gold, John thought—even if Camil couldn’t finger the mole, she’d have dirt on Bryce, maybe even his ties to Vitacore Pharma. A sly, crooked grin spread across his face as he asked, half-serious, half-dumb, “She hot?”

  Tammy bolted upright, her hand flying—whack—spping his forehead again. “Horny pig!” she snapped, then flopped back down, rolling over to face the wall, her bare back a stubborn curve against him.

  John chuckled, a low rumble, and slid over, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his chest pressing into her spine. “Thanks, Tammy—you’ve handed me a hell of a lead on Calhan; I’d be nowhere without you,” he said, his voice dipping as he rattled off a string of gratitude—how her smarts kept him afloat, how she’d flipped his game upside down. Then, softening, he murmured against her neck, “You’re getting more important to me every damn day.” He waited, half-expecting her to spin around with that smug, “I knew it! You are in love with me, prick,” her usual cocky win.

  But Tammy didn’t budge. A soft snore slipped out, her body x in his arms—she’d drifted off, nestled against him.

  Next morning, as John ced up to leave, Tammy pressed a fat stack of cash into his hands—five grand, her eyes bright. “Your cut from our little ‘business,’” she said, a pyful tilt in her voice. John hesitated, then pocketed it—money was tight, and he needed it now.

  Stepping out into the crisp dawn, his first move was to ping the system, itching for intel on this Camil.

  [Camil Calhan, former Winchester—sharp as a tack growing up, ran her high school debate team like a dictator, graduated Nexis Academy at 22 with top honors in business, then hitched herself to Bryce Calhan faster than you can say “gold digger.”]

  The system rattled off her bio like a damn textbook—unusually straight for once—but John cut in, impatience fring. “Enough, enough—I’m not doing a fucking census, system! Gimme something I can use to get close to her!”

  [Oh, you ungrateful fuck—still think I can hack her inbox like st time? Fat chance! After that stunt, the “higher-ups” caught your ass exploiting glitches and locked down half my shit. No more private dirt for you, you greedy prick!]

  It kept yapping, piling on the filth with a gleeful edge.

  [What, you think you can waltz around with everyone’s secrets up your sleeve? You’d be the goddamn emperor of this dump—bckmailing every bastard ‘til they suck your dick! Dream on, you brain-dead shit!]

  John smirked, unimpressed—emperor based purely on holding other people’s secrect? One bullet to the head ends that fantasy quick. He waved it off. “Fine, but you can get me their address, right?”

  [Here you go, dipshit—Upper District’s ritziest slice. Don’t try busting in, though—every pad’s got armed meatheads who’d snap your scrawny neck like a twig.]

  “Got it, got it—quit nagging. You can pull a map, though—find me a spot to camp and watch, yeah?”

  [You’re such a fuckin’ lowlife—back to your creepy stalker bullshit, huh? Binocurs on the bathroom window like a perv? Here, choke on it, you dumbass!]

  John scanned the address, nodding as the map pinged in his head—then mentally flicked the system off, silencing its rant with a smug click in his mind.

  Over the next few days, John hunkered down at his surveilnce spot—a shadowed nook across from the Calhan estate, binocurs fogged from his breath as he tracked their every move. Bryce was a rare ghost, slipping in te and gone by dawn, leaving the house a quiet fortress. They had one guard—a hulking bastard who parked himself at the front gate like a damn statue, only stepping out for quick loops around the block before snapping back to his post. He was a gatekeeper in every sense—no one but Bryce got in or out, and that meant Camil too, locked tight behind those walls.

  This guy wasn’t just big—he was a brick shithouse, muscles bulging under a tight bck tee, arms thick as tree trunks with a faded army tattoo snaking up one bicep, a jagged eagle that screamed don’t fuck with me. More than bulk, he moved sharp—quick, coiled, like a panther ready to pounce, not just some lumbering meathead. The real kicker? That sleek handgun holstered at his waist, glinting under the sun—he carried it like an extension of his hand, no hesitation in those steady fingers. But in contrast, and there he was groveling before Bryce—head bowed, shoulders hunched, damn near trembling when the man tossed him a hundred-buck tip one day. The guy lit up, grinning like a kid with a lollipop, clutching the cash tight.

  Man needs money—so he could be bought, John thought, but he’s more scared of losing this gig. Straight cash won’t cut it easy.

  Mulling it over, John headed home and swapped his usual grunge for a rare getup—a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a pair of charcoal scks, topped with a slim tie he knotted loose. He looked like an insurance salesman straight out of a bad ad—polished but scrappy—and damn if it didn’t work; the mirror showed a sharper John, lean and alert, a glint of mischief in his cleaned-up reflection. He bolted out the door, boots swapped for sleek bck loafers clicking on the hardwood, and nearly ran smack into Catherine. She blinked up at him, her coffee mug pausing mid-air—Is that John? He looks… alive?—her brows knitting as she clocked his transformation, a flicker of surprise cutting through her usual wariness. John didn’t stop for chit-chat—he was off, tearing down to Bryce’s pce with a bounce in his step.

  At the Calhan gate, he fshed a wide, goofy grin and gave the bodyguard a bobbing, over-the-top nod, hands csped like a nervous rookie. It was pure theater—he didn’t need to grovel, but messing with this sb of muscle was too good to pass up.

  The guard tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his hard eyes. Everyone around here knew this was Calhan estate—outsiders didn’t just waltz up, especially not some suit with a shit-eating grin. He smirked, figuring this “brainless salesman” might break the monotony of his day. Sauntering over, hands stuffed in his pockets, he oozed tough-guy cool—shoulders squared, jaw set, a swagger that said he owned the block.

  “So, you don’t know this is the Calhan pad?” he drawled, voice low and gravelly, sizing John up like a cat with a half-dead mouse.

  John leaned into the act, bowing his head with mock reverence. “Oh, I know, I know—of course I do! Who doesn’t know Mr. Calhan, the big boss of BigMart, king of the city’s chain stores?” he gushed, ying it on thick, his tone dripping with fake awe.

  The guard’s smirk stretched wider, chest puffing out a bit—working for “Mr. Calhan” felt like his badge of pride, and this idiot was stroking it just right. “So, you gonna scram on your own, or do I ask what you’re here for first—then toss you out?” he said, cracking his knuckles with a faint pop. “Boss’d probably get a kick watching me chuck you over the fence.”

  John clocked the peak of the guy’s smug swagger—time to flip the script. His grin sharpened, eyes glinting as he dropped the bombshell, cool as hell and twice as dumb. “You mean Calhan? Don’t make me ugh—let’s skip to your ‘what’re you here for’ bit.” He cleared his throat, straightening up with a theatrical flourish.

  “I’m here to fuck his wife.”

  Before Tyler could even twitch, John piled on the pressure, his voice smooth and taunting. “I already did, actually—past three days, every afternoon at 2:25, I’d sneak in while you weren’t looking, have a little fun with Mrs. Calhan, then slip out by 4:25 like a ghost.”

  Bullshit, total bullshit—aside from the times, which he’d nabbed from Tyler’s patrol gaps, it was all a lie, blown wide open the second the guard checked the tapes.

  John was banking on the bluff; if it flopped, he’d bolt and scramble for Pn B. “Don’t believe me? Go pull the footage, big guy—I’ll wait right here, promise I won’t duck inside like I did before.” He pinched two fingers together, flicking a mock salute with a shit-eating grin.

  Tyler’s brain was frying—his jaw tightened, gears grinding as he tried to process it. He’d been ready to call bullshit; he’d seen those hours on the monitors, no one slipping through, but yeah, he stepped out for his loop every day at 2:25 sharp, back by 2:30, never a hiccup. Now doubt gnawed at him—did I actually check?—his thick brows furrowing, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple despite the cool air.

  John read him like a book, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk. “I know—routine’s a bitch, right?”

  Tyler’s hand jerked toward the gun at his waist, fingers brushing the grip—exactly what John expected. “And you think I haven’t thought about you pulling the trigger and pop my brain out, so you can cover your fuck-up, big guy?” he said, voice dropping low and steady. “Tempting, I get it, but I’ve got a little insurance—taped every hot, sweaty second with Mrs. Calhan these past few days. If I don’t make it home tonight, those clips hit the web faster than you can blink.” He tapped his temple, winking like it was all a game.

  Too much, too fast—Tyler’s head spun, his meaty hand hovering over the holster, knuckles whitening, then easing back with a shaky exhale. His broad shoulders slumped a fraction, defeat creeping in as the bluff sank its hooks deep. John clocked it—almost there—and pressed his next py.

  “Big guy, what’s your name?” he asked, fishing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one with a quick flick of his lighter, the cherry glowing red as he took a drag, then shook the pack at Tyler—want one? The guard waved it off, his voice ft and sour. “Tyler,” he muttered, staring at the ground like it’d betrayed him.

  John exhaled a slow plume of smoke, swapping his grin for a look of earnest bullshit. “Listen, Tyler—we’re both just grunts, right? I’m just some guy Mrs. Calhan hired off SubOnly for a quick buck—guy escort gig, hard-earned cash. You’re stuck working for them too; they snap their fingers, and we’re the ones busting our asses.” Tyler didn’t bite, his jaw tight, eyes distant—thinking hard, maybe—but John wasn’t waiting. Time to seal it.

  “Worker to worker, man—your gig’s no picnic. Here’s the deal: Mrs. Calhan’s pretty generous—pays me four hundred a pop. Three visits, that’s twelve hundred total. I’ll split it with you—six hundred for, well, “letting” me slide these past times, call it a ‘thanks.’ Moving forward, I’ll cut you half every job I do here. Outside, I pull two hundred a client—why not split the easy cash?” He held Tyler’s gaze, steady and sure.

  Tyler stayed mute, but John saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his meaty fingers twitched toward his pocket. He’s cracking. John pushed harder, voice dropping to a confiding rasp. “Real talk—I don’t wanna split it. This is blood money for me; I’ve only got one shot a week. I’m popping Vigorex just to keep up—shit’s expensive and fucks me up, but I’m strapped, no other choices. More cash is more cash. I work, you profit—Bryce’ll never know, and she sure as hell ain’t spilling.” He pulled six crisp hundreds from his wallet, holding them out with a shrug.

  “Fine,” Tyler grunted after a long, tense beat, his hand snatching the bills and stuffing them deep into his pocket, his face a storm of reluctance and greed. “Get in, do your thing, and get the fuck out—don’t let anyone else see you,” he said, voice low, eyes darting like he’d already lost.

  John fshed a bright, “Thanks, big guy,” tossing a zy wave over his shoulder as he sauntered toward the mansion, a smug bounce in his step.

  Tyler stood rooted, watching John disappear inside—then it clicked. The tapes. He lumbered to the security shed, boots thudding heavy on the gravel, and yanked open the monitor bank. His thick fingers fumbled the controls, rewinding to those afternoons—2:25 to 4:25, day by day. Nothing—no shadow, no blur, no nothing. His gut dropped, cold sweat prickling his neck as the truth hit: That slick fuck pyed me. He gnced down, the six hundred bulging in his pocket like a guilty weight—he was on the hook now, tied to John’s lie with no way out. If John pulled anything wild in there, Tyler was screwed too. His fists clenched, veins popping as a roar ripped from his throat, shaking the tiny room: “MOTHERFUCKER!”