Hush

by Amaleka McCall, Buck 50 Productions

Genres: African American Mystery & Detective; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Deidre Aponte is a beautiful, young, and sexy FBI Special Agent assigned to the Washington, DC, field office. Between a complicated affair and problems with her alcoholic mother, she thinks life can’t get any more difficult—until the daughter of a New York Senator is kidnapped and Deidre is assigned to the case. She goes undercover in New York City and quickly associates herself with three of the city’s most notorious female drug dealers, who call themselves the FAB.

Undercover and alone, Deidre finds her strong allegiance to the FBI and the United States government fading fast. With the lines between good and evil blurring, she uncovers facts that thrust her into a race to save her own life. She soon finds out that she and the other members of the FAB may be bound by tragedy and brought together by fate. Deidre will have to pull out all the stops to prevent herself from getting in too deep.

Release date: September 16, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

January 2005

Ricky grabbed a handful of Deidre’s hair and yanked her head back, positioning her face right in front of his. “Ugghhhh,” she grunted, keeping her eyes closed tightly. Ricky forcefully pressed his mouth against hers. His hot breath sent stabs of heated sparks down her spine. It felt like her vagina was going to explode, her juices dampening the insides of her bare thighs. She’d greeted him with just her robe on. Their tongues met, performing a wicked dance with one another. Deidre became so excited that she bit into Ricky’s bottom lip and drew blood.

“Oww!” he yelped, followed by a seductive smile. “I love that shit . . . you nasty little bitch!” he said. Sucking the blood off his lip, Ricky released Deidre’s hair from his grip and shoved her. “Get on the floor!” he demanded.

Deidre complied, stretching her body out on the fluffy throw rug in front of the fireplace. The orange and yellow flames produced a glow that made him look angelic.

“On your stomach,” Ricky said, stepping out of his pants.

Before she turned over, Deidre examined his strong legs, the result of his daily five-mile run, and his long tool in between. Who says white men ain’t packing? she thought to herself as she prepared to submit.

Ricky looked good for his age. He had a thin, muscular frame with six-pack abs. His hair was still full with not a single sign of baldness white men his age often suffered from. For a man in his late fifties, Ricky resembled a sexy Don Johnson in his Miami Vice days.

Deidre flipped her body over and slid her right hand under her stomach and fingered her soaking wet clitoris. “I like when you play with it for me,” Ricky whispered, dropping to his knees behind her. He started at her neck, licking the nape, and then moved slowly across her shoulders and down the center of her back with his tongue.

“Ooh!” Deidre cooed. When Ricky reached her ass, the cooing turned into crooning. He placed his strong hands on Deidre’s ass cheeks and gently spread them apart. She responded by gently pushing her torso upward towards his face, yearning for his long wet tongue to enter her.

“Ha-ha!” Ricky laughed wickedly. “You like when I lick you from front to back?” he asked, and then pressed his face between her ass cheeks while he held them apart. Ricky licked it from top to bottom, stopping at the hole for a minute and gently blowing.

“Agghhhhh!” Deidre cried out in ecstasy. Ricky gently pushed on Deidre’s firm backside, urging her onto her knees. Once she got into position, he resumed his tongue massage. He bent his head and delved tongue first into her dripping hot box.

Deidre grabbed a handful of carpet in response to Ricky’s warm tongue on her saturated labia. “Fuck me, please!” she growled. All of his tongue play had her overheated and panting. Ricky obliged. Lifting Deidre off the floor, he carried her to the bed and placed her in the center. Climbing onto the bed, he moved towards her, hungry for her loving. He kissed Deidre’s erect nipples, moving slowly back up to her mouth. Wedging his hips between her knees, he entered her.

“Ohhh, Ricky! Right there! Right there! Harder! Harder!” Deidre pleaded as she grabbed a handful of Ricky’s salt and pepper colored hair.

“Whose pussy is this?” he grunted in response, pumping his ass in and out with awkward rhythmless vigor. “It’s your puss-e-e-e-e!” Deidre screamed as she climaxed, tightly wrapping her legs around his slender waist.

Before Ricky could return the favor, the sound of crashing glass cut through the air. The sound came from inside the house. “What was that?” Ricky huffed through labored breaths, simultaneously jumping up and reaching for his weapon.

“I don’t know!” Deidre whispered, eyes wide, also searching for her weapon. She rolled over and got off the bed, spotted her gun and began frantically searching in the darkness for a T-shirt or any item of clothing to cover herself with. Neither of them were prepared for what they heard next.

“Deidre Aponte is a home-wrecking whore! Do you hear me? She wrecks homes and can’t get a man of her own! She is in this house right now fucking my husband!” the shrill but slurred voice belted out like a wounded opera singer. Pain and hurt were evident behind each syllable.

Shocked, Deidre pulled back the thick chenille curtains in her bedroom window. Standing in the driveway of Deidre’s townhouse was Lorna Blum, professing all of Deidre’s sins to the neighbors in Deidre’s posh, Fairfax, Virginia neighborhood. Clearly inebriated, Lorna continued to scream her profanities to anyone who would listen.

“Oh shit!” Ricky exclaimed as he fumbled with his pants, nervously stumbling around in circles as he tried to pull them on in a rush. His skin was red with embarrassment like a cooked lobster.

Before he could gather up the remainder of his belongings, Deidre heard more glass breaking. She watched from her bedroom window as Lorna sailed a brick through the windshield of her Mercedes Benz CLK 430. Deidre was powerless, and embarrassment kept her feet rooted to the floor.

“I’m sorry!” Ricky apologized as he ran down the stairs to placate his wife before someone called the police, never once looking back at Deidre.

“Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz!” Deidre jumped out of her sleep to the sound of her government-issued Blackberry vibrating on the cherry wood nightstand. Her mind still fuzzy with sleep, she fumbled with her fluffy down comforter trying to locate the nuisance. Blinking her eyes against the sunlight streaming in through her French windows, she blindly grabbed for her Blackberry, accidentally knocking it to the floor. “Shit!” she grumbled, offending her nostrils with hot, morning breath. She looked over at the cable box, and the red digital numbers read 11:55. It was almost noon, but having been up all night, she allowed herself to sleep in.

She slid her long, slender legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet firmly on the paisley Oriental rug covering the parquet floors. She bent over to pick up the annoying electronic device. Scrolling down, she retrieved the last urgent message: Call Ricky Blum, STAT. “STAT? Now he wants to get all official!” Deidre mumbled aloud. She rolled her eyes and tossed the Blackberry back onto the nightstand.

Flopping backwards on the bed, she rehashed the events of the previous night. She still couldn’t figure out how Ricky’s wife knew he was with her. Maybe it was that obvious. Who else knew? Deidre had put herself in this position, she reasoned.

She would surely be seen as the biggest home wrecking slut. Lorna was right. Deidre covered her face feeling ashamed and alone.

“Ring! Ring!” The sound of the telephone snapped Deidre out of her conscious nightmare. She sat up and peered at the Caller I.D. It was Ricky from the office. “Why don’t you go call your crazy-ass wife? I should’ve never been fucking my boss, who is old enough to be my father in the first place!” Deidre yelled in the direction of the telephone, placing a pillow over her head.

“Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ricky refused to give up. Frustrated, Deidre finally shut the ringer switch to “off”.

Crawling back under the covers, she lay balled up in a fetal position. She thought about all of the consequences of last night’s events. As she lay there stewing in her own juices, she received another urgent message on her Blackberry: Call the office STAT, Business related. She stared at the message, and curiosity finally propelled her into action. Reluctantly, she picked up her cell phone and pressed 1, the speed dial button to the office.

“Aponte?” Ricky inquired before continuing.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Deidre responded, defeated.

“I need to see you in the office now!” he demanded.

“Now?” Deidre asked incredulously. “It’s my day off . . . my fucking vacation, remember?” she complained. They’d both planned to take vacation at the same time to furtively spend together. Ricky had told his wife that he would be away on business, and Deidre told her mother the same story. She still couldn’t figure out how their plans had been foiled. In all these years, had we gotten that sloppy? she asked herself.

“This can’t wait,” Ricky said flatly, hanging up the phone before she could utter another word.

“What the hell is up with him? Wasn’t it his wife who fucked up my shit?” Deidre asked herself aloud. Nonetheless, she dragged her feet into the master bathroom, wincing as she sat on the cold ceramic toilet seat to relieve her aching bladder. Standing up, she flushed the toilet, stretched, and yawned. She looked at herself in the large vanity mirror and decided she looked like shit. “Wake up, Deidre . . . wake up!” she pep talked herself, splashing cold water onto her face.

Deidre realized that the extra twenty-five percent she got in her salary called LEAP—Law Enforcement Availability Pay—meant that she had to be ready to work wherever and whenever the Bureau called, even if she thought it was her lover’s ploy to see her one last time.

After taking a quick duck bath, washing her “coots and oots” as her mother used to say, Deidre slipped on a pink terrycloth BCBG sweat suit. Wetting her brush, she smoothed her soft, jet-black hair into a slick ponytail. “I’m not getting dressed up. This is my fucking vacation,” she grumbled, as she slid her leather shoulder holster on, securing her weapon in place.

The crisp winter air bit at Deidre’s face, causing her caramel colored cheeks to turn a blushed rose. Gritting her teeth against the cold and letting small puffs of frosty breath escape her nose, she bent down and carefully examined the damage Mrs. Blum had inflicted on her car. With every key mark, dent, and piece of broken glass, Deidre felt awful.

Guilt crept into her conscience. She’d been sleeping with Ricky since she was assigned to the Washington, D.C. field office three years ago. Although they were from two different ends of the racial divide, for some reason, he’d always made her feel safe. Deidre often wondered if she was drawn to Ricky because he had been a close friend of her father’s since she was ten years old. During Deidre’s times of struggle, Ricky stood right by her side. He attended all of her dance recitals, graduations, and even stood in for her father at Deidre’s high school Father/Daughter Dance.

After taking a full inventory of the damage done to her vehicle, Deidre decided that it would be too embarrassing to drive her Mercedes to work. She had no choice but to drive her old Hyundai Excel. The hunk of junk Hyundai stalled, making a horrible screeching noise as Deidre pumped the gas and turned the key trying to get the ignition started. She hadn’t driven the hooptie since she graduated from the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia five years earlier. After a few minutes of pumping and praying, the car finally emitted a sickening gurgle and came to life. “Finally!” she sighed. She hoped she didn’t see any of her neighbors milling around outside as she switched the cars around, taking the Hyundai out of the garage and putting her battered Benz inside. Luck, however, was not on her side. “I knew she’d be outside!” she whispered as she spotted the nosey old lady across the street staring in her direction.

“Hey, Mrs. Zuberman!” Deidre sang out, waving and flashing a fake smile.

The old lady gave a short “Humph!” before she turned her humped shoulders in disgust.

“Wonderful! Just wonderful! Who the fuck is going to keep the kids off my grass now? Thanks a lot, Lorna!” Deidre said bitterly.

Interstate 66 was jam-packed as usual. “Damn, the traffic gets worse and worse every year!” Deidre griped, slamming her fist against the steering wheel. She needed to find a way to distract herself before she lost it. She reached toward the old car radio and manually turned the tuner dial. All she got was static. “Shit, no music and traffic. Oh, hell no!” she said, lifting the cover to the small compartment between the seats and frantically rummaging through old junk. “Aww yeah!” she exclaimed when she spotted a Mary J. Blige cassette tape. Mary had a way of curing any ill that Deidre felt. Throughout college and during the FBI training academy, she played Mary over and over again. Mary was the chicken soup for her soul. Deidre slid the tape into the cassette slot and the music started immediately:

“I’m goin’ down . . . I’m goin’ down . . . And you ain’t around . . .

Baby, my whole world’s upside down . . . Sleep don’t come easy . . .”

The lyrics played as her car gradually inched forward. Deidre sang along loudly.

“Be-e-e-e-ep! Be-e-e-e-ep!” The sound of a horn blaring startled her. Traffic had begun to pick up. She immediately stepped on the gas.

The streets of Washington, D.C. always amazed Deidre. All of the buildings were wide and short. She read somewhere once that no building in D.C. was built taller than the top of the Capitol.

Deidre pulled into her place of employment located at the junction of Pennsylvania Avenue and 10th Street, NW. The J. Edgar Hoover Building was located on the corner, with its brown and copper façade. She knew that some of the most talented agents in the United States—agents that tracked criminals, including Osama Bin Laden—worked right alongside her every day. She was proud to be an FBI agent.

Stepping off of the elevator on the fifth floor, Deidre took a deep breath before she placed her right hand on the computerized identification system connected to the glass doors. A small red laser light scanned the fingerprints on her right hand. “Good afternoon Agent Aponte,” the computerized female voice chimed as the small red light on the door lock turned green, allowing Deidre access to the corridor leading to the offices.

Fellow agents bustled up and down the busy hallways, greeting her with, “Hey, Aponte!” Some of them gave each other the eye and snickered when they saw her. “Damn, they know already!” Deidre mumbled to herself.

“Aponte, aren’t you on vacation?” a few of the agents inquired.

Deidre rolled her eyes. She hoped they would have overlooked the fact that she and Ricky took the same vacation time.

Rounding the corner at the end of a long hallway, Ricky’s office came into her direct line of sight. The blinds were pulled on the large glass window, and the door was shut. Deidre knew that meant something serious was up. Since becoming the Special Agentin-Charge (SAC) of the Washington field office, Ricky Blum practiced an open door policy. His door being closed meant bad news.

As slivers of sunlight escaped through the slots, Deidre watched shadows moving behind the blinds. “What the hell is going on?” she whispered to herself just as she looked up at the gold and black nameplate on the door—Special AgentIn-Charge Ricky Blum, Capital Division. Balling her fist, she knocked lightly on the door, hoping that Ricky wouldn’t hear it.

“Come in, Aponte!” Ricky yelled from the other side of the door.

“Damn!” Deidre cursed under her breath, surprised that he knew it was her. She nervously stepped inside. She was met by Ricky and her direct supervisor, the Resident Agentin-Charge (RAC), Bernard Baker. Baker sat on the long burgundy leather sofa. Ricky stood like a king behind his tall mahogany desk. Both were silent.

“Close the door,” Ricky demanded dryly. Deidre complied.

“Have a seat, Aponte,” Baker said, patting an empty spot on the sofa next to him.

Deidre had worked with both of them long enough to know when things were not good. She refused to make eye contact with either of the men. Sweat began to pour down her back. She knew she had walked into a trap. Is Ricky getting me transferred because of the affair? Did Baker find out about us?

“Well, I guess I’ll begin,” Ricky started.

Deidre continued to avoid eye contact as her emotions ran wild. As a welcomed distraction, she focused on the many awards and commendation plaques displayed on the walls. Ricky’s office resembled a Bureau museum. She looked at a picture of Ricky and former President Clinton. Next, her gaze came to rest on the family portrait hanging on the wall of Ricky, Lorna, and their two daughters, Amanda and Heather, one of which was Deidre’s god-sister. Ughh! The feeling in the pit of her stomach made her want to throw up, and she found it hard to stop staring at the picture.

“We called you in today because we want to talk about your work performance,” Ricky said, taking in a deep breath.

Work performance! What the fuck is he talking about? Deidre’s mind screamed, but she remained silent, staring at the family photo.

“Aponte, let me just give it to you straight,” Ricky continued, calling her by the name he used when they were at work. Deidre finally looked over at his pale white face, which was slightly wind chapped from the cold weather, but she still couldn’t look into those piercing blue eyes. Her nostrils flared and she became short of breath as she listened to him.

“You are one of the best agents we have here at WFO, and Baker and I think you are ready for a new assignment.” He paused to gauge Deidre’s reaction.

Her entire facial expression changed as a look of ease replaced her previously worried, furrowed brows. Relieved at the news, she finally took a good look at Ricky and couldn’t believe her eyes. His right cheek was marked with deep red scratches. Being a bi-racial kid who was teased and picked on often, Deidre had enough experience with cat fights to tell that the scratches on Ricky’s face had come from human nails—probably his wife’s. She continued to scan his face as he spoke, surveying the damage. She noticed a huge purplish-red hickey on his neck peeking out from the collar of his dress shirt. Her heart jerked painfully in her chest. Fo. . .