Dress 2 Impress: A Jennifer Cloud Novel (Jennifer Cloud Series) Read online

One of the black suits was standing at the base of the landing pad, awaiting my arrival. I stepped from my outhouse down off the landing pad. “Hello,” I said, smoothing the wrinkles from my lime-green Jessica Simpson sweater.

  “Miss Cloud.” The man nodded and put a hand to his earpiece. “She has landed,” he said and cut his eyes at me. “Right away, boss.” He was very tall and muscular, much like the other black suits I had encountered at Gitmo. He looked at me, pressed his lips together, and signaled me. “Follow me, Miss Cloud.” He led me down a long corridor and stopped in front of a door with a sign that read, “Women.” He held the door open for me. “Miss Cloud, you’ll find a locker with your name on it and clothing to wear for training. When you’re ready, I’ll escort you to Agent McCoy.”

  “Thanks, and please call me Jennifer.” He didn’t indicate if this was an option, so I went in the locker room. The room was a small restroom with a sink, two stalls, and a changing area. A row of six double-stacked lockers stood against the far wall. I assumed there weren’t many women who worked here, because the gunmetal gray lockers and the white painted walls held no indication of a female touch. I supposed Ms. Beotch had her own private dressing room for all her pencil skirts. I quickly bashed my subconscious thoughts. Jake and I were just friends—business relations, I should call it now. I guess the old feelings of attachment were clinging to me. I shouldn’t have mean thoughts if he wants to see his assistant. In fact, it takes the pressure off me if Jake is occupied with other things besides keeping me away from Caiyan. This was a great idea, except my subconscious was dabbing at a small tear. I needed to get some closure on that chapter of my life. We were always better friends than lovers anyway.

  I opened the locker marked “Miss Cloud.” A pair of folded green cargo pants and a black T-shirt lay neatly stacked under a pair of black Nike running shoes. At least the shoes were awesome. Hanging on a hook was the cosmetic bag I had mailed earlier in the week. I breathed a sigh of relief. My stuff made me feel better. I dressed and pulled my hair back into a sleek ponytail. Checking my work in the mirror, I slapped on some nude lip gloss and felt like I could kick some serious boo-tay. I sauntered out of the locker room and bumped chest-first into the black suit. I jerked back and hit my elbow on the door behind me. “Ouch, don’t pop out like that—you scared me!” I scolded, rubbing my elbow.

  “Sorry, Miss Cloud.” He looked sorry that I had bumped my elbow, but I saw the glimpse of a small smile curl at the corners of his mouth. He was laughing at me. Well, on the inside at least. As if he could possibly pop out of anywhere—the man was huge. We walked down the long corridor and took the elevator back to the main entrance. He showed a badge, and we proceeded through the chain of gates to get outside. The security was very tight. Only one person could pass through a gate at a time. Then it would close, lock, and then a beep would sound before the next gate would open, allowing you to proceed. Both gates were never opened at the same time. Once we were outside, we took a right, and a regulation army jeep was waiting for me. I saluted Mr. Black Suit and hopped in the jeep next to the private escorting me to my next destination.

  Gitmo is made up of several camps used to house criminals, from extremely dangerous, to probably know a wealth of information and we are going to keep you locked up until you spill the beans, to captured because they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The WTF headquarters is located under Camp 5, hence all the maximum security.

  I discovered the private’s name was Ryan, and he was from Georgia. We took a right out of the base and drove down to Camp 4, where the I’m not sure what I did wrong prisoners are located. We passed through the gate inspection and drove around the hospital. The jeep stopped in front of a small building with aluminum siding. A running track circled the building. A small soccer field was to the right, and a group of prisoners played basketball on a court across from the soccer field. A tall double chain-link fence with the standard razor wire on top separated the prisoners from us, and guards were posted throughout the area.

  My escort saw me scoping out the prisoners. “Don’t worry, miss,” he said with a slow southern drawl. “They can’t get out. When it’s time for them to play soccer, we open the gate to the soccer field. It’s closed because today is hoops day.”

  I smiled at him, and another jeep pulled up behind ours. Jake was at the helm and was dressed in black army-issue sweats and a gray T-shirt. “I’ll take it from here, Private,” Jake said as he approached.

  “Yes, sir.” And he was back in the jeep, pulling a doughnut to exit. I started to give Jake a hug as I always do, and he held up a hand. “The prisoners are watching, and female contact is off-limits.” I nodded in understanding and followed him into the small building. The building was a one-room workout space that held cardio equipment, weights, and workout mats on the floor. Two large floor-to-ceiling mirrors were mounted on the right wall, and a small restroom was at the back.

  “I wanted to go over a workout protocol with you,” Jake said. “You will never move around Gitmo without an escort—got that?”

  “Why? Don’t you?”

  “Some of the prisoners speak very good English, and you shouldn’t be any closer to them than you are today, but I don’t want to take any chances. We’ll be doing some training outside. It’s hot, humid, and the prisoners aren’t used to seeing many females.”

  We went outside to the running track. The angle of the building blocked the prisoners’ view of half the track. Jake started with some stretching and a two-mile run around the track. I was sucking air by the time we finished and was glad to see Jake heading back inside the building. After a short break for water, we did more stretching, followed by a lesson on muscle building, and then moved on to some self-defense moves. I had taken a self-defense class in college, so I knew a few of them. A large mat ran the length of half the room. We began on the mat, with Jake behind me in the aggressor position.

  Jake had me in a head hold, my body was pressed next to his, and that old familiar tingle started to pulse in my head and slide down to my loins. How does he have that effect on me? I asked myself. We’re just friends. I told my hormones to calm down so I could finish my lesson. I felt his breath on my neck and realized he was speaking to me. “Jen, what do you do next?”

  Focus, I told myself. I jammed my elbow into his gut and pulled him over the top of me, pinning him to the ground with my body. My left arm was at his throat, and my legs strained to keep his legs pinned to the ground. My right arm held his left arm secure. He looked into my eyes and broke into a wide smile. “Nice,” he said. I smiled back and relaxed, thinking our drill was over. He grabbed my ponytail hard and jerked, pushing me off him with his knee. As I flew through the air and hit the ground hard, I was shrieking.

  “Damn you, Jake!” I yelled as I lay sprawled across the mat, rubbing my bruised ego.

  He stood next to me and tapped me with his shoe. “Never let your guard down.”

  “You pulled half my hair out!” I stood and secured my ponytail, which had come loose from its elastic.

  “Again,” he commanded. I stood with my back to him, waiting for the approach. I felt him come up behind me. He smelled of sweat mixed with cologne and freshly laundered cotton. He wrapped his arms around me, and I felt my insides heat up again. Stop that! I gave my body a mental warning. I got ready to elbow the gut, when he spun me around and kissed me hard on the mouth. My body took over and coiled into the snake. His lips were soft and inviting. I felt my tongue slide in and mingle with his tongue. His hand grasped the back of my neck, and I relaxed into his arms. As we parted, I realized this was not what I needed from him.

  “Dammit, Jake!”

  “You were supposed to fight me off. What if I were a rapist?” His mouth drew up in an egotistical grin. He knew he had awakened that part of me that would do just about anything for him.

  “That wasn’t fair. If we’re going to work together, you’ve go
t to stop doing that.”

  “It didn’t feel like you minded so much a few seconds ago.”

  “I can’t help it you’re, well…you.”

  “You still want me.” A smile stretched across his mouth.

  “No, I want you to teach me how to stay alive.” I grabbed the towel off the weight rack I had draped it over earlier and dabbed the sweat from my face. He stared at me for a long moment, and the anguish of girlfriends past washed across his face.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t professional of me,” he said, packing up the gear we’d used. “I’ll always want to keep you safe.”

  “I know,” I replied. “And I appreciate you wanting to protect me from all this. But for some reason I’m here, and I’m going to need your help to stay safe.”

  He nodded. I put away the free weights and took a swig of the water bottle Jake had brought. As we returned to the jeep, I noticed the basketball players were lined up to go inside the compound. Most likely going in for their dinner. Most of the men looked like they were of Persian descent. I saw a few who could be Cuban or Israeli. No Americans, for sure. I knew this by the lack of catcalls as I battled with Jake. Was it my imagination or did American men go overboard with their freedom of speech?

  The drive back was relatively silent. We took the jeep back to Camp 5, and I returned to the locker room to retrieve my clothes. There was a small shower, and someone had set out towels. Body wash and shampoo were in plastic dispensers that hung on the wall under the shower head. I took a quick shower and used the blow-dryer attached to a wall unit. I didn’t find a flat iron or any styling tools, so I made do with my cosmetic bag and finger combed my hair. Jake promised that the apartment I would stay in during the weekends would be available after eight. I was borrowing an apartment used by another woman stationed at Gitmo, who was going home on maternity leave.

  I didn’t have a purse to put my cosmetic bag in, so I tucked my favorite lip gloss in the pocket of my black slacks and stored the bag back in the locker. Jake was waiting for me in the hallway, freshly dressed in his dress shirt and slacks.

  “Nice hair,” he said. “I like the tree hugger look on you.” He smiled big, and his dimples made me smile in return.

  “I’m going for the I don’t have my flat iron look.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes.” My “best friend” Jake was back, and I was glad to see him. We left Camp 5 through all the security gates, and Jake drove us to his apartment building. Jake led the way up to the deli, located on the roof of the building. We grabbed a couple of subs and beers. We made small talk about friends back home and enjoyed sitting outside. Jake’s phone pinged, and he read the text and then pocketed the phone.

  “Your apartment is ready,” he said.

  I followed him back downstairs, and we stopped in front of Jake’s apartment door. The first time I was at Gitmo, I had a tour of Jake’s apartment, and I found it to be sterile, a complete opposite to the warm and cozy flat he owned in Dallas.

  “Do you need something from your apartment?” I asked.

  “No, I’m taking you to the apartment you’ll be staying in for the training time.” He stepped across the hall from his door and unlocked the door opposite his. How convenient, right across the hall from Jake. I didn’t know if I liked the location. Jake would know my every move and every visitor. Well, we never really kept secrets from each other before. If you don’t count all the coeds he forgot to tell me he was dating in college. I huffed and entered the small apartment. It was clean and had the same standard brown couch and coffee table as Jake’s. A kitchenette was against the far wall with a small dining area, and a bedroom flanked off to the left. There was a female touch to the small space. A jug of flowers sat on the coffee table, and there were pictures of the ocean hanging on the walls. A cherry bookshelf held a dozen paperback romance novels, a copy of the Bible, and a basket of seashells. I paused to look at a picture of a pretty brunette girl, laughing on the beach, holding hands with a dark-haired man. They were both wearing military fatigues rolled up to the ankles as they stood posing in the waves.

  “My roommate?” I asked.

  Jake came over and looked at the picture. “Yes, she’s about six months pregnant. She took a desk job, but then her doctor put her on bed rest, and she went home on sick leave.”

  “What will happen after the baby comes?”

  “After six weeks, she’ll have her mother care for the baby until she completes her tour.”

  “Wow, that must be difficult.”

  “That’s military life for these people.”

  “And for you?”

  “No. The CIA doesn’t operate that way, but we do have our own rules.”

  I thought that maybe they made up some rules, like placing me across the hall from Jake. Temptation to fall back into my old ways versus the annoyance of him watching my every move on my only days off from the clinic were opposing thoughts, duking it out inside my head. I wonder what the WTF has to say about an agent mixing it up with one of the travelers. My inner voice was reminding me of that thing that Jake did in bed that I really, really liked. I reminded her there was no comparison between Jake and Caiyan. They were both very qualified in that area. She cut her eyes toward the bedroom, and I made a beeline for the kitchenette. A microwave and fridge were all I really needed, and the space had both. Someone had stocked the refrigerator with the basics: milk, eggs, cold cuts, and bread. The boxes I’d shipped with my essential clothing, makeup, and hair products were on the floor by the couch.

  “Good,” I said. “My stuff arrived.”

  “Do you want me to move any of the boxes for you?”

  “I thought I was in training.” I pointed to what Jake referred to as my spaghetti arms. “Shouldn’t I try to move them myself?”

  “True, but I don’t want you straining your back and then whining through the rest of our weekend sessions.” He bent at the knees to pick up the biggest box and huffed as he stood up, box in tow. “What’s in this one? It weighs a ton.”

  “Shoes.” I smiled as I picked up the other box and headed for the kitchenette.

  Chapter 8

  The training session was tough, and after the first lip-lock, Jake acted strangely distant. When we were training together, he was all business. Every inch of my body was sore from trying to keep up with the rigorous schedule Jake demanded. He assigned one of the black suits to teach me combat training in the morning. The guy was huge, and taking him down in self-defense moves required all my strength. After combat training, I had linguistics and history lessons. I enjoyed learning the different dialects, and I was picking up the basics of Spanish and French pretty well. We trained all day with a short break for lunch. Jake would appear after lunch for weapons training. I was amazed at how much he knew about weapons and how accurately he fired a semiautomatic. It would be very sexy if I still felt that way about him. Following weapons training, Jake taught me the can dos, cannot dos, and definitely must never dos of the WTF. Afterward he would dump me off at my apartment, and then I wouldn’t see him until the next morning because he had “work to do.”

  I still had not heard from Caiyan. I finally broke down and sent a text to him. No response. I called and left a voice message on his generic voice mail. I didn’t want to tell Jake I thought I was being dumped. I knew we were not exclusive. Well, we didn’t talk about it, but I was heading down girlfriend lane. Considering his past, he might have been cruising Jen for a short drive and had moved on, but I didn’t get that vibe. When we were together, he was all about me. I texted Ace a few times, but he was no help. He told me that was Caiyan’s MO, or method of operation. It was how he snagged all the ladies, making each one feel special—like she was the only one. It was one of the many reasons the WTF kept him at arm’s length, although he was one of their best defenders. “They couldn’t trust him to go back and not get his knickers in s
ome kind of jam with the women from the past,” Ace replied in a return text message. I thought about his last response. Was the WTF happy I was screwing Caiyan because it kept him out of trouble during his travels? Maybe I was an asset. My inner voice went all preacher on me and reminded me prostitutes provided the same type of service. I debated asking for some medication to quiet the voice in my head, and she shut up.

  Thanksgiving was on Thursday, and my parents were making noises about the family getting together. I enjoyed our family Thanksgiving. My mom usually tried out a few new recipes on us. Dad and Eli watched football, and fall truly was here for Texas. Occasionally it was still eighty degrees outside, but sometimes the cool air moved in, and the crisp scent of fall would fill the air.

  Last year my mom made us go to Black Friday. My oldest sister, Melody, was in town, and we ended up sitting on the floor of Walmart for four hours, waiting for a toaster to go on sale. Go figure. There is not a toaster in this world that would make me do that again. I did get some sisterly bonding time. She told me about her crazy boyfriends and all the fun she was having in New York City. After high school, Melody got a scholarship at an elite dance school in NYC. At that time, I didn’t know I would be able to travel anywhere I desired in the blink of an eye, and I was always bugging my parents to go visit her. The shoe shopping alone was inspiration for a trip. Melody graduated from the dance school, and she has been pirouetting her way around New York in off-Broadway productions for the last three years.

  This year my sister bowed out of Thanksgiving because it was taking place in Mount Vernon, my father’s birthplace. Melody was starring in an off off-Broadway play and couldn’t get away. I was spared from Black Friday and Walmart. It would also allow me to get back to Gitmo for training.

  When my great-aint Elma passed, leaving me the key and my new life, she left her home in Mount Vernon to my cousin Trish. Trish packed up her double wide and moved Gertie and her twin half brothers into the small white frame house in the woods. Not too long after, she met Vinnie and moved the kids to a mansion in New York, but she kept her small frame house for family get-togethers. This year she wanted to have a big family reunion, “Thanksgiving at the farm,” as she now referred to her small house. She invited all the relatives, even the ones “we don’t like very much,” Trish confirmed.