Games Girls Play – FF- Adventure



  About Games Girls Play

Author: BA Tortuga

Word Count: 21925

Page Count (pdf): 87

ISBN: 978-1-942831-16-7

Date Published: February 2017 EPB date- second edition

Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives

Price: 2.99

Genre: Adventure

Pairing:  FF

Heat Rating: 


Hands-on assassin Rose has the best job in the world and no issue at all with taking out the bad guys. 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 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. Jane must rescue Rose in time to keep both of them alive, or their lust-filled contest will end with a very final bang.


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.


“¿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.


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.