I set the apron aside and quickly undressed, folding my clothes and setting them aside on a far counter. I put the apron back on, tying it around my waist. I could feel my cheeks heating. I felt exposed, vulnerable, almost silly, but I was wet, too, and my thighs trembled where I held them pressed together.
I took a couple deep breaths, wanting to appear nonchalant, and got the milk out so I could start mixing the corn bread batter. I was pouring the thick yellow liquid into the pan when I heard him closing the French doors.
I finished pouring, counting his footsteps as he walked through the living room. I set the bowl in the sink and turned on the water, taking a long time to do it, watching as the bowl slowly filled, knowing that he was going to come through the kitchen door any second and see the perky round cheeks of my ass. I hoped he didn't drop the chickens.
He did, but they mostly stayed on the baking sheet that he'd used to carry them. I heard the clatter as the pan hit the floor, and I took a quick peek over my shoulder.
"Holy shit," he said, and I turned back to the sink, biting my tongue.
There was a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of the running water and the remix of "A Little Less Conversation" playing in the living room. The next thing I knew, two hard, hot hands were on me, and I gripped the edge of the counter in anticipation.
"Spread your legs."
I whimpered and did as he asked, widening my stance. He gripped my hips and tilted me toward him.
"Witch," he said gruffly, and I pressed backward, into the hard hot strength of him.
I heard the sound of a zipper and then a shuffle as the heavy denim of his jeans fell to the floor. I felt him moving behind me, the heat of his body replacing the coolness of the air against my feverish flesh.
There was a gentle rubbing and then the hard pressure of him against the entrance to my body. He rubbed himself against the wet slickness, making me gasp with pleasure, then he pushed inside, spreading me, filling me as I clenched around him. I whimpered, and he pressed deeper, gripping my left hip while his right hand slid around to my front to touch me there. His chest heaved like a bellows and the motion moved him gently inside me.
"You okay, baby, can you take me harder?" he asked, rubbing circles on my clit with a callused fingertip to convince me.
"Yes," I gasped, and he slid out, then in again, harder, working me with his fingers from the front.
He hunched over me, letting go of my hip and bracing himself with a hand on the counter next to mine, and I knew he was about to fuck me in earnest. I could feel his legs shaking behind me and guessed he was on the edge of his control.
He thrust faster, pounding inside me and making me gasp and bend my elbows forward till I was almost kissing the countertop. He did it again. And again. Ramming his hard flesh into me with merciless intensity, the hand between my legs rubbing faster and faster.
"I can't last much longer, Deborah, take it," he growled in my ear.
He didn't have to. I thrust my hips back against him and came so hard that I was afraid the clamp of my muscles had bruised him.
He groaned and jerked against me, and I felt the individual pulses of his climax as he came inside me.
We were both sweaty and breathing heavily, his body still braced over mine. I felt as if I'd just run a marathon; my knees were shaking and I felt light-headed. He pulled out of me gently, and I gasped as the feeling made my body clench in pleasure again.
He noticed, hugging me from behind, one hard arm curving just over my collarbone. I laid a kiss on the hairy, muscled expanse, feeling safe and protected, though I'm sure we looked ridiculous, him with his pants around his ankles and me in nothing but an apron.
He let me go, running his hands over me like he couldn't get used to the feel of me. I looked over my shoulder at him, wanting to smile, but feeling strangely unsettled. I told him I wanted to change and escaped into my room to change into one of my yoga outfits, hemp pants and a cotton tank.
He was stirring the butter beans on the stove when I came in. He'd put his jeans back on and rescued the tray with the chickens.
"I was going to bring it to you in bed," he said, and kissed me when I tilted my face up to him.
"That's okay, I wanted to talk to you."
"You can make the iced tea."
"Okay," I said, and opened the drawer with my collection of tea. I had a lot of herbal, green, and European teas, but I kept a stash of good old Lipton handy for barbeques.
I took out the basket on my Mr. Coffee and began washing it while he watched me curiously. Once it was clean, I put the tea bags in and put it back in the machine.
"What in Sam Hill are you doing?"
I blinked at him, then laughed, forgetting that not everyone used their coffee machine to make tea. "My mom always made it this way. She said it tastes better."
"Doesn't it taste like coffee?"
"Not that I've ever noticed."
"I'm not gonna hold my breath."
"You'll like it," I promised, pouring in a carafe of cool water and listening to the hiss and spit as it brewed. "So, did you find anything?"
"Nope. And Stevens turned up zilch on the tattoo parlors he called and visited, but he pretty much stayed in the North County and that tattoo could have been done in Hong Kong for all we know."
Since my best friend had gotten a tattoo of a giant bullfrog on her ass while visiting Hong Kong, I could pretty much attest to the truth of that statement.
"So I guess it's pretty much on hold until I remember why it's familiar or something else turns up."
"Yep. Nobody's gonna get in a dither over a John Doe unless someone claims him, or other bodies with the same MO start showing up."
"Do you think that's likely?" I asked, interested in learning the way he thought. All the other cops respected him; some of them looked at him with something akin to awe.
"No, something about it felt personal, you know, and sloppy. Like a fight that got out of hand."
"Why strip him naked, then?"
"I considered that. Blood gets everywhere. It could be the killer was just trying to clean up the mess, but honestly, I think he was naked when he got shot."
"But there would have been blood all over him," I argued.
"Not if the killer washed it off. Did you smell the body when you were taking pictures?"
I wrinkled my nose at him. "Gross, we're going to eat soon, you know."
He laughed. "Not that smell. It was faint, but the man had been washed with perfumed soap, like that purple stuff you have in your tub. The guys will never let me live it down if I go in there tomorrow reeking of flowers."
"So go home and shower first," I said, not at all surprised to learn that he intended to spend the night with me.
"So..." I extemporized, hopping up on the counter and picking up a drumstick from the tray next to me, "he and someone else, probably a woman, got into an argument, and that person shot him in fury. He or she panicked, washed off all the blood, and carted the body off to the lagoon to dump it."
"Something like that. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. The only problem is, that guy was pretty tall, and dead weight is the heaviest kind. Most women wouldn't be able to haul him anywhere."
"So, it was probably either a man, or a woman who had some help," I guessed. "That's creepy."
"What is?"
"The idea that there might be people willing to help someone haul off a dead body. And why dump it there? That's a pretty public place. Those weird guys are always fishing off the highway."
"I don't have any idea why they chose that spot, but any number of people will help a murderer cover up a crime, mostly family, friends, or lovers. Some do it out of loyalty, others perversion, but I think most people usually help because they think in some weird way that if they get rid of the evidence, then the crime never happened."
"I can understand that," I said, thinking of some of the rape victims I'd seen down at the station.
"Fortunately for u
s, those same people usually crack under the strain and tell everything they know."
I toasted him with my half-eaten drumstick. "Here's to mental breakdowns and the secrets they reveal."
He grunted and opened the oven to check on the corn bread. A hot rush of sweet corn-scented air hit me and I breathed in deep.
"It's done. Where are your pot holders?"
"In the drawer next to the stove."
He pulled out the heavy pan and cut the corn bread into even, pie-shaped slices. I watched him over his shoulder until he told me to sit down before I drove him batshit.
I did, and presently he laid a plate in front of me with a full chicken breast, a slice of corn bread, and a small mountain of beans. It was nothing compared to his plate.
"Are you going to eat all that?" I asked incredulously.
"I had a lot of exercise today," he said, and I rolled my eyes at him.
We munched companionably in silence, my smooth legs entwined with his hard hairy ones under the table.
"So, who was the guy you took pictures of today?" he asked between bites.
"It wasn't a guy. It was four women."
"Is that right," he said with what sounded like surprised relief.
"That's right," I said, suddenly understanding that he'd thought I was shooting a male model, and he hadn't been happy with the idea.
I set my fork down on my beans, not terribly hungry anymore. "Is my work going to be a problem?" I asked carefully.
He tilted up my chin to meet my eyes and I blinked; I'd been watching his hands.
"Not the photography part of it, but the dick-collecting, that bothers me some, yes."
I rolled my eyes. "That's just a game I played. I wouldn't sleep with anyone else, not if we're together."
"I guess that's what I want clear, then. Do you want to be with me and will you stay faithful?"
"Will you?" I countered.
"Yes," he said steadily, not looking away. "You're the sexiest, funniest, most interesting person I've ever known, but I'm not like those guys in Penthouse letters; I won't share you with anyone."
I wanted to shout that of course I'd be faithful, but something stopped me. I wasn't sure he really understood what it meant that I couldn't recognize him. Would he get tired of having to identify himself in a crowd? Would he get annoyed if I got confused and put my arms around some strange guy? He'd never said he loved me, just that he wanted to be with me. Did that mean marriage? Kids? My God, kids. I'd never be able to pick mine up from school without making them wear some stupid hat or something.
I could feel myself kind of panicking. This was all way too fast for me. I mean, I hadn't known him that long. Well, I'd known him, but I hadn't known him. And just because he was funny and smart and sexy didn't mean that I should promise him everything I had. What if I couldn't deliver? What if I wasn't capable of loving him or anyone else?
He put his hand over mine, and I must have looked a little wild-eyed because he used his most soothing voice to calm me down.
"Debbie, honey, I'm just telling you what I want. You think about it. But be sure, because once I have you I'm not letting you go, understand?"
I nodded, wanting to ask if he loved me, but a little afraid of the answer. I thought he might. I was almost sure of it, and my heart felt tight in my chest.
He took both our plates then, and started doing the dishes. I sat there and watched him, aware that he wasn't completely happy with me and wanting to cry because if I fucked this up, where else would I find a guy who would do the dishes without being asked?
Chapter Nine
Sara called late the next morning. It was strange. So often I would think of her, and she would call, or I'd get an e-mail. She was stationed over in Virginia Beach this time, and I hadn't seen her in the better part of a year.
"Hi, baby, it's Sara. What's up?"
"Sleeping with my detective. Think I love him. Help," I said without preamble.
Understand that Sara has been engaged about five times. She is one of those women who truly love and appreciate men. She has an amazing capacity to give, though it's slightly tainted by the fact that she has trouble saying no to just about anything.
I, on the other hand, have never told any guy that I loved him, and I hated it when they fell in love with me. A one-sided relationship just isn't fun for anyone.
I switched to the cordless for this conversation and went into my studio to work on matting the photos of Marshall's hands. He still hadn't realized they were his, and that struck me as oddly significant, though I couldn't have said why.
"Ohmigod. When did this happen? Is he any good?"
That's the thing with best friends--there's no need to mess around with preliminaries.
"A few days ago. And amazing."
"How did you do it?"
"The deciding factors seemed to be a short skirt and a smart mouth."
"I'm so jealous."
"You're surrounded by men."
"Yeah, but I can't sleep with half of them."
"Since when has that stopped you?" I said, laughing.
"So, what's the problem?" she wanted to know. "He loves you back, right?"
"I think so."
"So go for it."
"But--"
"You're not going to go on about that face thing again?"
I pouted. "Maybe."
"Listen, pet. What happened to you is fucked up. God knows I think it's weird when you come to get me at the airport and you pick me out of the crowd by the 'big boobs, tight jeans' elimination method, but it doesn't change the fact that you're my best friend and I love you."
"I know," I muttered.
"So, why does it matter with him?"
"Sometimes, when he's making love to me, I look up at his face, and it's like a stranger's inside me."
There was a pause after that which could've held a four-course dinner.
"Wow," she said. "Sounds like a lot of women's fantasies."
I laughed, and drew my knees up until I was curled up in a little ball on the stool. "I've done a lot of strangers. Being with someone forever means that you know his face as well as your own. It means that you can meet his eyes across a crowded room and know exactly what he's thinking."
Sara sighed. "I'm sure you're right, but if you ask me, that's only one part of loving someone. Why get stuck on that? If he's worth it, then you'll find your own way of loving each other."
"How?"
"Sex?"
"Got that covered."
"Lucky bitch." She laughed. "Why don't you ask him?"
"Just tell him what's bothering me and ask him how we can fix it?"
"Why not?"
Why not, indeed. "Okay," I said.
"Well, now that you've gotten me all horny, I'm gonna go see if I can find a stranger of my own."
"Wait, when are you going to come to visit me again?"
"I'm not partying with you anymore. I have three words for you: tequila, twins, tattoos. Never again."
"Are you talking about that night at the fair?"
"Of course. You think I do that all the time?"
"What tattoos?" I asked, dropping the mat board I was holding and coming to attention on my stool.
"The clown tattoos."
"What are you talking about?"
"They had clowns on their dicks, or near their dicks. Those suckers were long."
"Are you sure?" I said, dropping my legs and straightening on the stool.
"Yeah, you didn't notice?"
"No, it was dark. I was drunk."
"That's right. You weren't with me when I checked them out in their booth thing."
"What kind of booth was it, do you remember?"
"Why?"
"It's important, just tell me."
"I think it was one of those dart-throwing things, or maybe a ring toss. I wasn't paying much attention. The clown face was painted on the outside of it, too."
"Sara, I've gotta go. I'll call you later."
"Do
n't forget that I get to be maid of honor. Your sister will understand. Love you, pet," she finished, and hung up before I'd stopped sputtering.
I CALLED MARSHALL at work, but he wasn't there, so I changed into jeans, a tank top, and my lime-green flip-flops, grabbed one of the photos of the body, and headed down to the station to see if I could find him. I brought my digital camera and a framed picture of me for his desk. And no, I wasn't naked. It was a shot from his partner's wedding. I hesitated to do it, but some little imp inside me wanted to aggravate him, just a little. A girl couldn't change her spots all at once.
I went into the garage, not too distracted to notice that he'd moved my car into it at some point last night. I wondered if he'd always take care of me, or whether he was sucking up until he'd convinced me to take him on.
I thought that maybe he was just the kind of guy who took care of things, his woman included. Besides, he was already getting lots of enthusiastic sex, and I was pretty sure that most men only sucked up to women when they wanted to get laid.
It was about noon, so the trip down the 5 wasn't too bad. I was starving and the fairgrounds weren't going anywhere, so I picked up carne asada burritos for me and whoever was on duty when I got there.
The guard at the gate waved me inside when I showed him my pass, and I parked next to two cruisers near the front of the building. I walked into the office, which was your basic institutional building. Formica desks, folding chairs, and dirty white walls.
A resounding cheer went up, as it always did when I walked in the door. Most of the women even liked me; I'd gone out for drinks with them a couple times. I starting pulling out the extra burritos I'd brought, handing them out on a first-come, first-serve basis. The taco shop had included chips and salsa as well, so I set that out and watched the vultures feed.
I wandered over to Marshall's desk, carrying my burrito. I set the package with the framed picture of me on his desk and then wandered back over to the crowd. "Anybody seen Scott or Stevens?" I asked around a mouthful of heavenly seasoned meat and onions. I wandered back over and perched on someone's desk. Someone I knew, I hoped.
"They left an hour ago," a young blond cop said next to me, bending to take a bite of my burrito. I figured it must be Alex Barnes, a cute young thing who had asked me out a couple times. "What do you want with those old guys when you can have me?"
"You're just too easy, Boston, a girl likes a challenge."
He put a hand to his heart in mock agony, and I laughed.
That's the picture that greeted Marshall and Stevens as they came into the room. Me sitting on the desk surrounded by cops munching burritos. I suppose it could've looked worse.
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