by Mark Henry
“Maybe if you’d told them you’d be crashing here, they could have accommodated your shoe needs.” Scott wiggled his eyebrows.
“Funny. Are you having any luck?”
Scott threw up his arms. “Been at it for a half hour now and no sign of anything that even looked like a camera. Found a pair of trailer hitch testicles, though. You want ’em?”
“Pass.”
“I really don’t see how it’s possible that it survived though. Know you don’t want to hear that, but.”
“Well, I’ll just make all the suspects reenact our interrogations. They should get a real kick out of that.”
Scott slid his arm around my shoulders congenially—and I’d know if it were anything else, I’d been examining his every move since I saw him. Looking for an opening.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” he said. “You are the most creative and ambitious woman I know.”
“Ooh!” Wendy yelled, darting to a spot at the top of the rubble. “Say that again, I need a more dramatic angle for your romantic reentanglement.”
“Jesus, Wendy,” I spat.
“Reentanglement?” Scott chuckled. “Is that even a word?” His eyes met mine, blue with what I hoped was longing. Though I’d settle for obsession.
I turned to see Wendy teetering on a beam precariously. “Why don’t you head on home to your new business partner. I’ll catch a ride with Scott.”
She hopped down and backed toward the side of the building. “No prob. I’m going to throw your bag in his car and get out of here. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.” I turned to Scott and found his gaze so welcoming, I rushed into his arms tilted my face toward his and waited.
His lips were on mine in an instant. Our kiss was passionate with regret. We’d lost something. Hopefully two things. My self-absorption—at least in terms of Scott—and his unwillingness to share his concerns.
“I should have told you what I was thinking. I won’t dwell anymore, I’ll just let you have it. Lord knows you’re strong enough to hear it.”
“Yeah. And I’m not taking you for granted. If I do, I expect you to tell me right then, hell, beat me over the head with your discontent. I deserve it for what I’ve put you through. I’m shocked that you’re even around.”
His hands played with mine, fingers threading and then pulling away, tickling circles into my palms. “Oh, I’m around. I ran, is what I did. Pathetic. It’s not going to happen again. You can count on it.”
He wrapped me in his arms again and pulled me toward the opposite corner of the building. The side with the walkway, if I’d only looked for it.
“I need you.”
“You have me”
“No. I need you right now.” He shrugged, like a little boy who had to go pee. Like it was simple as that.
Actually, it probably was. Simple as it could ever be between a wolf in street clothes and a dead woman in borrowed jeans.
“Right here?” I looked at the gap between the buildings. Paint chipped away from the clapboard like checkerboard and the cement was cracked in a single centerline, from the back patio out past the front of the building.
“Can’t wait. I’m ’onna fuckin’ explode.” Scott groaned, his lips against my throat, muffling the words into quiet murmurs, a deep humming that vibrated across the surface of my skin like a memory.
His hand found mine and guided it to the full hardness in his jeans, then slipped up under the thin cotton of my shirt gently kneading my breasts, pushing my nipples up over the top of the bra’s cups. His rough fingers teased them thick as his mouth went to work on my earlobes, the curve of my jaw, the shallow cleft of my shoulders.
I rubbed at him slowly, methodically. Wrapped my leg around him to press my pussy up as close to him as I could. The seams of our jeans met, snagged and slid deliciously, sending jolts of pleasure up inside me, up my spine.
He fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, opening it from the waist up and unfastening my bra with a deft flick of his fingers. Not a second later and his tongue curled around one swollen bud, then the other, sucking them into his mouth with soft smacking sounds.
I found the top button of his jeans, then his zipper, and slid my hand inside the band of his boxers, across the soft mound of pubic hair—trimmed, I’ll have you know. I followed the length of his shaft, lingering on the silken underside, tracing circles with my fingertip.
Scott moaned into my ear, a wanton beseeching sound. His face turned skyward and he ground his teeth as I stroked his cock, pressing down the front of his jeans and underwear with the other, releasing him. I licked the palm of my hand sodden as he watched me, heavy-lidded with desire. His eyes followed my hand down to encircle him, twist his length, toy with his head.
Both of them.
“You’re making me fucking crazy,” he sighed, nearly breathless.
“Oh, yeah?” I whispered, stroking him faster.
“Yeah.” His voice hopped a bit, as though I’d brushed up against his pain threshold. I released him and let him pull my shoes and jeans off. He lingered at my toes, sucking at them, lapping at the hollow of flesh at my inner ankle, before working his way up to my thighs, his fingers kneading the curve of my ass as he crept toward my pussy in a trail of soft nibbles.
He threw one leg up onto his shoulder and then he was there, tongue lapping between my folds, sending shivers through me that for a moment made me feel alive, more than alive.
Electrified.
He kept his eyes intent on my face while he tongued me and stopped only once, to dip his index and middle fingers into his wet mouth, before rushing back to tease my clit with unyielding thumps of his tongue. I felt those wet fingers trace the line of my taunt and I clenched a bit as Scott played with the taut pucker of my anus, slipping his fingertip inside only briefly while he swirled his tongue masterfully around my engorged clit.
There’s something to be said about a lover with no boundaries. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Every moment with Scott feels like it could go in any number of directions, from the last time where he lost control and shifted partway through—by the way, thanks for asking about the hip, it feels fine now, you insensitive assholes—to moments like this where he’d happily take me to the edge over and over again. Teasing me with the promise of an orgasm and then making me wait until I imagine I’ll shatter. Of course, there are the other times, when he’ll ask for something he’s not going to get, but I won’t sully this, our reunion make-up sex, with tales of anal gone awry.85
I clawed at the clapboard behind me as his effort brought me close. Near to that place where I knew I’d explode. I reached down and clutched at my lover’s neck, pushing his mouth tighter against me.
His nose whistled against my thin patch of pubic hair as he pressed even closer, his head twisting from side to side. He broke free only once to gulp at the air before diving back in with a maniacal glee.
“Oh, fuck.” My body seized with the beginnings, that moment that threatens death before the pleasure rolls in like a tsunami. But he stopped, just before, like he had me on a timer. “You fucker!” I screamed.
Scott chuckled and stood up, steadied himself on bent knees, grabbed his cock and slipped his full length into me, filling me. “Yeah. I’m a fucker.”
I held him tight and crossed my ankles behind his ass, as he held me up with one strong hand, his other cradling the back of my head.
His face wet with saliva and a faint scent of my own juices (I’m never quite as human as on release day from the reaper clinic—and for that Hillary gets one free pass in that dark alley beatdown I owe her). I kissed him deep, sucking at his tongue as he thrust up into me. I gasped as Scott pulled all the way out before driving his cock in deep, pounding hard into me before shifting his weight and thrusting shallow, caressing the grooved nub of my g-spot with the head of his cock.
“Oh, slow,” I moaned, the words stretching out like a sob.
Scott leaned his head in close. “I love
you,” he said.
And before I could process it, disconnect it from the pleasure he was giving me and figure out what to say, it came out, “I love you, too.” And then again, with more conviction. “I love you.”
He grinned and laughed and thrust with greater rhythm, his breath hot on my face.
The orgasm hit like a seismic slip.
I screamed as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through me, threatening to spill out the top of my head. I shook from my core.
Scott came next, grunting in that sexy way of his, teeth clenched and lip quivering. He shook his head and I ran my palm across his face, wiping the sweat from his brow, the back of his neck.
It’s a testament to our passion that I didn’t notice the adolescent kid masturbating in the neighboring apartment until after Scott and I had sunk to the ground, him breathless and going flaccid inside my still-swollen cunt and me sated and more than a little worn from cumming as hard as I did—swear to God I thought I’d have an aneurysm, if that’s even possible. He was about fifteen and tan as a handbag, floppy brown hair and a sunken chest, the head of his waning erection plastered in wet toilet paper. I flipped the kid off as he picked at the tissue, smirking the entire time.86 Thankfully he, finally, shut his blinds and I was able to hold Scott a bit and make out some more.
“You, sir,” I told him, “are going to have to do me up like that several more times before the night is through.”
“Is that right?” He grinned, though there was a thought playing in his eyes, a tinge I thought I recognized.
“Yes,” I said. “I love you. You’re mine and I’ve been the biggest asshole in the world. I’ll do anything to keep you, just ask. And don’t ever stop asking.”
He kissed me and I him and vice versa, until a familiar swelling flared up again.
“We better get out of here.”
I wrapped myself in the chenille throw I’d bought Scott on his birthday, sage green with chocolate stripes, though honestly it was for me—there’s nothing cute about a girl saronged in a pilled-up Target blanket. Just doesn’t work. Plus, what’s softer than chenille? Baby ass maybe, but you can’t get away with a baby ass blanket. Not these days.
Scott kept a bottle of Jameson’s on top of his fridge. I dragged a chair from the Formica dinette and snatched it and a dusty lowball from the cabinet. Rinsed and two-fingered, I slouched at the cluttered table, books and notepads stacked next to bags of bulk cereal and two liters of regular Coke.
The first book I dragged off the pile, a leather-bound number heavy as an anvil with an equally hefty title, The Greenwood Obscura. I drained the whiskey and poured a second. Heaving my bag off the back of the chair—a big hobo monstrosity the reapers dug up for what little of my effects could be salvaged—I dug through it for my smokes and instead pulled out Wendy’s big pink bunny. I sat it on the table and propped its ears up. My cigarettes were, of course, at the very bottom.
The Greenwood Obscura was an encyclopedia. Full-page color photos of all sorts of woodland fae accompanied a written history of each. I flipped through the pages, admiring the coloring on the creatures wings—much like the Versace Spring Collezione—until I landed on one in particular. I almost didn’t see it set against the blackened bark of a burnt-out fir tree, but as I shifted the page to turn it, the angle brought all the bug’s wretched attributes into focus. It was the very same type of creepy crawly the killer sent Birch as a threat.
I read the entry, fully expecting to find that the creature was a harbinger, a warning, but finding something else entirely.
Scott shuffled into the room, yawning, hair sticking straight out on one side and a hand down the front of his boxers massaging his sore balls. “Wow, that was quite a workout. I might need to ice these up before we give it another go.”
“Pig.” I gave him a quick smile and he leaned down and pressed his lips into mine, humming his pleasure. I kissed him back and reached for an ass pinch. “Well, then rehab those puppies,’ cause I’m gonna need some celebration lovin’ after tonight.”
“Ow!” Scott jumped and backed away. “You’re dangerous.”
“True enough. Oh. I was gonna ask, what are all these books for?”
He filled the coffee pot with water and grounds and set it to brewing. “Just some research for your yeti problem, though it seems that’s hit a bit of a snag.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“What’s tonight?” he asked, filling the sugar bowl from a Rubbermaid container.
I turned the book in his direction, pointing out the picture. “I’ve got a show to finish.”
I glanced at the stuffed rabbit and grinned.87
CHANNEL 20
Tuesday
10:00 P.M.–12:00 A.M.
The Mrs. Deadly Mysteries
Mrs. Eudora Deadly (Ramona Rachek) takes a holiday, she thinks, and ends up investigating the case of a missing werewolf bride at an isolated seaside resort. With a kidnapper at large, will her faithful manservant Burtleby be next?
If you ask me, the best part of any Agatha Christie novel (or movie adaptation, for that matter) is the big-ass parlor reveal. No question. You know, that moment, right after the detective—in most cases the rotund and hilariously egotistical Hercule Poirot—figures out all the clues and puts together the blueprint of the crime for the gathered suspects, who in turn are either moon-eyed with admiration, mortified at the wrongdoing or exposed as the bad-ass killers themselves. Either way, the conclusion is always the same and I bet you think you know the answer.
But, no, it’s not the conclusion of the mystery that happens in that moment, because anyone paying attention to the clues can figure out what’s happened. No, it’s something far more valuable.
It gives the detective the floor.
The star of the show gets the spotlight.
That’d be me.
I greeted each of the players into Harcourt Manor like the happy hostess, Wendy filming from one side, Scott the other. I wasn’t about to fuck this up, not considering the work I’d done to put it all together.
The first to arrive was Tanesha, weave surrounding her face like a lion’s mane and the Lycra catsuit to match. The wide 80s belt was a stroke of genius. She planted a peck on my cheek as she passed. “Shorty, you a Hot Tamale on Ice Cream tonight. Dayum.”
“Thanks. I try.” I did a little turn. I haven’t brought out the big guns in a while, and the Azzedine Alaia gown cinched me bullet-casing tight. If there’d been a stray patch of flab the designer’s flair for working in tight stretch fabrics would have taken care of it quicker than a plastic surgeon’s vacuum. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about that, being hot and all. And still bearing a hint of blush from the reaper rejuvenation—they do have their merits.88 My hair fell in soft silent-screen-actress waves and I wore a single pendant monocle, in case I was inspired to judge at exceptionally close range—though with the pores on these people, there was fat chance of that.
“Make me wanna bump donuts.” She thrust her hips forward with a high-pitched, “Bump.”
“Oh my God, Tanesha, you’re gonna kill me.”
“Wouldn’t want to do that, girl.” She sashayed off for the bar. “Gots to get me a tasty beverage.”
“I know that’s right.”
What is it about sassy black girls that makes you want to talk like them? Even ones that are technically men, and wolves? I don’t know, but I love it.
Maiko and Angie came together, neither particularly pleased to be attending, but still thankful for the opportunity for some more screentime, or at least that’s what they said. Maiko continued with her trend of dressing in stereotypical Hollywood fashion. I’d tried to tempt her with some exceptionally avante-garde Issey Miyake, but she hissed a stream of smoke at me, and if it were anything like what I could expel from my lungs…Let’s just say I knew to take it as a warning.
“Your nails are gorgeous.”
“Angie is so good at it.”
The little Filipino shrugged her
shoulders and beamed. “Thanks!”
Absinthe arrived shortly before Hairy Sue, wearing a dusty leather biker vest over a pair of Big Mac overalls.89 Absinthe winked at Wendy as she passed and shook my hand brutally before passing into the manor. I glanced at Wendy. Her face fouled by the green grimace of a curdled stomach. “Are you gonna be okay?”
She waved off my concern.90
Hairy Sue required a ramp and though it seemed she was really struggling to propel her wheelchair, neither Wendy nor I offered any assistance. She was, after all, the principal suspect and I needed to keep her on her toes, even if they were covered in casts. She gave us the finger as she passed, sweat congealing on her brow like lemon curd.
“Nice look,” I shot. “Very meth addict.”
Mama was the most difficult attendee to manage. Apparently, because she was human, her treatment was a little more traditional. The bitchy blond reaper—I’m calling her Hellary now—accompanied her with a big ogre of an orderly she called Spew—the only thing more noticeable on the creature than his curled antelope horns was the blue-black toupee teetering atop his head like a coarse black bear pelt.
Spew rolled the voodoo priestess’s plastic infection bubble into the bar on a gurney. It jarred violently crossing the ridge of the threshold. Mama screamed bloody murder and shook her bone bracelets at the orderly, cursing his “bastard birth.” I really had to question the sterility of the infection bubble, ’cause…bone bracelets? How hygienic could they be?
I told Gil he could bring Vance to watch the spectacle, like a real date, because this one had witnesses. “Sit in the shadows, though,” I told them. “You don’t belong in the shots, okay.” The way their hands scrutinized each other’s bodies, there’d be a bigger risk of horny grunting showing up in the final edit. I added, “And keep it down, I don’t want your dirtiness caught on tape.”
They chuckled and slipped into the booth farthest from the group.
Seated, the women eyed each other suspiciously. Maiko, Angie and Tanesha scowled at Absinthe like she’d taken a dump in their pedi-baths, while Absinthe trimmed her nails to the quick into the crystal ashtray on her table and grinned at Angie, who in turn cringed dramatically and flicked her tongue in the webbed vee of her fingers. Mama glowered at Hairy Sue through plastic, Hellary reclined in the booth behind her reading—In Touch magazine—finding out exactly how pathetic and lonely Jennifer Aniston was this week, as opposed to last—while Spew picked his teeth with a splinter he’d pulled off the underside of the table. Hairy Sue shot Mama the finger and crammed an uncoiled wire hanger inside her cast to get to a particularly evasive itch.