by Nancy Bush
With an effort he concentrated on his beer, cooling his thoughts. Besides, he’d discovered a better thrill than sex . . . killing . . . with a partner. And then sex. Hot, hard, no-holds-barred sex.
“Need somethin’?” the bartender asked, and he realized belatedly that he’d groaned.
“Nah.”
The bartender gave him a knowing look—the asshole—then wandered down the bar toward the girls. He asked them the same question and they all ordered more, staggering toward the bar in a group. Damn. He knew he’d better pull it together when even the bartender could read his mind.
So, he turned his thoughts to when they’d killed Denny, letting himself relive every moment of the game they’d played on him. Man, he itched for another night like that one. In fact the need was swelling inside him as it had since last month when they’d taken him to the woods and doused the body with bleach. He knew it was probably too soon to go for another. Dangerous. Extremely dangerous . . . but goddamn, the rush . . .
He exhaled and took another long hit from his beer. Denny’s body hadn’t been discovered yet, so maybe they could pull off another one. Zero in on another victim. Not victim, he reminded himself with a grimace. Friend. Maybe they could find another friend to join in their fun. If they were lucky, maybe that friend would want to embrace the game, thinking it was make believe. That would really draw it out in a delicious, slow burn. That would be great, and it had happened once before, a few months before “running into” Denny, so he knew it could. That sly, little bitch who’d said she would fuck them both till they were sore for a price had thought she’d had them, not the other way around. She’d assumed they were a couple of dumb tourists.
Rest in peace, slut.
Thinking of her stirred his blood some more, and of their own volition his eyes traveled back to the coeds. The girls were well past the point of reason, yet the asshole bartender kept serving them. Maybe he was looking to get lucky himself.
Unfortunately his partner wasn’t as eager to go for girls. She liked men. He’d watched her having sex with that guy with the big cock, a short guy but his tool was pretty damn impressive, he had to admit. But he wasn’t interested in any male parts. Just not the way he was made. That mark had been chosen because he’d gotten in the way, too, just like Denny. They’d planned to just take care of him. No fun and games. Just a straight kill. But in the end they’d become Bridget and Tom for him, too, just because they could, and once he’d pulled his penis out of his jeans and she’d gotten a look at it . . . well, she just couldn’t say no. She’d swung her gaze his way, silently asking, and he’d thought, fine. Go for it. So Bridget and Tom had taken the schmuck to a motel where she’d put him on his back and ridden him like a bucking Brahma bull. Just before they’d finished, Bridget had slipped a scarf around the dumb ass’s neck and Tom had moved in on the guy, too. They’d strangled him together, watching his eyes pop wide, hearing his gasping breaths, feeling his desperate fingers clawing at theirs. Too late. His eyes had rolled back and he’d sunk into oblivion, but not before his last happy ending. Asphyxiation right at the time of climax! Man, he’d heard it didn’t get any better than that. He’d like to try it himself, but the danger of going too far held him back. He wasn’t interested in dying, and well . . . Bridget seemed a little too eager to help him out, and sometimes she kind of forgot who she really was.
And actually, he reminded himself again, she was all he really needed. She thrashed and moaned and screamed and clawed like the wild woman she was. Sometimes, just occasionally, Tom dreamed of snuffing her out, but he couldn’t let that happen. He loved her too much.
He drew a breath and slowly exhaled it. The single most important thing was that they couldn’t get caught. They had to be careful. And this one today—that had been pure business, no fun at all—was bound to stir up all kinds of notoriety. There was a connection to Denny, which could be trouble, but no one knew about Denny and if they were lucky, maybe never would.
Maybe they should have done a better job of burying Denny. The site was remote, but they’d left him in a kind of humped up mound. He felt anxious about it, and today’s job hadn’t assuaged any of that building anxiety. It had been strictly for the cash and he wasn’t even sure how successful they’d been. Ford was dead. He’d made sure of that. But the wife...
He jiggled his knee and struggled not to snap his fingers, needing to release nervous energy. The sorority girls were now downing shots and dancing with each other. One had perched on the edge of a bar stool, the crotch of her Daisy Dukes wide enough for him to ascertain she was going commando. His cock, which had softened a bit, immediately boinged upward, painful in the constriction of his jeans. Damn. Where were the girl’s panties, anyway? Didn’t her mama raise her right? What the hell was wrong with the youth today?
His phone silently vibrated in his pocket, unexpectedly adding to the thrill. Annoyed, he yanked it out. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
It was her. His partner. The best piece of ass ever. “Waiting for you,” he said, practically panting.
“Well, I’ve been a little busy,” she snapped.
“I know.”
“And you’ve been just . . . loafing?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he retorted. “Just loafing around after swimming in the ocean for an hour and then hiking ten miles up the beach!”
“It wasn’t ten miles,” she said coolly.
“Close enough.”
“I’ve been playing my part, keeping everything cool. Where are you now?”
“Seaside.” He wasn’t going to name the bar. Some things were his alone.
She sighed and her voice finally turned to a purr. “Maybe we need to meet at one of our rendezvous.”
Oh, baby, yeah, he thought. Was it too dangerous, too close to the killing? They could just go back. They didn’t need to risk having sex somewhere public. They should go back, he determined, but he heard himself ask, “Where?”
“Can’t be anywhere on the coast.”
“Where then?”
“The rest stop.”
“That’s fifty miles inland! You want to do it in the car again? There could be a lot of people around.”
“Bring a blanket and we’ll hit the woods.” She was terse. He could hear her own expectation building in her voice and it made him want to groan again. “Better yet, I want you to lift me up while we’re standing and settle me on that hot prick of yours. I’ll wrap my legs around you and I’ll slide up and down and we’ll get all wet and sticky and howl at the moon and—”
“Goddamn it,” he breathed, throwing some bills on the table for his beer.
He was out the door and unbuttoning the top of his jeans for relief, sporting one serious boner.
Chapter Four
Sam’s eyes popped open and he stared around the dark bedroom in confusion. Once again he heard the tones of his default ring, something chimey that he needed to change but never got around to, and levered himself off the bed. He was in his bed at his dad’s cabin—and he’d fallen asleep in the sweatshirt and pants he’d changed into after the long hot shower he’d taken when he got back from the hospital yesterday.
Ling-ling-llliiiinnnnnggg.
He ran his hand over the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water in the process, swearing to beat the band. It was early morning, by the time on the clock, but he’d drawn the blackout shades and it was still dark as a tomb inside the bedroom.
He switched on a bedside lamp, righted the water glass, only to realize he’d left his phone across the room on the dresser. Stumbling from the mattress, he lunged forward and grabbed up the cell. The house was a two-bedroom cabin with a loft where Joe, Gwen, and Gwen’s daughter, Georgie, had slept the times the Ford family had gathered for the holidays. When Joe’s first marriage broke up, he’d still shown up with Georgie, and then later with Jules. By that time Sam was with Martina and everyone being at the cabin together like one big, happy family was a no-go, though Donald acted like
they should all get over it. Dad had always liked Jules and didn’t seem to mind or even notice that Sam’s onetime girlfriend was now with his oldest son. Donald’s cavalier attitude had angered Sam, until he’d recognized there was something else at play with his father’s mental faculties.
Now, whenever Sam visited his father they didn’t talk about Joe, Jules, Georgie, or anything besides how Donald was getting along and if he needed anything. Sometimes Donald still talked on the phone about would-be financial deals, but those deals never materialized; they were just dreams and memories from a fading past.
Now Sam read the screen of his cell as he answered the call. Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. He steeled himself. “Hello?” He waited, then said, “Sam Ford,” but he’d missed the connection. Sighing, he looked around the room and ran his hand through his hair, which was sticking up all over the place. A soft ding told him the caller had left a message. He then listened to his voice mail, surprised to realize the caller was Sheriff Vandra.
“. . . come into the station this morning,” the sheriff was saying, “to go over further developments in the case. Detective Dunbar is with your sister-in-law now. If you come in around eleven she should be back. The guard that was posted outside your sister-in-law’s door . . . I want to talk about that, too.” There was a slight hesitation, then he added somberly, “I’m very sorry about your brother.”
Sam clicked off. Thought about Joe. Shook his head and concentrated on the here and now. So, Detective Dunbar was interviewing Jules. Well, maybe now they would let him see her. It kind of pissed him off that they were keeping him in the dark, even though he understood all the reasons. He was next of kin and therefore on a need-to-know basis only. But he was—or had been—a cop and he wanted to know everything that was going on. Every last goddamn detail.
He sopped up the spilled water then headed to the bathroom, stripped down, then stood under a hot, needle-sharp spray, needing to clear his head. After last night’s shower he’d thrown on sweats and dropped onto the bed, asleep instantly, almost in a comalike state.
He remembered the therapist he’d briefly seen after his mother’s death, the one he’d practically been forced to meet with by the Seaside Police Department after he’d beaten up a perp to an inch of his life after the man attacked him with a knife. “People handle grief in all sorts of ways,” the shrink had told him. “Lucky for most, they aren’t attacked, otherwise there could be a lot more tragedies.”
Sam had listened silently and never offered up much. Grief. He understood he was in the throes of it, though what he mostly felt right now was numb.
Half an hour later he stepped into morning sunshine and climbed into the pickup, aware that he needed to go see his father and let him know about Joe before someone else did. Sam had pushed thoughts of his old man aside yesterday, but now he pulled out of the fir needle–covered lane that led to the highway and turned north rather than south to head to Sea and Sunset Retirement Living.
He fiddled with the radio for a moment, then turned it off. His head felt heavy and achy—no surprise there—and his body seemed like a stranger’s. Definitely a disconnect going on inside him. His mind shied from thoughts of Joe, entirely. He felt guilty about being estranged from his brother, knowing a good percentage of the problem had been on his side.
Once more he went back to thinking about Jules. Far easier now, though it hadn’t been while Joe was alive.
While Joe was alive . . . Past tense.
He just couldn’t think about that now. Instead he thought of Jules. . . . Remembering. Whether he wanted to or not . . .
“We should get off the beach ASAP,” he’d told her that first night when they’d been standing in that embrace, shielding their faces from the blowing sand. Sam had glanced toward the nearby houses at the top of the dune. It wouldn’t be a terribly long walk up to the glass-fronted structures from here along the beach. From the homes they could take driveways to the highway, but the trek would be arduous with the fierce wind slinging gritty sand at them.
“I wish I hadn’t ruined my phone,” Jules said against his shoulder. “We could really use it now.”
His cell phone was likely to burn a hole in his pocket, but no way was he reaching for it now, not with her warm body pressed to his. “You have any brothers or sisters?” he’d asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“Not anymore.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I had a brother once, but he’s gone. . . .”
He’d waited for her to continue, but she just stopped. Vaguely, in a forgotten hallway in his mind, he remembered a rumor. Something about a kid who’d drowned when he was really little. Jules’s sister or brother. When she didn’t go on, he offered, “If you want to go somewhere, I have an older brother who’s in town who could come pick us up.”
“How’re you going to reach him?”
“Well, I have a cell phone,” he reluctantly confessed.
“What? You have a phone?” She pushed back from him at that and swiped at the hair escaping its ponytail and flying around her face.
“I was going to tell you. I just liked . . . like walking with you.” It was lame, but the truth.
Jules had bent her head to keep further sand from getting into her eyes. He’d been afraid she was about to stalk away from him, pissed that he’d played such a dumb game. But all she said was, “This sand sucks!” Then she’d cupped her hands over her eyes and staggered forward toward the houses, aiming for a path between the two nearest ones. Sam struggled to follow after her, swearing in his mind at his ungainly gait. He was somewhat gratified when he caught up with her near the road, both of them hugging the cedar-shingled house that was sheltering them from the blasting, wind-propelled sand.
“So call your brother,” she ordered. “Have him take us somewhere.”
Us. “Okay.”
“Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat,” she added, music to Sam’s ears. He’d thought the night was over, but maybe not. Unfortunately he was pretty sure Joe would resent playing chauffeur unless he was bringing Sam home, like his dad wanted. But if it meant extending a little time with Jules, Sam was sure going to give it a try.
“I’ll never get the sand out of my hair,” she declared.
“You can be prematurely gray.”
“Funny. You’re a funny guy.”
Sam was faintly embarrassed. It was a dumb line. He’d never been great with girls. He had no idea what they wanted to talk about.
“You got a lot of sand on your face,” she observed.
He put a hand up to his cheek and felt the grit. Jules swiped at her own face and said, “God, I’m starving. French fries, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Sam tried calling Joe but the cell rang and rang. “He’s not answering.”
“Then come on.” She tucked her head down and headed away from their sheltered spot and toward the street. The wind howled and flung sand at them as they moved between two of the big houses. What had started as a breeze was fast becoming a gale. “Geez,” Jules protested. “Wonder how Hap’s party’s going with all this.”
“They’ve gotta all be inside now, so maybe the cops won’t come.”
“The house is gonna be a wreck. I told him he was an idiot, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
“You told Hap he was an idiot?”
“Maybe not those exact words, but . . . yeah,” she said.
“You’re going with him, though, right?”
“No. Not right. We just hang out. Who told you that?” She shot him a look.
“Guys on the team know who the cheerleaders are,” he explained. “They talk about ’em and who they’ve hooked up with.”
“Yeah? They said I was with Hap?”
“You’re not?” he questioned.
“I don’t know. Not really. All we do is fight about stuff. What else do the guys on the team say?”
“Just stuff.”
“What stuff? About the cheerlea
ders?”
“Some.”
“Well, what? Come on. Tell me!”
“They talk about your looks mostly, I guess. This one’s cute. That one’s tall. That one’s got a great set of . . . she’s got a great smile, personality, that stuff.”
“A great set of . . . ?” she repeated.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit, Ford.”
He was both delighted at the familiarity of his name on her lips, and worried that it sounded like she’d already relegated him to the friend zone. “A great set of legs.”
“Sure. That’s how guys talk. You were going to say ‘boobs’ or worse. . . .”
“No.” But he had been. He’d cut himself off at the last minute.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Okay, fine. Great boobs.”
“They were talking about Jilly Dolittle or Tina Montgomery, I’ll bet.”
“Well . . . you got me.”
“Double-D?” she asked, eyeing him as if searching for the truth.
He was a little embarrassed that she knew Jilly’s nickname. “Well, you know how guys are.”
“Yes, I do.” Her tone was dry. “Do I have a nickname?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t make me pull it all out of you.”
“I’ve never heard a nickname for you,” he told her seriously.
“Then make one up for me,” she challenged.
“What?”
“Make one up for me. Right now. A good one. Not like Jilly’s.”
They were walking down the road, leaning into each other to keep the wind and sand out of their faces, yelling to be heard.
He looked into her eyes, dark, in the uncertain light, and watched her swipe hair from her face again. “Sandy,” he said after a moment.
She broke out laughing. “Because of this?” She threw an arm out and they were peppered with grit. “I could call you the same thing!”
“Okay.” He kinda liked it. “Glad to meet you, Sandy.”
“Back at ’cha, Sandy.” She grinned at him.