by Ronica Black
Her eyes flew open and she came so violently she screamed. She rode and she fucked and she screamed. Gripping Sinclair’s hands, fingers locked in midair, she bucked harder and harder and harder. The pleasure owned her. Every inch. She was a slave, doing as she was told. Her head was tilted back, the pleasure coming out in small screams. Yet her vagina was squeezing and pushing on the dildo, pressing pleasure out that way as well. She just kept thinking how full she was. So incredibly full.
Sinclair held her safe, letting her ride it out, watching in what could only be wonder. When Patricia finally slowed, her body began to shake. She could hardly breathe and every last muscle twitched.
“You okay?” Sinclair reached up to touch her face. She smiled so sweetly, Patricia melted into her hand.
“I’ve never been better,” she said, almost in disbelief. Seeing Sinclair’s eyes so full and shimmering, and feeling her unconditional passion and understanding, Patricia began to cry.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Sinclair drew her down, wrapping warm, strong arms around her, and Patricia cried into her shoulder. She cried for the love she’d never had and always wanted. She cried for Sinclair, who seemed to offer all of it. And when she stopped crying, she stilled and closed her eyes.
She fell asleep feeling the one thing she’d never felt before…fulfilled.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Liz couldn’t take it anymore. It was early morning and the sun shone like it had no worries. She detested its happiness and seeming eagerness to burn through the morning cloud cover. How could the fucking sun shine like that when she was dead inside?
She stared at Patricia’s house. The last time she’d been parked here it had been raining. She wished it would again. She climbed out of her Range Rover and headed for the door. Tyson’s words kept replaying in her head. Go make it right. Go make it right. Life is too short to push the one you love away.
They’d been up most of the night talking. He’d confided in her in a way he never had before. He’d told her what he really thought. And something else had happened as well. She’d sat and listened. She learned that for years he hadn’t approved of her lifestyle and her use and discarding of women. He didn’t approve of men who behaved in such ways either. But for a long time he overlooked it, respecting her and his job too much to say anything.
Until Erin.
When Erin came along he relaxed a little, knowing true love had finally found Liz, regardless of the crazy way it had happened. “You can’t control love,” he’d said as they talked into the early hours. “It just is.”
He thought Liz had done the wrong thing, trying to push Erin away just to keep her safe. That excuse wasn’t good enough, according to her head of security.
“You don’t push the one you love away, for any reason,” he told her sternly. “Because if you do, sometimes they will actually go. And then there’s no getting them back.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she said.
“You were afraid.”
“Of her getting hurt, yes.” She’d had no idea what was going on. With Jay or anything else. All she had known for sure was that it was dangerous and she herself was going to get in way over her head.
“You were afraid of her,” he said matter-of-factly. “You don’t have to admit it to me, but you need to admit to yourself.”
“How do you know so much?” All this time, and she’d had such insightful wisdom at her fingertips.
“I have a couple of fancy papers saying I know some psychology.”
“No shit.” She never knew this about him. The background check she’d run had included education, but she hadn’t been interested. She was impressed enough with his size and articulation. “Tyson, why are you here, working for me?”
“Because being big and black pays a whole lot better when you’re a bodyguard. I found that out real quick. But I didn’t much care for it, and when I met Teresa I wanted something safer.”
“So you found me.”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Who knew watching over a bunch of lesbians could be so dangerous?”
She’d laughed with him. It felt good to laugh, and then suddenly she was tired. She’d been up for over twenty-four hours again. He got her a glass of water and half a Xanax, telling her she needed to rest. Then he helped her to the bed, slipped off her boots, and covered her up.
“I’ll lock everything up on my way out,” he said. “And when you wake up, you go make things right with Ms. Erin.”
Liz could only nod. She’d slept with her lover’s name on her lips.
Erin.
Liz stared at the house. Patricia’s front door seemed larger than it was the last time. It loomed over her, as taunting as the sun. She rang the doorbell and her heart rose to her throat. She was somewhat surprised by its determined beat.
A dog barked from the backyard. She waited to hear it barking from inside the house but it never did. She waited for what felt like an eternity and rang the bell again. Then suddenly her mind flashed with visions of Erin and Patricia in bed together. They were probably curled up and fast asleep from a long night of lovemaking.
Feeling sick, she hurried from the door. How could she have been so stupid? Of course they were together. She’d turned Erin away again and again. What did she expect? And Patricia had always been after Erin.
She nearly ran to her vehicle. When she climbed inside she noticed her hands were shaking. Tyson’s words replayed in her head and she looked at herself in the rearview mirror.
“What if I’m too late, Tyson? What then?”
*
Jack’s claws click-clacked down the hallway as Erin stumbled out of bed. He ran into her room, tongue and tail wagging. She buried her face in his neck and could tell by the way he smelled, all warm and earthy, that he’d been outside.
“Did you hear the doorbell?” she asked. He cocked his head. “Of course you didn’t, what am I thinking. You can’t hear anything.”
She made her way down the hallway, stretching as she walked. The slit of sunlight was piercing as she stared through the peephole. No one was there.
“Damn.” She turned and headed back down the hallway. Suddenly she wondered where Patricia was. Pushing open her door, she quietly peered inside the master bedroom. The bed was made. Patricia had already come and gone, or she hadn’t come at all.
Erin scoffed. Or maybe she came a lot.
She trudged back to her bed and collapsed. Jack accompanied her, digging his way under the covers. She tried to remember all the drinks she’d had the night before but couldn’t.
Tonight, though, she thought, she’d go out for some real fun.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Look, asshole, I told you I’m not into that.” The man he’d picked up rose quickly from the bed, rubbing his neck.
“You haven’t tried it.” He sat up, his frustration turning to anger. He opened the nightstand drawer. “Take some more E.”
“I don’t need to try it.” His latest, “Mickey,” faced the wall and began yanking on his pants. “And I don’t want any more E.”
“Going to run home to your wife?” He popped the E himself.
Mickey whipped his head around. “Hey, fuck you, man.”
He laughed. Mickey continued to dress. He eased up behind him. Fuck me? He reached down and pulled the long, thin leather belt from his pants. “No, Mickey, fuck you.” He slung the belt over Mickey’s head and pulled.
Mickey lost his footing, heels digging in the carpet, fingers digging at the belt.
“You like that? I told you, you would.” He swept Mickey’s feet out from under him and fixed the buckle tight, making a noose. After pushing Mickey down onto his stomach, he pulled harder, forcing Mickey’s head back.
“Yeah, motherfucker. Feel it real good.” His dick grew hard as he watched the veins start to pop out from under Mickey’s skin.
This was what he loved.
He let go of the belt and tore at Mickey’s pants. He h
ad to have him. He had to be in him when his soul left his body. The pants wouldn’t budge. He fumbled with the button, cursing. He turned Mickey over a little in order to better reach his fly. He was halfway down the row of buttons when Mickey threw back a hard elbow, knocking him nearly senseless. He fell onto his side and groaned, holding his busted lip. Hot blood poured onto his hand. Mickey crawled onto his knees, madly tearing at the belt. His eyes were wild with fear. When he couldn’t get it loose, he stood and ran from the room, pants sliding down his hips.
“Shit.” He pushed himself up to his feet and stumbled after him. His tooth felt loose and his mouth was full of rust-tasting blood. He heard Mickey milling around in the kitchen.
When he caught sight of him he was standing by the unused stove, trying to cut the belt with an old pair of scissors. His face was purple, his breathing labored. His hands worked hurriedly as his eyes bulged with every beat of his heart.
“That’s my favorite belt.” He smiled wickedly, knowing his teeth were blood red. He loved the fear he saw in Mickey’s eyes. The only thing better was the dimming of life he often saw in the pupils.
Mickey cut harder, panicked. When he finally cut through, he gasped and hurled the belt to the side. He coughed, one hand holding his neck as if his head might topple off. He looked like he wanted to run but couldn’t.
“Where are you going, faggot? We were just getting started.” He had him backed against the counter.
Mickey took a few steps, pacing, an animal in a cage. He looked around for some other weapon or maybe a phone. All the things that should be in a kitchen.
“I don’t live here,” he explained. “I just fuck here.” He chuckled again, and spit some slimy blood from his mouth. He should’ve drugged the bastard better, loaded him up with more drinks. He should’ve known he wasn’t into kink, all he’d done was talk about his kids all evening long.
“What are you going to do now? Call out for your wife, yell for your mama?”
Mickey lunged at him with the scissors.
He laughed. “Go ahead.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you’ll only get one cut. So you better make it good.”
Mickey stepped back, fear shaking his hand. Then suddenly his bloodshot eyes widened and he whipped his arm back and threw the scissors. The heavy metal flew through the air and slammed into his chest. He looked down at the worn black handles and couldn’t see the blades. Mickey bolted past him as he pulled the scissors from just below his left nipple. He winced in pain, shocked. He heard the front door slam.
“Shit!”
Dropping the scissors, he ran for the door. He pulled it open and started after him, but it was useless. Mickey was long gone and probably well on his way to tell. He held his chest and reentered the house. The wound was deep but he didn’t think it was life threatening. Blood from his hands smeared the walls as he made his way down the hall.
He fumbled through the linen cabinet near the master bedroom and found an old washcloth. Head spinning, he went back into the kitchen and picked up the scissors. He cut a small piece from the cloth and shoved it as hard as he could into the wound. He cried out in pain and white orbs floated in his vision.
His cell phone rang. It was his wife. Breathing deep, he focused and answered.
“Where are you?” She sounded annoyed and bitchy.
“I told you I’m working today.” He tried to sound upbeat and patient.
“Liar!”
He cringed and slowly walked back to the bedroom.
“Your boss has been calling here all day looking for you. I just got home and heard the messages. So, where the hell are you?”
He sat on the bed and clutched his hair. “What did the messages say?”
“Where are you?” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. She always spoke to him that way. He hated it.
“I’m working. I’m just not in the office at the moment.”
“You son of a bitch,” she seethed. “You’re out fucking around on me, aren’t you?”
“No. Listen, babe, I’m not. I swear. Things are just bad at work. I’m trying to handle it. I love you.”
“Bullshit.” She was well beyond anger now. “The nice clothes, the fancy boxer briefs, the two-hundred-dollar haircuts…You’re cheating. And let me tell you something, mister, when my father finds out, you’re a dead man.”
“Martha, honey, please. Just calm down.”
“Don’t even think about coming home. I’m throwing all your shit on the lawn right now. Then I’m going to change the locks.”
“Will you just listen to me?” He never raised his voice at her and she fell silent for a moment. “I’m not cheating, I’m working.” He spoke meekly, the harmless, devoted husband. That was how he’d always won her over. He smiled all the time, said what everyone wanted to hear. He had it down to a science.
“I know you’re not working,” she said, her voice laced with venom. “Because your boss fired you.”
She hung up on him. He glared at the phone, pressing the button to dial home. The line was busy. He threw the phone and tore at his hair, then threw more shit around the room. His autographs flew off the walls, crashing to the floor. Signed baseballs thumped hard as he threw them. His life’s collection, the one his wife wouldn’t let him display at home. He hated it now, hated it all.
He marched into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His heart raced just above his oozing wound. It was all coming to an end. A man had run out on him, probably headed straight for the law. His job was gone, his boss finally realizing what he’d been doing. The bathroom light glinted off the chain hanging from his neck. He fingered the crucifix and knew what he had to do.
He had to bring it all to an end. His way.
And he had to hurry.
*
“Please tell me he didn’t die,” Patricia said, running up to Gary. The hospital hallway was stark white and reflective, and she worried she would slide across the floor.
“No, he didn’t die,” her partner answered, sounding like he had a cold. “He woke up.”
Patricia stopped dead. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. I still can’t believe it myself.”
He smoothed down his tie and bounced a little on the balls of his feet. He coughed and cursed “Sally Trucker,” then laughed. He was anxious, though crisply dressed as always. It was Saturday and she wondered if he’d gotten up and dressed that way instead of sleeping in and eating a bowl of Cheerios in front of cartoons as she often did.
“When did you find out?” The curtains to the victim’s room window were closed. She couldn’t see a thing.
“About forty minutes ago. I stopped by to check on him and he just opened his eyes and groaned at me.”
“Did he say anything else?” Her heart continued to race. This was big news. The big break they needed. She closed her eyes and prayed for the victim to be aware enough to tell them something important.
“No, the doctors ran in and booted me out. Where have you been?”
Patricia looked away and willed herself not to flush. “I’ve been going over the case.”
She had been. But she left out that she’d done it while lying in Sinclair’s arms, after having made love all night and well into the day. She remembered discussing Jay and the fact that Jay was left-handed. The gunshot wound was to the right temple and the gun had been found in her right hand. It didn’t sit well with her, and Sinclair had agreed.
“Nat’s secretary has been calling the station,” Gary told her as his beeper went off. “Wonder what the good doctor wants.” All the autopsies were complete and the labs concluded.
Patricia’s cell phone rang. It was the coroner’s office. “Speak of the devil,” she said, picking up.
Nat sounded relieved. “Detective Henderson, hello. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”
“What’s up?”
“Well, at the request of Ms. Elizabeth Adams, I did a second autopsy on Jay Adams. My colleague did the fir
st, but Ms. Adams insisted I do a second myself.”
“Really?”
He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth was also kind enough to make a very generous donation to my body research farm.”
Patricia tried not to think about the secluded acres of land where Nat placed donated bodies in different areas to study decomposition. Offering him money for his research had been a smart move on Adams’s part.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I found something interesting. There was no gunshot residue on Jay’s hands. And I reevaluated her clothes and there was none there either.”
Patricia squeezed her fist. She knew it. And goddamn it, they should’ve tested for residue but no one had listened. They had wanted a suicide finding.
“What about the first autopsy? Didn’t you scrub her hands?”
“Yes, and that would have removed any GSR, but with such a close-range shot, her shirt sleeve certainly would have tested positive.”
“She was also left-handed,” Patricia added.
“Was she now?” He seemed to think for a long moment. “The powder burns on her temple aren’t making sense either. The spray is spread too wide, as if the gun were fired a few inches from her head. Most suicides press the gun up to the head, making direct contact.” He sighed. “In taking all this into consideration, I’m going to change the cause of death from suicide to homicide. I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Patricia closed her phone. She was so worked up she was nauseous. And yet her voice came out just as calm as could be. “Jay Adams was murdered.”
Gary started to reply but a handful of medical staff exited the room of John Doe. He stopped the doctor with the plethora of eyeglasses around his neck.
“How is he?”
“We’ll run some tests to find out for certain. To make sure there is no permanent damage. But I’m satisfied that he’ll keep improving now.”
“Can we see him?” Patricia asked.