Desolation Road

by Feehan, Christine

  He felt her shiver. Goose bumps rose on her skin. He put his hand on her belly and pressed her down onto the table. “I have so many fantasies. I don’t think we’ll ever get them done in one lifetime. We’ll need two or three together at least.”

  She moaned softly and writhed, a slow undulation he found sensual. Her little thong was already damp. He tugged it down her legs and pulled it off and then took one of the sugar nets with Alena’s orange and spice balls. He pushed it slowly up inside her. She was slick and it went in, but the ball was fairly good sized and she cried out when it slid inside. He stroked her clit, looping the string over one finger.

  “That feel good, baby? That spice is going to start mixing with your honey. Heat you right up.”

  “I’m already hot.”

  “When I eat you out, you’re going to taste so delicious.” He caught up a second net, licked at the ball and then slowly pushed it inside her, twisting the two strings together. “Think you can take a third one?” He bit down gently on her inner thigh and then circled her clit with his tongue. “I think you can, baby. My little kiska can do it.”

  Her hand went to his hair, fingers fisting in it as he pushed the third orange-spice ball inside her. Her little cries sent his cock into a frenzy of need. Absinthe rolled her skirt all the way up around her hips and shoved her legs wider. Lifting her bottom, he simply covered her slick entrance with his mouth and sucked at the spicy orange-honey-cream dripping from her. He plunged his tongue deep, drawing the sticky spice out of her, catching as much as he could, stroking along her clit, flicking, stabbing and teasing, driving her up and over again and again.

  He ate the first of the orange-spice balls as the first of her orgasms crashed over her. It was a powerful wave that nearly took her off the table and jerked the hair out of his scalp. He devoured her thoroughly, never stopping, feeding the power of her second orgasm, allowing the spice in the orange-spice dessert to mix with her natural cream, creating an even more powerful wave as he consumed the sugar and spice and kept lashing at her with his tongue and fingers.

  The sugar around the first spice ball was melting, just as it was supposed to do, and the ball was melting along with it in all of Scarlet’s glorious heat, that natural inferno that was waiting to surround him. She writhed and bucked, nearly coming off the table as the spices were absorbed into her system. He sucked at the spicy, delicious concoction, one of Alena’s masterpieces, and his particular favorite. He plunged his tongue into her over and over to get out as much as he could. He’d never eaten the orange-spice balls out of a woman before, but he would again, now that he had. Mixed with Scarlet’s normal taste, they were addictive. He was definitely putting in a special order for them the moment he got home.

  The next massive wave hit Scarlet and she screamed, her legs trying to close around his head, her hips coming off the table in a wild display as she tried to ride his face. Absinthe surged to his feet, freeing his cock with one hand, dragging her hips off the table with the other, and then he slammed home, throwing his head back as his cock found that tight, hot tunnel. So snug. Scorching. A fiery blaze surrounding him, squeezing down so viciously tight.

  That fire. That slick spice was pure perfection as scorching hot as a burning volcano. He buried himself in her over and over, his head roaring. Thunder bellowed in his ears. Flames raced up his spine. Rolled in his belly. Became an inferno in his groin. The table rocked and slid toward the wall. He pounded himself deeper. Buried himself in her over and over as the flames streaked up his body, his thighs and back. He was wild. Out of control. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  Before he could think to stop, to slow down, it was too late and her body had clamped down so hard on his that it was impossible to stop the explosion as that tight silken sheath surrounded and squeezed, stroked and milked. Hot semen splashed along the walls of her channel, mixing and blending with her spicy cream, bathing his cock in scorching heat so that his shaft pulsed and jerked wildly, sending those lightning strikes straight to his brain.

  Her hot little pussy felt like it convulsed around him again and again, a crazy, beautiful ride that seemed never-ending—one he hoped would never end. His legs turned to rubber, and he had to collapse over the top of her, driving his sated cock deep as he did. The aftershocks rippling through her were strong and he felt every one of them as he buried his face in her throat, struggling to breathe.

  Scarlet was doing the same, her arms winding around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair to massage his scalp. She was breathing hard, her soft breasts rising and falling fast, and he knew he was probably too heavy, but he honestly couldn’t move.

  Absinthe wrapped his arms around her as tight as he could without breaking her. “I love you, Scarlet. I don’t know how else to say what I feel, and it’s so much more. You’ve already given me more than I ever thought I could have.”

  He lifted his head to look into her green eyes. That look was there, the one that he didn’t deserve—would never deserve no matter if he spent the rest of his life trying to make her happy. And that was exactly what he planned to do. He kissed her chin and then her throat.

  “When we can move, we have to clean up. I’ve got a little more club business tonight. I want you to go with Breezy and a couple of the others to the clubhouse and wait for me. Then we can head home. This shouldn’t take long.” He kissed her throat again and then each breast and her belly button before adding several kisses to the little curls of fire on her mound.

  “I’m going to try to get my legs under me and then under you. We can help each other to the bathroom. I’m sure we can make it.”

  She laughed and the sound added to that light feeling that seemed to be growing inside of him. She’d given him that and he was smart enough to want to keep it.

  The roar of pipes was loud, announcing their visitors long before they turned off Highway 1 into Caspar. Instantly, Torpedo Ink was all business. They already knew the drill, each member going to their designated spot. They spread out. Up on the roof of the apartments above the bar, across the street to some of the rooftops of the businesses, rifles ready. Some in the parking lot where the bikes were.

  The Diamondbacks came in, six of them, riding their Harleys and confident in their colors. They parked their bikes in front of the bar and came straight to Steele, who was waiting for them out in the open, with Maestro and Keys on either side of him. Absinthe and Destroyer had taken up residence on the stairs behind and just to the side of their vice president and his two guards. In the shadows, nearly impossible to see, but clearly there, again, boxing the six Diamondbacks in, were Mechanic and Ink.

  Czar had specifically chosen Destroyer to be out in the open because he knew it would throw off Plank and whoever he sent not knowing the new Torpedo Ink member, and they needed Mechanic to ensure the Diamondback cameras weren’t working on their phones. Even if they were, they wouldn’t get much in the way of damning evidence.

  Pierce led the others. Absinthe recognized a few. Judge, one of Plank’s closest friends. Another called Trade, who always seemed to be near Pierce. The others he’d seen before but didn’t really know well.

  “Steele,” Pierce said and let his gaze shift around the entire area. “Looks like you have things well under control.” He let his gaze rest on Destroyer for a moment. “You have something for me?”

  “Transporter picked up a package for you.”

  Steele held out his hand behind him without taking his eyes from Pierce. Absinthe stepped forward and placed a brown paper bag in Steele’s hand. Steele didn’t look at it but held it out to Pierce.

  Pierce opened the bag, pulled the six patches out, dropped them back inside and closed the bag. “Got pretty creative on that stage. Want to tell me whose work that was?”

  Steele just looked at him.

  Pierce shrugged. “Only two clubs went down.”

  “Only two clubs were owned by Venomous. That was the contract.”

  Pierce sighed. “Can’t argue with that. One
last thing. Scarlet Foley. She’s worth five million to a man named Holden. He sent word to Plank that you’ve got her here. Plank isn’t okay with you taking the reward on this one. You’re going to have to hand her over.”

  “She’s Absinthe’s old lady,” Steele said, his tone mild. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “That certainly changes things.” Pierce looked past Steele to Absinthe. “Plank will send the Diamondbacks to have a word with Holden.”

  Steele shook his head. “We appreciate the support, Pierce, but you tell him not to go to the trouble. Holden tried to kill her. That was a very big mistake on his part. Then he put a fuckin’ price on her head. Just sayin’. You and I both know he won’t be payin’ out that five mil to anyone.”

  Pierce sent them a little half smile and salute, rolled up the paper bag with the patches and put it into a compartment in his Harley and signaled the others back onto their bikes. Until the sound of the pipes were just a faint memory in the distance, none of the Torpedo Ink members broke from cover.

  NINETEEN

  Judge Benedict Calloway’s home was modest on the outside. The house rose up between two other homes like a green environmental beacon with plants climbing up the sides of the three-story brick building. A wrought-iron fence and locked gate were the only things that might have given anyone pause to think that the inside could be a hidden treasure, but most of the neighboring homes also were behind very similar wrought-iron fences.

  Calloway loved art. His weakness was art. He didn’t collect art to brag or show off, he collected it because it was his obsession and he had to have it. He had to sit in a room by himself with a glass of the very best wine, listening to his favorite opera, surrounded by the most magnificent paintings others couldn’t possibly appreciate the way he did, knowing nothing in the world would ever compare to them.

  It was a thrill to be able to acquire a painting. It required a great deal of money, patience and knowing the right people. He had, over time, managed to put together all three components and then he’d built his private, temperature-controlled room where he housed his collection of stolen art. For him, the fact that he had acquired the paintings that way, targeted them and hired the right people to pull off a daring robbery of a museum to take the original painting from masses of people with no real concept of what they were looking at, or real appreciation of the masterpiece they were privileged to behold, made his collection all the sweeter.

  He despised those who claimed they loved art when they had no real knowledge of the subject. They stared at some drawing and pretended to know the meaning because a teacher in school had quoted from a book and now they were parroting him or her. They couldn’t think for themselves. Or have any real impression.

  Calloway wandered through his home, admiring what he had done with the place. When he’d first moved into the house, he had seen the potential immediately. He had a good eye for space, and he wanted an upscale neighborhood, but not one that would stand out like that braggart Holden. He didn’t need everyone to think he was a multimillionaire. He didn’t want the aggravation of trying to explain where money had come from. Fortunately, he’d inherited a little bit from his wife, who’d died very early in their marriage, and he’d never remarried. He’d invested the money and doubled it and then doubled that. He’d been careful and cautious. That had paid off.

  He moved through his house the way he did every evening. Walking slowly. Savoring the Bay Area setting sun pouring through the stained-glass windows set at just the right height to catch the rays and send them shooting through the rooms like stars to shine on the walls, giving him the feeling of walking in galaxies, he moved toward his hidden collector’s room as he did most nights. He took his time, admiring the sculptures and modern art he had acquired and showed off to visitors who dropped by.

  He’d made a few mistakes over the years. Holden was one, but he couldn’t really complain as he’d made quite a lot of his money from the repulsive man. It had been that one case he could never quite get out of his mind, that one blunder that preyed on him even now after his retirement. Scarlet Foley. She’d been a brilliant girl. Far more intelligent than Holden’s weak-willed, entitled son. Holden had paid through the nose time and again to keep the psychopath he’d raised out of jail. Scarlet had been on her way to do great things; with her intelligent mind, she grasped concepts quickly.

  Even at the very young age of seventeen, it was clear she understood what was happening, the lies and railroading going on. She had looked at her attorney and had known he was rolling over for Holden. She had looked at Calloway with those same too-intelligent eyes as well. He hadn’t wanted to send her to prison, but at the time, there had been a Picasso he had needed more than his self-respect and he didn’t yet have his art addiction under control. She had been the catalyst for him to find a way to stop his obsessive need to continually buy paintings. He’d slowed down after he had taken Holden’s outrageous payout for sending an innocent teenager to prison.

  She was a fighter. He would never forget that look she gave him. Steady. Those green eyes sometimes woke him up in the middle of the night, staring straight into his eyes. Intelligent. Knowing. It had been a terrible shame about her sister. He knew Holden’s pitiful son and his friends had raped her and driven her to suicide. Foley’s parents dead, murder-suicide that same night? That was awful.

  Calloway sighed as he poured himself a glass of one of his favorite red wines. Two thousand dollars a bottle. He rarely opened that particular wine, but tonight he was going to listen to his very favorite Italian opera and sit in that room surrounded by his beloved paintings and let them take Scarlet Foley with her brilliant green eyes away so he wouldn’t wake up the way he did whenever he thought too much about her.

  She’d gotten out of prison, a female attorney had suddenly taken on her case, advocating for her, turning everything around, and Holden couldn’t bribe her or scare her into giving up. She had uncovered the fact that the medical evidence had supported Scarlet’s account, not Robert Jr.’s account. Somehow, she had found all kinds of facts that turned up evidence no one wanted to come to light, including his part in the entire mess. Scarlet’s incarceration was over, and the city paid her money to keep her quiet. Holden was furious.

  Calloway was very happy he had been allowed to retire with his pension. Scarlet left the country and disappeared. Calloway didn’t blame her at the time. He had been afraid for her safety. Robert Jr. was a little pissant who would definitely target her again. She’d bested him and he couldn’t take that. Now, her attorney had bested his father. She hadn’t brought a civil suit against him, but it was hanging over Holden Sr.’s and Jr.’s heads and everyone knew it.

  Fast-forward five years, Scarlet returned and moved a couple of hundred miles away, got a job as a librarian, minded her own business, and one by one, some killer murders the little pissant and his friends and Holden is absolutely convinced it’s Foley. It didn’t matter that the police investigated her thoroughly over and over at Holden’s insistence and cleared her repeatedly until her attorney insisted it was harassment. Or that Holden got the Feds involved, and they cleared her, paving the way for her attorney to finally bring an enormous lawsuit against him.

  Holden was positive that somehow Scarlet could be in two places at one time. Calloway had studied the photographs of the crime scenes. Scarlet wasn’t a large woman. How could she have managed to kill three strong men even if she had found a way to be in two places at one time? He’d tried to talk to Holden once, but of course that man wouldn’t listen. He knew everything, more than all the investigators. More than everyone. Now, he’d put a hit out on her. That was so like Holden. Things weren’t going to end well either way and Calloway had distanced himself as best he could.

  He slid open the door in the wall so cleverly hidden in the panels among all the intricate white cork sculpturing on the walls. It was quite breathtaking and all his friends had gotten up close to view the exquisite artistry, yet none had spotted the hi
dden door within the panel that slid inside the wall to allow him to enter the stairs leading down to his viewing room. He loved showing the beautiful walls in his home, each one a masterpiece all on its own, this one hiding a spectacular secret and millions of dollars’ worth of precious artwork.

  He carried his glass of red wine down the polished granite stairs, holding on to the curved bannister made of the finest polished wood over an intricate filigree of silver. He took his time, enjoying every step. No one else had ever made that journey with him. This beautiful place of solace he’d created was his alone and he never hurried. He didn’t ever take a cell phone, nor did he have a landline in the room. He wanted no interruptions when he sat and listened to his opera and looked at his beloved paintings.

  He pulled open the door to the room, a door that had once graced Teatro alla Scala in Milan. He had traveled to Milan on numerous occasions to sit in the world-famous opera house to listen to the best of the best perform. This room not only was temperature controlled for his artwork, but the acoustics were perfect for his operas.

  He continued the slow, steady pace to his wide, comfortable chair that faced his most precious paintings but allowed him to tip his head back and look up at the ceilings, where more of his collection was displayed. He could close his eyes to savor the glory of the music, or simply study the beautiful lines and strokes of the visions on canvas.

  Calloway filled the room with the extraordinary Italian voices rising in songs of hope and joy, of sorrow and compassion. The beauty made him want to weep. After the ugliness of listening to what humans did to one another day after day in his courtroom, the extraordinary beauty of the gifts these singers and musicians had, what the composers and visionaries had given to the world, never failed to move him. Coupled with the masterpieces surrounding him, the opera transcended him, taking him from the muck and mire he’d been in for so long.