The Crush

by Sandra Brown

  “Oh, sure. I understand.”

  “It’s a privacy thing.”

  “Right.” He turned toward the TV behind the bar and pretended to have a sudden interest in The Magnificent Seven, which was playing silently.

  “But you look trustworthy.” Sally nudged his knee with hers beneath the bar. Regaining his attention, she leaned close enough for him to hear her whisper and to feel the weight of her breast against his arm. “You know the race-car driver?”

  Wick named a NASCAR driver who he knew lived in Fort Worth. Sally nodded vigorously. “Ten-B.”

  “Honestly? What’s he like?”

  “Nice. But that wife of his?” She made an ugly face. “A bitch royale.”

  “Any other celebrities?”

  “One of the Cowboys lived there through last season, but he moved after he got traded. And there’s some old lady on the fifth floor who used to be on Dallas, but I don’t know her name or what part she played.”

  “Hmm.” He pretended that his interest had waned again and glanced at the closeup of a stoic Yul Brynner. The breast got heavier against his arm and Sally’s hand inched a little closer to his crotch.

  “Did you see on the news where that guy just beat a murder rap?”

  Wick kept his expression impassive. “Murder rap? I don’t think so. How long ago?”

  “Couple of weeks. His name is Lozada.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I remember seeing something about that. You know him?”

  She scooted so far toward him he couldn’t imagine how she was managing to stay seated on her own stool. “Me and him are… close. His condo is on the floor where I work. The penthouse floor. I’m in his place all the time. And not just to clean.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “You’re kidding, right? A murderer?”

  “Shh.” Again she glanced around nervously. “He got off, remember?” Then she giggled and added, “Now I get him off.”

  “Come on.” Wick guffawed.

  “I swear.”

  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Does he do it different from, you know, regular guys?”

  She considered the question seriously before answering. “Not really. Pretty much the same. We’ve only balled a few times. Mostly he just likes for me to blow him. And this is kinda weird.” She moved closer still. “He doesn’t have any hair down there.”

  “Why, what happened to it?”

  “He shaves it.”

  Wick let his jaw drop. “Get out!”

  “I swear.”

  Wick looked at her with feigned respect and awe. “And you’re this guy’s girlfriend?”

  “Well, not officially.” She cast her eyes down and trailed a finger along his arm. “I mean, he’s crazy about me and all. He’s just not the type that shows his feelings, you know?”

  “Have you ever seen him with any other women?”

  “No.”

  “Any ever come up to his fancy apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, yeah. And I would know. I pay attention to detail. There’s never been a trace of another woman in the place and believe me, I check things out while I’m cleaning. I’m always on the lookout for one of those damn scorpions. If one ever got out I would freakin’ shit.”

  “Scorpions?”

  Wick knew about Lozada’s fascination with them, but it chilled him anew to hear Sally tell about the climate-controlled tank. “I keep my eyes open when I’m in there.”

  “What about his phone?”

  “His phone?”

  “You ever answer it for him?”

  “Are you serious? I’d be fired for sure. Besides, he only uses a cell.”

  “Have you ever heard him talking on it?”

  “Once, but I didn’t hear what he was saying.”

  “So you don’t know if he was talking to a woman?”

  She withdrew slightly and gave him an odd look. “Hey, what is this?”

  He smiled and patted the hand still resting on his thigh. “Just trying to help you out, Sally. Looking for signs that the guy is seeing someone else. But it sounds to me like you’ve got no competition.”

  She snuggled closer. Both breasts were propped on his forearm now. “You’re cool, Rick. Would you like to go to my place? I’ve got booze.”

  “Hey, I don’t want this Lozada character after my ass.”

  “I see other guys too.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. He’s good-looking and wears the coolest clothes.”

  “And he’s rich.”

  “For sure.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Well, he… scares me a little.”

  “He doesn’t hit you, does he?”

  “No. Well, sorta. I mean, he doesn’t actually hit, but like the other night, he warned me not to talk—”

  “Wick, what the hell are you doing?”

  Wick swiveled around. Oren was standing behind them, glowering.

  Sally, glowering back, asked crossly, “Who’s this?”

  “My partner. Oren, meet Sally.”

  “Did you say partner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a fag?”

  Her screech drew the attention of nearly everyone in the bar. Even Steve McQueen seemed to do a double-take from the TV screen. Sally dismounted the stool with a hop that caused the breasts, of which she was so proud, to bounce like a pair of water balloons. She stamped away on her platform heels.

  “I’d still like to see you dance sometime,” Wick called after her.

  “Bite me,” she hollered back.

  Oren grabbed him by the back of his collar and practically dragged him through the exit. Once they were outside, he gave Wick a shove that nearly sent him sprawling. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

  Wick spun around. “You push me again, Oren, and you’ll regret it.”

  Oren looked ready not only to push him, but to slug him. “I’ve had every cop on the force on the lookout for your truck.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I didn’t trust you not to do something stupid.” Oren took several heavy breaths as though forcibly tamping down his anger. “What’s the matter with you, Wick?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing my ass. You’re sulky, edgy, disagreeable. Argumentative. Defensive. Thigpen was right on when he called you a jerk.”

  “Then why don’t you and Thigpen get together and suck each other’s dick. I’m going home.”

  Oren grabbed him by the shoulder and, heedless of Wick’s warning, pushed him backward against the wall. He held him pinned there with one strong forearm across his chest. Oren’s first beat had been in a tough neighborhood rife with gangs and drugs, but he was just as tough as the criminal offenders and had come to be respected and feared by the meanest of the mean. He and Joe.

  “This time I’m not going to let you get away with copping an attitude. That’s too easy. You’ve got a bee up your butt, and I want to know what it is. If Joe were here—”

  “But he isn’t,” Wick shouted.

  “If he were,” Oren shouted back, “he’d pound it out of you.”

  “Leave me the hell alone.” Wick pushed him aside, knowing he could do so only because Oren allowed it.

  “Is it her?”

  Wick turned. “Who?”

  Oren shook his head, looked at him with a mix of aggravation and pity. “She’s bad news, Wick. A whore dressed up in a doctor suit.”

  “She’s not.”

  “You heard so yourself. From those people in Dalton. She fucked—”

  Wick took the first swing, but the last Wild Turkey had finally kicked in. It hampered his speed and his aim. Oren caught it in the shoulder, which was padded with plenty of muscle. Oren’s fist caught Wick on the chin, which wasn’t padded with anything. He actually heard his skin split. Felt the blood spurt.

  Mercifully, Oren grabbe
d him by the front of his shirt before his knees gave way. He pulled him close and held him face-to-face. “A few days before he was shot, Raymond Collier’s wife filed for divorce. She cited adultery. Guess who was named correspondent.”

  Before he heaved up the bourbon on a public sidewalk, Wick pushed away from Oren, turned, and headed toward the parking lot where he’d left his pickup, which had apparently been spotted by a tattletale cop. It hadn’t been that hard for Oren to find him.

  “Wick!”

  He stopped, then came around and aimed a threatening finger at Oren. “If you ever talk about her like that again…” He was breathing hard. Gasping, in fact. He couldn’t deliver the warning with the impetus he wished. He had to get out of there, fast. So he settled on “Just don’t, Oren. Just don’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be driving, Wick. Let me take you to the motel. Or to my house.”

  Wick turned away and kept walking.

  * * *

  From the driver’s seat of an SUV parked in a metered slot on the street, Lozada watched the scene play out between Wick and Joe Threadgill’s former partner, Oren Wesley. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the exchange was angry.

  To Lozada’s delight, they actually swapped punches. This was better than he ever could have anticipated. Dissension within the ranks. Strife between good friends. Everybody close to Wick Threadgill was pissed at him. Perfect.

  Earlier he’d had the pleasure of revealing Wick’s profession to Rennie. While she was still trying to assimilate that, he had added the furthermore. Furthermore, the FWPD had her under surveillance.

  Earlier, after Wick had left her with those two cute blasts of his horn, Lozada had trailed him around the block to a house that was supposedly under reconstruction. Since he had been the object of surveillance himself, he knew the signs: three cars parked out front, including Wick’s pickup. Building materials scattered around but no evidence of actual work being done. An empty Dumpster in the front yard. These were stage props, the police department’s clumsy attempts to put one over on Lozada. How absurd of them to think they ever could.

  “They’re watching you from a house on the street behind yours,” he had told Rennie.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I wish I were, my dear.”

  “Why would they be watching me?”

  “I suppose because of your murdered colleague.”

  Coldly, she said, “I don’t believe you.”

  But she had. Within seconds of hanging up on him she had left her house at a jog and run around the block straight to the other house. She was inside for several minutes before emerging, visibly upset, with Threadgill on her heels.

  Neither of them paid any attention to the SUV parked nearby. There were no records of his ownership of this car. The police didn’t know to look for it. They followed his Mercedes, and he tolerated that. But when he didn’t want to be followed he drove this SUV.

  He had been parked within eavesdropping distance of the conversation during which Rennie told Wick she never wanted to see him again. God, what a sensational sight—his Rennie telling off Wick Threadgill, in terms that even a dimwitted cop like him could understand.

  From his observation point Lozada felt the heat waves of anger coming off her. It gave him an erection. If she made love with even a fraction of that heat she was going to be well worth the trouble.

  She had returned home. Lozada had wanted nothing more than to join her there and begin phase two of his seduction, but his focus was, of necessity, Threadgill. He had followed him as far as the bar, where he had no doubt gone to drown his sorrows.

  Poor Wick, Lozada thought now as he watched him storm away from Wesley. First he’d been put down by Rennie, now by his longtime friend. The cocky bastard didn’t look so cocky anymore.

  A sudden knocking on the passenger window of his SUV caused him to react reflexively. Less than an eyeblink later, the barrel of a small pistol was aimed at Sally Horton’s astonished face.

  “Jesus, it’s just me,” she exclaimed through the window glass. “I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure. What’re you doing parked out here?”

  Lozada wanted to snuff her right then for drawing attention to him. Wesley was still across the street, talking to one of the policemen who patrolled Sundance on bicycle.

  “Get lost.”

  “Can’t I join you?” she whined.

  Lozada stretched across the console and opened the passenger-side door. He would rather have her inside than yelling at him through the window. She climbed in. “Where’s your Mercedes? Not that this isn’t cool too.” She ran her hand over the glove-soft leather upholstery.

  Lozada was watching Wesley. She followed his gaze. “He’s gay.”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “He’s a fag.”

  Wesley was a family man. It was Lozada’s business to know these things. Wesley had a wife and two daughters. “What makes you think he’s gay?”

  “This guy I met in the bar? He bought me a drink, and we were getting along pretty good, when that man there comes along. Mad as hell. Turns out they’re partners.”

  She had been talking to Threadgill? He had bought her a drink? “Was the other guy black too?”

  Sally shook her head. “Blond and blue-eyed. A cowboy. Tough-looking, but cute.”

  Threadgill.

  “I’m not into being a fag hag, I don’t care how cute the guy is.” She reached across the console and stroked his fly. “Say, that gun of yours really turns me on. And so does your pistol.” She laughed at her own asinine joke.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Me and the cowboy? I told him about my dream to become a dancer. And then I told him about this guy I like, who likes me.” She winked. “Wonder who?”

  Lozada forced himself to smile. “It wouldn’t be me, would it?”

  She squeezed him playfully. “And he said—”

  “The cowboy?”

  “Yeah, he said that since there weren’t any women coming in and out of your place, that I probably didn’t have any competition. What do you say?”

  Lozada reached across and fingered her nipple through the ridiculous T-shirt. “How did he know there were no women coming in and out of my place? Did he ask?”

  “Yeah, but I told him—” Suddenly she stopped, looked at him apprehensively, changed course. “I didn’t tell him shit. You asked me not to talk about you, so I didn’t. I mean, not by name.”

  “Good girl.” He tweaked her, hard enough to make her wince. “You know, you’ve got me really hot.”

  “Hmm, I can tell.”

  “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  “We can do it here.”

  “Not what I have in mind we can’t.”

  * * *

  Rennie looked at her bedside clock. It was after 3 A.M. and she was still awake. She was due at the hospital at 5:45. She fluffed her pillow, straightened the sheet that had become twisted around her restless legs, and closed her eyes, determined to clear her mind long enough to fall asleep.

  A half hour later she gave up. She went into her kitchen, filled her electric kettle with water, and plugged it in. She assembled the fixings for tea, but her coordination was shot, her motions clumsy. She dropped the lid of the tea canister twice before she was able to replace it properly.

  “Damn him!”

  But exactly which “him” she was referring to, even she wasn’t sure. Wick Threadgill or Lozada. Take your pick. They were tied for first place on her shit list. Detective Wesley was a close second.

  She had every intention of making good the threat she had issued. Wesley’s superior would be hearing from her attorney. Either he could arrest her or he could leave her alone. But she would not live under a cloud of suspicion for a crime she had neither committed nor knew anything about.

  The five dozen roses were the returned “favor” to which Lozada had referred. Anything else was unthinkable.

  He frightened he
r. He was a criminal. He was creepy. He was persistent and, she feared, patient. He would continue the phone calls until she put a stop to them. The problem was, she didn’t know how.

  Reporting him to the police would be the normal course of action, but she was reluctant to do that now. She had waited too long. Telling Wesley this far after the fact would validate, and could even increase, his suspicion. She would eventually be cleared of any involvement in the crime that had cost Lee his life, but in the meantime…

  It was that “in the meantime” that she must avoid. The incident in Dalton would be resurrected and—

  The kettle screamed. She quickly unplugged it and poured the boiling water over the tea bag. Carrying the steeping cup into her living room, she switched on the television set and sat down in a corner of her sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. She channel surfed, trying to find any programming that would take her mind off her troubles with Lozada and keep her from thinking about Wick.

  She had lied about not being mad. She was mad. Furious, in fact. But she also had been hurt by him, and that was the most unsettling part of this whole thing—knowing that she still could be hurt. She had believed herself immune to caring that much. Obviously she’d been wrong.

  She had discouraged him at every turn, but her rejection hadn’t deterred him. She had begun to admire his tenacity, and she was flattered by his obstinate pursuit. In all honesty, she had been glad he turned out to be the driver of the racing pickup. When he pushed back his hat and drawled “You are no good for my ego, Dr. Newton,” she’d felt an unmistakable flutter of excitement.

  But he wasn’t a dogged suitor at all, only a detective hot on the trail of a suspect.

  His betrayal had been a wake-up call. Time had eclipsed hurtful memories. Years had dulled the pain of deep emotional wounds. Resolves had begun to diminish in importance. Wick’s double-cross had been a cruel reminder of why she had made those resolutions. She was back on track now, more resolute than before. She should thank him for that, she supposed.

  But she wasn’t grateful for his making her experience feelings and sensations she had long denied herself. She hated him for making her miss them, for making her yearn to explore them. With him.

  She set her half-finished tea on the coffee table and settled more deeply into the cushions. When she closed her eyes, she relived how grand it had felt yesterday afternoon being astride Beade. The sun and wind hot against her skin. The exhilaration of speed. The feeling that she could outrun anything. Freedom.