Soul Rest

by Joey W. Hill

  He pulled into the driveway of her small rental house. It wasn't in the best area of Baton Rouge by a long shot, but it was a friendly neighborhood, mostly working-class young families with kids, if the scattering of tiny bikes and toys left in a few yards were any indication. He used his opposite hand to turn off the vehicle, because she wouldn't let go when he began to pull away. The press of her lips against the heel of his hand became more purposed. Her lips parted and he felt the moistness of her breath, the touch of her tongue on his life line before her lips closed there again. Her eyes had closed, but he could feel the tension thrumming through her as she dipped her head, nuzzled him. Moving to his wrist, she put her teeth there, bit, then rubbed her face there as well.

  Sometimes if the late night sports didn't have anything of interest, he'd switch to a documentary. Her behavior now reminded him of one he'd seen about lions. A pride whiling away the afternoon in tall golden grass, one of the lionesses cozied up to the male just like this. Showing her affection, marking him as her mate with the stroking of her face against him.

  Reaction surged through him. Fury, need, and something too primal to voice. Her gaze lifted and met his, and he saw a mirror of his own feelings in those vivid hazel eyes.

  "Stay there," he said. He extricated his hand and exited the car, grabbing a fresh shirt out of the trunk before he circled around and opened her door. Her eyes were wide, her face still too pale. He took her hand, brought her out of the car. When they reached her porch, she gazed up at him, as if waiting for him to open her door. She wasn't fully registering that they were at her place. She was still in a state of detachment, but what was humming off her skin wasn't detached enough. It was as if she was in a different dimension with him right now, everything sharp and vibrant. He couldn't stop thinking about her scent, the way she'd trembled beneath him. The glory of her rage at a guy carrying an assault rifle, as if her rage alone could incinerate him. His need was a fire in his blood that could match hers.

  "Keys, darlin'."

  She blinked, focused enough to fish them out. He unlocked the door, swept his gaze over the interior. He was pretty certain of the answer, but asked to be sure. "Do you live alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." He secured the door behind them, unbuttoned the bloodstained shirt and stripped it off his shoulders in a blink, leaving him in the dark-blue T-shirt beneath. She was staring at him. Clamping one hand on her upper arm and banding the other around her waist, he lifted and pinned her against the wall with his full weight, slamming his mouth onto hers.

  If he'd had any doubts about the signals she'd been giving off, they were gone in that first second. Her legs and arms locked around him and a harsh moan ripped from her throat, her body shuddering.

  It wasn't about foreplay or seduction. Hell, he wasn't sure it was even about sex. He kissed her hard and deep, tongue taking over her mouth, teeth scraping her. She clung to his shoulders, rocked against him. Too many clothes. He put her down, yanked open her slacks as she was toeing off the shoes. When they tried to shove the slacks and underwear down and off, they damn near bumped heads. He caught her by the throat, pinned her against the wall, gave her a hard look to make her stay there as he dropped to one knee and pulled the pants off either leg. Her fingers whispered over his back, his shirt collar, caught there and clung. He spread his fingers out against her thighs, the contrast of alabaster skin against his tan-brown skin, and made her cry out as he put his mouth between her legs. He forced them open wider with the grip of his hands and the insistence of his invasion, tongue-fucking her and finding her already slick, ready for him. He sucked on her clit and she damn near came from that, arching up against his mouth and almost walking up the wall with the writhing of her body.

  Setting aside his belt with his weapon, he rose, opening his trousers. As he gripped his turgid cock, he coiled an arm around her waist and gave her the hitch to put her up against the wall again. Her hands slid up his chest, locked around his neck. Another rough, needy sound broke from her throat as he pinned her once again, this time by thrusting his cock as deep into her cunt as he could manage.

  She let out a gasp, her eyes widening at his size, filling and stretching her. Yeah, it was one of the weird ironies of life that fear could make a man's cock shrivel up and hide, but surviving a brush with death turned it into a pile driver.

  He needed to take it easy, but the bite of her nails, the parting of her lips, said otherwise. He kept ramming into her, a steady tattoo of impact against the wall as their two bodies strained to get close and even closer. She hiked herself up further, arms wrapped fully around his shoulders, her back rounded so he felt the vulnerable ridge of her spine under her shirt as she laid her face against the side of his, breath rasping in his ear. For his part, he had one hand gripping her ass so hard he'd leave bruises, the other remaining banded around her waist as he kept bringing her down on him.

  "Don't mean...to hurt you..." he said, the apology the best he could do.

  She shook her head and gripped him tighter inside and out, cunt muscles squeezing down on him. "I want it to hurt. Please..."

  He shifted his hand from her ass up to cradle the back of her head, first to protect it from him hammering her against the wall and next to dig his fingers into her hair, pull her head back and set his teeth to her throat. She emitted a feminine growl, a spirited surrender. He felt her body start to gather itself, knew she was trying to keep herself off the edge, waiting for him. He was more than ready.

  "Go over now," he demanded. "Let me hear you."

  She did both, a beautiful symphony from her arched throat, her pussy convulsing on him and pushing him over the same edge. He came harder and longer than he expected, but he couldn't stop. Not with her. Not until every drop was spilled inside her.

  When they finally coasted in for a bumpy landing, he was aware of the bite of her nails through his shirt, how tightly he was holding her head and waist. He hadn't removed his shirt or hers, yet they were still melded together from groin to chest, and he wasn't sure her arms could be removed from around him without a crowbar. He didn't mind. He didn't want to let go of her either. He braced his forehead against the wall next to hers and inhaled her hair. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of doing that. She streaked the chestnut brown with some kind of blondish highlights and the scent of the thick strands was fragrant and elusive. Delicate but memorable and enduring, like the woman herself.

  She was still breathing erratically, but she brushed her lips against his ear. "What do you have to say, Sergeant?"

  "Girls are pretty. Girls are good."

  She snuffled against him, part chuckle, part sob. He cradled her face, holding them temple to cheek as they drew a different kind of strength from one another. "Damn it," she said. "Life is just too hard sometimes. Poor Jai. His family. That stupid, awful, fucked-up kid. Damn it, damn it, damn it."

  "Yeah." He was so steeped in her, his phone rang twice before he identified the muffled sound from his belt. "Hell, I didn't log out. Let me get that."

  "It would have taken longer to log out than to do what we just did," she said dryly. "You do get coffee or smoke breaks, right?"

  "Smart-ass." He gave her a pinch, but eased her down, made sure she was steady before he fastened his pants, zipped up and fished out the phone. "Keller."

  He scooped up her slacks and panties and offered them to her. Trying to be a gentleman to make up for the beast he'd been, though his beauty didn't seem dissatisfied. Celeste gathered them to her with a faint smile, then hooked her thumb in the general vicinity of what he assumed was her bedroom and plucked at her shirt, stained from Marigold's bloody hands clutching at her. He nodded and she disappeared that way.

  "Keller, you there? I said, it's Detective Allen."

  "Yeah, Toby, sorry. What's up?"

  "Are you still with Miss Lewis?"

  "We just got to her house." Leland donned the fresh shirt and tucked it in, then picked up his belt, buckled it back in place as he held the ph
one under his ear.

  "Good. Just wanted to give you a heads up. We've still got some work to do, but the bullet track on your side of the street at the drive-by was high. At first we figured whoever was shooting just had lousy aim. But what didn't make sense to me was them shooting out of both windows of the car. The opposite side of the street is mixed use, a few stores with apartments over them. No cops were over there, no one from the Reigning Kings or MoneyBoyz was hanging out. No reason to shoot in that direction at all. Then we noticed the shots on that side only hit where Miss Lewis was sitting. They dogged her escape path like a coonhound."

  Leland's gut went cold. "If I hadn't seen that," Allen continued, "I would have assumed shooting at the two of you at the convenience store was incidental, but looking at what I've got so far, I think the initial shots at our crime scene were to pin us down. The shots at her--"

  "She was their target. Son of a bitch. One of the shooters, she was in his face recently about the killing of that prostitute on Compton Court. Had her suspicions he was the doer."

  "It's looking like he didn't just do DeeDee. I work with Marquez, who's running the Stiles case as well. She apparently made a connection to the same guy for that. He's done some follow-up, and Earl Edward James has gone from a person of interest to our main suspect as of this afternoon. Maybe he didn't realize she'd already shared that information with us."

  "I don't think that matters to him." Since his talk with Mike, Leland had pulled up Dogboy's rap sheet and talked to a few others on his shift who had dealt with the teenager. "My guys say he's probably a loose cannon with a looser screw. If he killed both of the women, he's no Ted Bundy. Just a dumb, fucked-up kid who's gotten himself hooked on killing and can't stop himself. The question is, will the MoneyBoyz help him out with Celeste?"

  "Hard to say. You know none of these groups are all that organized yet."

  Thank God, Leland thought. They caused enough trouble as loose affiliations. "But he might have a few friends willing to help him out. Like today."

  "Yeah. Until I find out more, she needs to be somewhere else for a few days. Out of town, preferably, and she shouldn't be showing up at any of her regular haunts. Like her home. I've already sent a couple uniforms your way to flank the place."

  Leland glanced out the window to see them pulling up. They'd had enough units today, so Mike and Billy were driving separate cars, Billy looking like he'd been given the keys to his first Camaro. Stepping out on the porch, Leland acknowledged them with a wave so they knew all was good inside. "They're here. Thanks, Toby."

  "You got it. Talk to her about getting out of town. Word is the two of you are dating."

  "The word does travel fast."

  "Nobody does gossip like cops," Toby said dryly. "We all know she broke her unbreakable rule about dating cops for you. It's probably asking a lot, but dig deep and summon up some charm. See if you can't get her ass out of town. Lot of the guys are fond of it."

  "Tell them to keep their focus on her journalistic integrity and off her ass." He injected humor into his voice, but it was forced, too many serious variables running through his mind.

  "Yeah, like that will happen. Gotta go. Tell her to call if she remembers anything else."

  "Will do." When he clicked off, Leland knew the reminder wouldn't be necessary. Her trained mind was probably already running back over the details, trying to remember every scrap of useful information.

  "Celeste?"

  "Here." She emerged from the back, wearing jeans and a clean, long sleeved shirt covered with a swirling gold-green version of Van Gogh's The Starry Night. It picked up the colors in her eyes. She'd brushed her hair, the strands falling over her brow. The three studs in one ear winked brown and green. "Okay, I feel more like myself. Not really, but armor is everything, right? Protects all the squishy stuff inside. God." She shook her head. "I sound like an idiot."

  "No, you don't." He came to her, took her hands, which were nervously fluttering. He wasn't sure if the day's events were understandably keeping her at loose ends, or if she was unsettled by what they'd just done, or some of both. In truth, the intensity of it had surprised him as well. He hoped her lack of balance would help him now, though.

  "You need to pack a bag for several days."

  She looked up at him. As she did, she saw the additional units parked out front. Her brow furrowed. "Why are they here?" She put a hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle. "Thank God they didn't arrive ten minutes ago. That could have been awkward."

  She was experiencing the fluctuating emotions, both appropriate and inappropriate, that accompanied this kind of ordeal, but he couldn't help but smile at her. It helped lessen the weight on his chest as well.

  "Dogboy was after you, Celeste."

  She blinked, refocused on him. "What?"

  "You were the target. They were firing at us just to keep us pinned down."

  He could have broken that news a little less harshly, but she'd want the truth, unembellished. Part of him also wanted to scare her, make it easier to protect her. Knowing her, that wasn't going work for more than a heartbeat, but the cop in him was all about keeping her safe, no matter how much of a bastard he had to be about it.

  She listened to what Allen had told him. "I agree. He's about as clever and subtle as a punch in the face. So he'll be picked up, go to prison and that will be that."

  "Yeah, once he's picked up. He lives with a couple guys in a shithole about a mile from our crime scene. We might get lucky and he'll go back there, but I think it more likely he'll hole up in another shithole and keep moving around. It's probably going to take a couple days for us to use our eyes on the street to figure out where he's gone, and that's if he doesn't try to skip town."

  "True," she said. It was both alarming and impressive that she didn't react with fear, but her next words told him the reporter had taken over. "I'm not sure he will, though. He starts with a high-risk victim like Loretta Stiles, then kills a prostitute? And marks both crime scenes with the dog signature? I don't think he's interested in covering his tracks. More like challenging the world to gun him down, daring you to stop him."

  "Suicide by cop," he confirmed. "So go pack a bag. Do you have someone you can stay with out of town for a few days?"

  His first extremely strong impulse was to have her stay at his house, but being near her stomping ground was too much of a temptation. She could get bored when he was on shift and decide to go talk to just one source, or something foolish like that.

  She shrugged. "There are always things I can do in New Orleans, but I really don't think it's necessary. Dogboy was looking for me at a crime scene he'd know I cover, not at my home. I don't advertise where I live."

  "All he'd have to do is follow you home. Or have one of the MoneyBoyz do it." He put his hands on her shoulders again. "If he has their support in this, you're not looking at one person gunning for you. It could be the entire gang."

  That elicited a flicker of concern from her, but her brow creased. "I'm not seeing it. An unstable personality like his is going to be a liability. They're not going to take out a target whose murder would expose their trade and suppliers to extra scrutiny. Jai's death"--she hitched over the word but pressed on--"is already going to turn up the heat."

  "But you've written articles that take swipes at the Baton Rouge drug business. They might see settling Dogboy's issue as a benefit for them, long term."

  "Swipes only," she said frankly. "I was following some leads, but I hadn't even dinged them yet. So right now, I'm not worth the effort."

  The idea of her following leads to the heart of the city's illegal drug trade was enough to give him nightmares, but he set that aside for now, with effort. "Maybe not. But violent criminals aren't always as reasonable and clear thinking as you'd expect." He tightened his grip on her. "Celeste, I'm about a breath away from being a hard-ass about this, and I know that means you'll get your hackles up and we'll fight." He touched her face. "I'm not in the mood for a fight. How about yo
u?"

  She held his gaze, then shook her head, took a deep breath. "No. So...the wedding's Saturday anyway. Right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I'll pack a bag and go check into a hotel in New Orleans for a few days." She shifted her gaze to the right of his shoulder. "Maybe you could join me at the hotel and we could spend a weekend there, go to the wedding together."

  "So if it's your idea, us going to the wedding together is okay?"

  "Of course." She tossed her hair out of her eyes.

  "Trying to hold on to control," he noted. "You know that's not going to work that often with me, right?"

  He touched her chin with a curved finger, slid it down beneath and along her throat, making her eyes get that wary yet needy look that made him wish today had gone differently. That they both weren't too wired up to slow it down, make those Dom/sub vibes come to full, pulsating life between them.

  "And you think you being all macho and domineering will work with me?" she retorted.

  "In a way, yeah." He leaned down, feeling the pulse in her throat jump as he came closer. "Especially if I tell you I'm going to tan your hide for chasing after that car."

  "But you wouldn't have the plate number if I hadn't. You said..."

  "Two different things, darlin'. I'm proud of you for being brave and doing such a fine job, just like I'll get a kick out of busting your ass for risking it."