Hands were all over her - at her breasts, fisted in her hair, sliding up her thigh, opening her knees. She moaned, bucked her hips, and felt herself being drawn to the floor, never opening her eyes, never needing to. She was flat on her back now, the chill of the soft rug on her bare buttocks making her shudder. The hands grew ravenous and she moved to their rhythm, accommodated their wishes, yielded to their warm, hungry journeys. But she wanted more. More. “Please, please …” Her ragged whispers felt cool as they escaped the fevered heat of her lips and she scarcely recognized her own rasping voice.
At the edges of her awareness, she heard chanting - flat whispers in foreign tongues, breathy and insistent between tastes and nips of flesh. Then a long relishing caress stroked down between her breasts, over her belly, and into her loins where it became delicious tickling, a repeated stroke that brought stars behind her eyes. A hand reached beneath her and cupped her buttocks, raising her hips.
She gasped, feeling hardness against her core, wedging and pressing, hot and adamant as the discordant chants grew faster, louder. Her hands found Astaroth’s hips and she urged him, pulling him into her. One long stroke and he entered. The foreign words that had swirled around her clamped off and all was silent except for Dette’s gasps. Astaroth was bigger than she’d ever had. Beautifully big, invading every open space, filling every inch of emptiness within her.
His broad, muscled chest crushed her breasts, but the pain was delicious. He ravished her with visceral ferocity, his growls of pleasure hitching her own mounting bliss.
A new whisper floated past her. “Enough. You’ll drain her.” But Dette barely registered it; she didn’t care. She wanted to be drained.
“That’s enough,” said the whisper.
Dette clawed the rug beneath her, her ecstasy rising as she locked her thighs around Astaroth’s hips and bucked, forcing him deeper, deeper, riding the razor’s edge of climax.
“Stop!” The word rang out like a gunshot, ripping Dette from pleasure like Velcro. With a terrifying growl of frustration, Astaroth obeyed. Their bodies unlocked and he rolled off of her, the sudden absence of him more painful than the crush of his body. The delicious blaze that had nearly overtaken her died a slow, steady death, paling from deep red ecstasy to milky pink. Rapture walked away and the agony of its retreat was palpable. She lay there, painfully hollow, trembling and aching for more as the fire died and the beast lowered its head and fell back into sleep.
She felt shattered inside, as if passion were a Champagne glass thrown against a wall. “Why?” she asked, out of breath. “Why did you stop?” Her vision swam as she struggled to sit up. “What’s wrong?”
Tyranny knelt beside her and stroked her hair. Astaroth sat on the rug, his knees drawn up, his slick body heaving deep breaths. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, as if he, too, were willing away the torturous bliss of suspended climax.
Why did he stop? “Did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not, sweetheart.” Tyranny smiled. “We just don’t want to wear you out. Not right away, at least.” She stood, nude and pale, as classically beautiful as a painting. Dette stared, knew she was staring, and didn’t care. She felt like an engine that had been revved to the point of ruin, her mind a spider webbed crack, splintering in a hundred different directions.
Tyranny ran her fingers through Astaroth’s white-blond spikes of hair, then crouched to draw him into a deep kiss. Something silvery flickered near their lips as their mouths met, like a spark of static electricity, gone before Dette was certain she’d seen it. Tyranny broke the kiss and wiped the corners of her mouth. “Mmm,” she said to Dette. “You taste exquisite.”
Dette suddenly felt vulnerable. Naked. Exposed. Astaroth, who remained in place, smiled at her. He was beautiful, a stone statue in a mythical garden, his grin the only thing that proved he was real.
But Dette didn’t smile back. She couldn’t. She was thunderstruck, confused by her own behavior. This isn’t like me. None of it. “I think I should go.” On limbs that felt unhinged, she stood and began gathering her strewn articles, her skin no longer burning with desire but with a sort of delayed self-consciousness. She crossed her arms over her breasts.
Dette felt the cool touch of the necklace between her breasts. “Oh, this is yours.” She reached back to unclasp it but Tyranny stopped her.
“No,” said Tyranny. “Keep it. It looks too beautiful on you to take away.” She smiled. “It has chosen its owner.”
“But … it’s so nice.”
“And it’s all yours. I think you should consider wearing more silver, Bernadette. It’s your color.”
Dette yanked her panties up, hooked her bra, and found her pants. What the hell just happened? Get me out of here!
“I hope you’ll come see us again.” Tyranny’s lips rose in a vulpine smile. “We’d love to see you on opening night.”
Dette zipped up and pulled on her shoes. “Sure. Okay.”
Astaroth stood and Dette was paralyzed all over again. His beauty was unreal, and as his eyes settled on her own, it felt as if, for one lush moment, the entire earth stood still.
“Please do come.” Those simple words bored into her; it was as if she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe, as she watched him. He located her blouse, draped on the arm of the sofa, and held it to his nose, closing his eyes. “Delicious.” He surrendered the shirt and grinned. “Friday night at eight p.m. I’ll be looking for you.”
“Yes. I’ll be there.” And she meant it. Her confusion and anxiety had been vanquished and her entire mind was now solely adhered to the beauty of the man who smiled at her. She wanted to be near him, had to be near him. Why didn’t I notice how gorgeous he was the night I hit him? The answer was easy, of course. Shock.
Dette slipped her blouse over her head and felt a stab of reluctance. She didn’t want to leave Astaroth, not yet. Not ever.
“It was such a pleasure to meet you.” The nude woman held out a fine hand. Dette stared a moment, remembering what those pretty fingers had just been doing to her. And I liked it. How is that even possible? She took the naked woman’s hand and when she did, she understood all over as another spark of desire bloomed. “You too.”
Dette cast a final glance at Astaroth, hoping for one more smile, one more twinkle of his eyes. But he was preoccupied, wiping sweat from his chest and abdomen with his T-shirt. He still hadn’t bothered to replace his pants and Dette was glad for that. The primitive part of Dette - and the beast she’d loosed this afternoon - enjoyed seeing the wet evidence of herself on him, like a stamp of ownership. As she stared, a powerful wave of sleepiness overcame her.
Tyranny held the door for her, giving her a crimson kiss on the cheek before shutting her out. The moment the door closed, Dette felt their absence. And she was so tired. No, not tired. Exhausted. She stared at the door, cold to her bones, feeling crudely extracted from a beautiful new world.
Spent, dazed, and growing sleepier by the moment, she moseyed down the cobblestone path. She raised her palms and buried her nose in them, recapturing the scents of the couple: Tyranny’s soft clean sweetness, Astaroth’s humid male musk - and beyond that, something she couldn’t identify. Something sulfurous, slightly burnt.
A whistle tore the silence, followed by a booming male voice. “Hey baby! You need a ride somewhere?”
She paused and glared up at the workmen on the steel scaffold dozens of feet in air. The sky was the color of sleep but the beams of sunlight that broke through the lazy gray clouds were like pins piercing her eyes.
The cat-caller gave his crotch a firm squeeze and made a lewd gesture with his tongue.
She gave him the bird. That provoked more hoots and hollers, and Dette rolled her eyes and walked on.
She unlocked the doors and got behind the wheel. Coffee. I need coffee.
Just Keep Busy
At six that evening, Nick Grayson left the station and headed home, taking the long way as so many of the streets had been damaged by t
he flood and were under repair. He was glad to see it - the place needed a makeover.
It was Wednesday, his third official day on the force, and so far, it wasn’t a bad gig. Of course, it would be better when the town grew tired of the current gossip. First, his tryst with Roxie Michaelson was no secret among the locals - few things were private in a place like Prominence - and on that first day, hungover and nearly late, he’d been ribbed relentlessly by Clint Horace, who’d taken great pleasure in letting Nick know that Roxie Michaelson had been seen leaving his house early Monday morning.
Horace had wasted no time perpetuating the gossip, but Nick had taken the desk sergeant’s jibes in stride, never giving his antagonist the luxury of a reaction, but when Clint had gone so far as to refer to Roxie as “the town pump,” Nick had called him into his office and, with a few stern words, established the parameters of their working relationship. No more had been said about it, but Nick was neither stupid nor blind - the snickering and stares weren’t lost on him.
The second problem he’d dealt with was the mystery man in boxers who’d rescued Abigail Strane. The entire town knew he was staying with Madison O’Riley, but beyond, nothing was known about him - and they were ravenous for details. People had stopped by the station with claims of all sorts - several had said they’d seen the man leaping from rooftop to rooftop the day of the flood - one homeowner even wanted to sue for damages.
More than one woman called, claiming to be carrying the young man’s child and wanting to know how to get in contact with him. One woman claimed the man attacked her, though a quick investigation proved this to be false and eventually she confessed the lie. All of them were lies, of course - just desperate attempts to make contact with someone whose picture was in the media. Prominence was a madhouse, a testament to the nature of idle minds, and none of the townspeople seemed to believe that the police force was as in the dark as the rest of them. Whoever the young man was, he didn’t want to be bothered, and that was reasonable. He’d done nothing illegal and was entitled to privacy. But in truth, Nick was curious about the guy, too. He wouldn’t push it, he did plan to visit O’Riley’s Rocks this afternoon and hoped that while checking out the stones and gems, he might get a little information. Respectfully, of course. He also needed to talk to Beverly Simon, who’d taken in Abigail Strane. The elderly woman had left town, said the rumor mill, but Nick wanted to follow up.
But first he needed to stop for a change of clothes. Despite the hectic past days, Nick had stayed sober. He’d suffered nothing but some nausea, excessive sweating, and a bit of trembling in the fingertips. Nothing serious, nothing he couldn’t handle. Still, he intended to keep his promise to himself - he would get help. After all, this was not the first time he’d endured stretches of abstinence, but eventually, he’d return to the bottle ... with a vengeance.
An online search had uncovered a listing of local A.A. meetings. It wasn’t much of a list. There were three meetings per week at St. John’s Catholic Church and four at the Prominence Senior Hall. Beyond that, he’d have to go clear down to Bishop, which was an hour’s drive.
He didn’t like the idea of being seen at an A.A. meeting, but after reading about the program, he took comfort in their longstanding tradition of anonymity. He told himself not to give a damn what the locals might think - better a competent chief of police in A.A. than a proud, drunk one.
And his drinking had already begun shedding its ugly light on him. It was no fault of Roxie Michaelson’s. Nick’s love-em-and-leave-em pattern was, he knew, a product of the drink. If he didn’t change course, she’d just be the first in a string of loveless encounters that would, in a town the size of Prominence, add up quickly and ruin his credibility.
He realized he hadn’t heard from Roxie, and was glad - and disgusted with himself for being glad. But perhaps she’d meant it when she’d said she had no expectations, no interest beyond the one night. He hoped so; he didn’t want to hurt her.
At his house, he noticed a large box on the porch. It was from Ethan Hunter, his former boss in Crimson Cove. Nick smiled. This must be the sweater from Hunter’s “Aunt Vanessa” in Oregon. He couldn’t help but laugh. It might be garish, but Nick was glad to receive it; he’d seen the pride in Ethan’s eyes when someone donned an “Aunt Vanessa” creation.
He pulled it out of the box. It was no exception to the rule of ugly, and once inside, he tried it on and frowned at his reflection. It was fire engine red and bumblebee yellow. But it was warm, and given the chill, Nick had no reservations about wearing it. I’m going to A.A., for God’s sake. I doubt my sweater will be the hottest topic in the room. He looked at his watch. The meeting didn’t start for another hour. This gave him plenty of time to go check out O’Riley’s Rock Shop.
Shop Talk
Since the increase in business, Madison had been keeping the shop open later, making sure that both she and Dette were on hand, despite the fact that most of the day’s customers weren’t customers at all, but gawkers and rubberneckers stopping by in hopes of glimpsing “The Disrobed Daredevil.”
But she treated them no differently than she would any customer, and insisted that Dette do the same. In business, just keep smiling and offering assistance. That was number one hundred and thirty-seven on Madison’s list of Life Lessons. She’d added it last summer after losing a major sale to an unpleasant woman she couldn’t bring herself to smile at. And she was still pissed at herself for it.
But being pissed did her no good and, besides, business was booming now. If only to disguise their curiosity, the nosy locals purchased crystals, books, sweatshirts, and beaded necklaces and bracelets. Even Rosemary Hess and Lena Harding, who’d never set foot in the shop before, had come by. Lena had dropped a small fortune on a large geode, while Rosemary bought a single ninety-nine cent keychain. Takes all kinds.
Presently, the shop was empty and Madison used the time to polish tiny flaws from an agate with her buzzy little Dremel. Alejandro was in back, reading the third of Madison’s father’s five books. He’d been at it all day, devouring the information with nearly as much zest as he devoured honey.
Dette, who’d been virtually useless since returning from her lunch break, yawned, color-coordinated shirts on the racks, yawned, straightened some books, yawned, and wiped down display cases with all the enthusiasm of an under-watered houseplant. She hadn’t said much about her visit to St. Agatha’s other than the man had accepted her flowers, told her he was fine, and offered her tea. Madison knew Dette though, and she was holding something back.
When the front door opened, Madison shut off the Dremel and looked up, knowing immediately that the man in the awful sweater was a genuine customer. She greeted him and he gave her a warm smile, then headed straight for the display cases, roving the rocks and minerals the way a hungry man searches a menu. He was forty-something with dark hair peppered by a touch of gray at the temples and was handsome in a former-jock kind of way - if you could get past the bright red-and-yellow sweater he wore. Maybe he’s colorblind. He smiled and it was then that she recognized him; he was the guy from Roxie’s Diner.
Dette, who always perked up in the presence of good-looking guys - colorblind or not - made her way over to Madison, and nudged her. “Who’s he?”
Madison shook her head. “Not a clue.”
“He’s a total DILF.” Her eyes dipped to his chest. “Minus the sweater, of course.”
When the guy stopped in front of a display of Morton Gneiss migmatite, his eyes went wide and he looked at Madison. “Is this sign correct? Really?”
“It is.” She joined him. “We actually have two examples of some of the oldest rocks found on the earth.” She pointed at the Morton Gneiss. “That one’s dated at three-point-five billion years old, and over here - ” She led him to an Ely Greenstone display. “We have one dated at two-point-seven billion years old.”
“Wow,” he said. “Impressive.”
Madison smiled.
“I’m Nick Grayson, by the
way. The new chief of police.”
Her stomach knotted at the thought of cops - not because she had anything to hide but because she knew cops could go crooked and get away with it. Case in point, Clint Horace. She held her hand out. “Madison O’Riley.”
He gave it a firm shake. “I believe I saw you at-”
“Roxie’s Diner, yes.” She didn’t want to relive the details of Alejandro’s embarrassing table manners. “And that’s my friend and employee, Dette Watkiss.”
Dette smiled.
“Nice to meet you both.” Nick Grayson’s eyes lit on some Thomsonite. “From the Minnesota side of Lake Superior, I see.”
Madison was impressed. “It is. And how did you know?”
“Because on the Michigan side it’s not nearly as colorful, and everywhere else, it’s white.”
“I take it you’re a serious collector.”
The new chief of police smiled. “Guilty as charged. I’m a fan of the earth’s art.”
“Well, then you’ve come to right place, Chief Grayson.”
“Please, call me Nick.”
“Do you do any cutting and polishing, or just collecting?”
“All of the above.” He reached into his pocket and held out a perfectly smooth piece of agate. “I did this one by hand on a diamond wheel.” He smiled. “It’s my lucky rock. I carry it everywhere, but my specialty is Rogerley fluorite from England. I also like working with crystals, particularly Uruguayan amethyst.” He looked around, his eyes bright.
He was like a great big rock-geek trapped in a football player’s body and Madison liked him. She felt bad about her reaction to his profession. He seemed like one of the good guys.
“You have a little bit of everything here, don’t you?” He stared at the seven hundred pound fossilized brontosaurus thighbone that dominated the center of the room on its massive roped-off display stand. “Where did you get it all?”
The Angel Alejandro Page 17