“Just shut up and fuck me.”
He was thicker than Carlisle, but had a soft touch for a big man.
“Yer ass is as red as an apple,” he said.
“You can slap it if you want.”
“You sure?”
“Goddamnit, Rusty, slap my ass.”
All night, rain fell in sheets. By morning, water rose in the fields. Channel 10 News advised evacuation. Rusty and I holed up in a motel on the interstate for three days.
There wasn’t any kind of love we didn’t make. I guess we were both starved for it. He proved to be a kind and gentle lover, too kind and gentle for me. But I wasn’t looking for a lover, just a port in the storm.
I explained to him that this was a one-time deal, and if he ever brought it up again or said a word to Carlisle, I’d blow his head off with that Desert Eagle. He said he had no doubts.
A week later, Carlisle called. The good news was he was leaving Iraq. The bad news was he’d been redeployed to Afghanistan—ninety more days chasing ghosts in the thin, dry air.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just keep those clips coming. How ‘bout you?”
“All’s quiet on the Western Front.”
“I miss you, Jolene.”
“I’ll be right here, baby, waiting for you.”
Except I hadn’t exactly waited and I’d have to live with that the rest of my life.
That evening, while we sat beneath the stars and drank beer, I passed along the news about Carlisle to Rusty. He went on an impassioned rant against the military-industrial complex. Then he opened a couple of more beers.
That’s when he laid it on me. He’d decided to leave Caroline for California. Those three days he’d spent with me had convinced him to straighten out, get a real job, and find a good woman of his own.
“I guess that makes you the Western Front,” I said.
“What?”
“Inside joke. When’re you leaving?”
“Soon as I get packed and we take that machine apart.”
I thought about Carlisle’s remaining ninety days. It was a long time to go without a spanking.
I patted Rusty on the knee. “Maybe you should leave that machine here,” I told him.
TORN IN TWO
I should’ve been relaxing in front of a roaring fire. Instead, I was standing in a cold house, staring at the corpse of a nude woman whose nipples had been sliced off. Just above where her left nipple should’ve been, the murderer had left his signature—a tattoo of a heart torn into two jagged pieces.
Lenny Szerbiak, the lead detective on the case, continued to stare at the body as he spoke. “It’s a copycat, counselor. It’s gotta be.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s a copycat, why the hell did you call me?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the body either. She was like all the others—blue-eyed and blonde, young and pretty.
“Look, Miss Bartkowski, just because we’re on different sides of the aisle doesn’t mean I don’t respect your work.”
“Yeah, right.” I kept my bullshit detector on high when it came to cops.
“I’m just sayin’, it’s got to be a copycat, but I ain’t sure it’s a copycat.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
Lenny motioned for me to follow him. As we stepped into the parking lot, a team of forensics experts pushed past.
“I mean, I know a little about ink. A tattoo artist’s work is like a fingerprint. Ain’t no two the same.”
“So?”
“So, the ink says the guy who killed this broad is the same guy who killed Shana Hellwig.”
“Except, last I heard, Armand Heimlich’s in prison.”
But Lenny knew that; he’d been the lead detective on the string of murders that led to Armand’s conviction. I knew it because Armand was my client.
“Yeah, well.”
Lenny fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his parka pocket. He offered me one and I took it—even though I quit three months ago, right after Armand’s trial. But I’ve quit and started a hundred times before. Law school exams, divorces, and murder trials are good for tobacco sales.
“Why don’t you admit you fucked up, detective. Armand never committed those other murders. The real Nipplelicious Murderer is still out there. This is proof.”
Lenny blew smoke out of his nostrils. “This ain’t proof of shit, counselor. You know as well as I do the DNA don’t lie. That was Armand’s DNA under Shana Hellwig’s fingernails.”
Shana Hellwig was the last of seven women Armand Heimlich was charged with killing. The modus operandi was the same in every instance: nipples missing; tattoo applied; cause of death, asphyxiation. There was no sign of forced entry, no trace of the killer’s bodily fluids, and no indication of a struggle–except in Shana’s case. She’d fought for her life.
“So, where does this leave us?”
Lenny tossed his cigarette into a bank of ugly, gray snow. “Beats the fuck outta me.”
He was a good-looking man with gray-flecked hair, a square jaw, and thick, sensual lips. I guessed he was in his late forties. He was a big guy, tall and muscular. A man’s man. My kinda man.
“Yeah, Lenny, I know what you mean.”
“Anyways,” he said, “I’ll keep you in the loop.”
I took a last drag on my cigarette. Maybe Lenny’s good looks shorted out my bullshit detector.
“Whaddaya doing for Christmas dinner?” I asked.
“Not much. Watchin’ the football game and hangin’ with the guys.”
I’d read it right. He was divorced, like me. Alone and able to handle it if he had to, like me.
“Why don’t you come over to my place? I’ve got plenty enough for two.”
He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “You cook, counselor?”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ve got a place in Shorewood.”
The snow started with big fluffy flakes, then turned to wind-driven pellets. I didn’t need a weatherman to tell me we were in for it.
I opened a bottle of Zinfandel. “How about a glass of wine?”
“I’m usually a beer guy, but I can make an exception.”
I swirled the dark red liquid and inhaled the scent of black cherry, pepper, and currant. “Sorry, I don’t keep beer in the house.”
Lenny gave the wine a try, then nodded. “This’ll work.”
My chef’s knife flashed under the fluorescent light as I made a mirepoix of onions, carrots, and bell pepper.
“I think you’ve done this before,” he said.
“I went to law school in New Orleans. I worked the restaurants there to make a few extra bucks. By the time I graduated, I was a line cook at Nola.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You do what you have to do.”
I stirred the mirepoix in a heavy pot. When the vegetables caramelized, I transferred them to a bowl and went to work on the roux. I let the roux cook until it turned mahogany in color, then returned the vegetables to the pot. I seasoned the mixture with my secret combination of Cajun spices.
Lenny breathed in deeply through his nostrils. “That smells incredible.”
“I hope you don’t mind spicy.”
“The spicier the better.”
I filled the pot with chicken stock and chopped andouille sausage. I’d wait to add the shrimp until the last three minutes.
“We’ll let that simmer for a while,” I told him as I assembled two salads of greens and fresh tomatoes. I handed him the bottle of Zin. We needed a refill. “Here, make yourself useful.”
I sliced bread, filled a dish for dipping with olive oil, and set the table in the dining room overlooking the cold, gray lake. Lenny poured more wine and lit candles.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass.
“To the chef.”
Shrimp etouffee. That’s my kind of Christmas dinner.
“So,” Lenny said, “after the divorce, she moved to Kenos
ha with the kids to be closer to her family.”
I watched him load up another forkful of etouffee and shovel it in. He was on his second helping and still going strong. I was used to feeding people who were concerned with their weight. Feeding a man who was big and hungry and ate with such relish was a welcome change.
“But you stayed here to save the world from crime?”
He reached for the wine bottle and split the remainder between us. Sure enough, we’d killed that first bottle.
“The thing is, I’m pushing fifty and there are only a couple of things I’ve ever been good at in life. One of them is police work. The other, well . . . Anyway, I’m still here.”
He looked younger, softer—warmer—in the candle light. I hoped I did too.
“Well, I’m glad you are,” I said.
He looked up. “So am I.”
It was cold, but the snow had let up. I wore a cashmere cardigan and an old parka; Lenny was in the sweatshirt and down vest he’d worn at the crime scene earlier in the day. We walked through Lake Park. Snow clung to the trees, giving them an unworldly appearance. A half moon peeked through the clouds and illuminated the lake.
“So, if most of your clients are guilty, why do you do it?” he asked.
“I started doing it to make a living. Anymore, I do it for the same reason you do police work—I can’t see myself doing anything else and I’m good at it.”
“You’re damn good, that’s for sure.”
A sudden and unexpectedly strong gust of wind buffeted us. “I’m freezing,” I said.
“C’mon, we better get back.”
He slid an arm around my waist. I didn’t resist the urge to lean against him, my hip pressed to his. We walked that way to my place without speaking. At the door, we stood in the yellow porch light. I looked up at him.
“I feel like a high school kid,” he said.
“We’re not kids, Lenny.”
“No, I guess we’re not.”
“I really enjoyed this evening,” I told him. Maybe it was the wine talking, but I meant what I said.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at his boots. “Yeah, Cindy, me too.”
“So, are you going to kiss me good night or not?”
He took my face in his hands and brought his mouth to mine. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
We barely made it into the foyer before I backed him against a wall. Our tongues swirled and darted. I felt his hands slide down my back and over the curve of my hips. I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His lips were hot and damp on my ears and neck.
“Lenny,” I whispered into the mat of hair on his chest.
He emitted a scent of male musk I hadn’t encountered in a while. I felt my sweater and blouse fall to the floor. He expertly unhooked my bra and pushed it off my shoulders. We both watched my white breasts spill into his waiting hands. I ran my fingers through his hair.
Then, that quick, he spun me around. My face pressed against the wall and his pelvis was hard on my ass. He unbuttoned my jeans and tugged them off my hips. I stepped clear of the denim. In one swift motion, he pulled my undies to the ground.
“Fuck yeah.” I didn’t mean to say it, but I meant what I said.
I searched behind me and loosened his belt buckle. I needed his cock in my hand, needed to feel it throb and ache.
He groaned when I stroked the length and thickness of it. I used my thumb to spread the dew that gathered at the tip. I reached lower and cupped his soft, furry balls in my palm.
He stepped away and I turned to face him again. He shucked his jeans and boxers, and I saw him naked for the first time. I took it all in—the wide shoulders and bulging arms, the virile chest, the swaying hard-on, the muscular buttocks and legs. I steered him into my bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. I threw a leg over him, straddling his belly.
He looked up, face red, breath short. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you in that courtroom.”
I leaned forward to plant a kiss on his lips. “Yeah, you wanted me that long?” I brushed my nipples against his, teasing him.
“Yeah, that long.”
He reached for me, but I pinned his arms to the bed and lowered my breasts to his face, purring and rubbing like a cat.
Then I took his hand and guided it between my legs. He looked up, his eyes bright with desire. “You wanted this that first day in court?”
“Yeah, I wanted your pussy.”
His fingers opened me, dipped into my slit, and drew moisture. His eyes never left mine as he explored the folds and valleys until I cried out.
“Oh, baby,” I murmured.
I meant to ride him—I always came like that—but he had other ideas. He sat up and turned me over. He was strong enough that I couldn’t have resisted even if I’d wanted to. He positioned me on my hands and knees and pushed my face into the sheets, my ass and cunt exposed and ready for the taking. He rubbed his cock between my ass cheeks, like a hot dog in a bun. Every time he grazed my asshole, my thighs clenched. Then he opened me and pushed between my pussy lips, giving me his head.
“That’s it,” I said.
“There’s more where that came from.”
I tried to push against him, but his hand on the small of my back prevented it.
“Give it all to me. Give me that cock.” It sounded needier than I’d intended.
He pushed a little deeper and I tightened around him. “You’re so wet,” he said.
“Damn,” I groaned.
Then he slammed into me hard, crashing into my cervix and driving the breath out of me.
He pulled out and drove in hard again. I barked like a bitch in heat.
Then he found his rhythm, in and out. I howled. He grunted. Face hard against the bed, I reached between my legs, found my clit, and stroked one, two, three times. That was all it took. One after another, the waves pulsed through me. I shuddered and cried out.
Lenny wasn’t far behind. I felt him shoot inside me, his cock buried deep.
I collapsed, panting. He rolled off and lay beside me.
He turned his head and winked. “That work for you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you fuck like an animal.”
I took it as a compliment and reached out and squeezed his arm. “Yeah, and you made me.”
Afterwards, we sat in front of the fire, sipping Bailey’s and filling gaps. I counted it in his favor when I asked him to stay over and he said he’d like that. I went to sleep in his arms, his lips whispering good night, his cock pressed into the crack of my ass. I figured a girl could do a lot worse.
It was when I woke from a dead sleep that things got funky.
I lay on my back, spread-eagled. My hands were cuffed to the bed post. My feet were secured to the foot of the bed with pantyhose. Lenny sat next to me in the near dark, his left hand playing from one of my breasts to the other.
“Lenny, what the fuck?”
He pinched my left nipple and my hips cleared the bed. “C’mon, you like it, right?”
My mouth was dry, my head a little achy. “Yeah, I like it all right.”
He pinched my right nipple and I squirmed. He reached out and, in the moonlight, stretched a gossamer string of pre-cum from his pee-hole to my tongue. I licked and sucked like a child with an ice cream cone.
“Yeah, you like it.”
He repositioned and sat over me, his cock fat and slippery between my breasts. He tugged at each nipple, gently at first, then harder.
I made a sound like a construction worker swinging a sledge hammer.
He smiled and thrust between my tits. I felt the drag of his balls across my belly, felt the tip of his cock bump my chin. My ass clenched and my hips cleared the bed again.
He twisted my nipples. I closed my eyes and went with it. I’d be sore tomorrow, but there was no stopping tonight. He reached between my thighs. Two fingers entered and probed. He brought his fingers to my face. They smelled of sex. I licked again.
“Yeah,” he said, “you really like it. See how wet you are?”
“Fuck me, Lenny. C’mon, fuck me.”
“I’m gonna fuck you my way,” he told me.
He leaned across the bed and fumbled through the clothes he’d left draped over a chair. From his jacket, he produced a chain. I heard its clink, then felt the cold metallic bite of nipple clamps.
“What the . . .”
He draped the chain around his neck and sat upright. I yelped and arched my back, struggling against the cuffs and ties. My nipples screamed with pleasure and pain. My pussy was on fire.
He lowered his face to my ear. “Too much?”
“No,” I managed.
“You’re a real slut, aren’t you, counselor?”
He’d seen through the veneer of respectability right to the heart of the easiest girl at Tulane Law. “Yeah, baby, I’m your slut.”
He sat up again, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure and pain through my nipples, and began moving in earnest. With each thrust forward, I extended my tongue, trying to lick his cockhead. With each retreat, my nipples reached a new level of sweet agony.
Lenny’s breathing grew more rapid. My hips and legs thrashed against the sheets. He slowed and took his cock in his hand. I opened my mouth in anticipation, watching him stroke, waiting for my reward. Finally, he bucked, spraying my lips, cheeks, chin, and breasts with his cream. I lapped at him like a woman dying of thirst. When his ejaculations ceased, I sucked him until he went flaccid in my mouth.
Finally, he withdrew and loosened the clamps. He rolled off me and unclasped the cuffs.
“Finish yourself,” he said.
I was overcome with lust, swollen and dripping. I watched him dry his cock with Kleenex and I reached for my cunt. He pulled on his jeans and shirt while I circled and dipped. He tied his shoes while I fingered deep and hard, and ground the palm of my hand against my clit.
My free hand reached out for him. “Oh . . .”
I came like thunder on the fucking prairie.
As he walked out the door, I came again.
Tight Women in Hard Places Page 15