Dial M for Mascara

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Which one is Trey’s car?” Mary Grace said in a voice that could have fractured an iceberg. One of her eyes was spastic and she wondered if she flashed her boobs to the nearest policeman, whether or not he would shoot her mother for her.

  “Car?” Ghita paused in her pacing for a moment and waved at the blue one in the driveway. “That one.”

  It was a light blue Toyota with oversized tires. It had a kewpie doll hanging from the rear view mirror that made Mary Grace shudder. It wasn’t a dark sedan with a bumper sticker on the back. What had the bumper sticker said? She couldn’t remember. Maybe he borrowed the sedan from someone he knows. His facility advisor, maybe. ‘Excuse me, Doctor John, but can I borrow your sedan, take off the plates, and attempt to murder my subject in my experiment, just to see how well she copes with excessive amounts of terror and shock? I promise to wipe off all the blood and top off the tank before I return it. I can, gee, thanks.’

  “I’m going right to your aunt’s house,” Ghita said categorically. “I’m going to drink a margarita, no matter what the doctor says about my alcohol consumption, and then I’m going to lie down in a dark bedroom for two hours. Then I’m going shopping. I need to buy something. Something expensive. With sparkles on it.”

  Suddenly Brogan was standing behind them. Mary Grace looked up and behind her, realizing his body was blocking out the sun. Ghita trailed off uncertainly, and stopped in place. “So are they taking Mary Grace to jail, too? I think I have my American Express card for her bail, as long it’s not over five grand.” She considered. “It doesn’t sparkle, but that would be expensive enough to suit me.”

  “No,” his gritty voice came out reluctantly. “Mr. Kennebrew seems to think that this is all a big misunderstanding and that if he doesn’t press charges against Mary Grace, then maybe she’ll reciprocate.”

  “He’s a total jerkface,” Mary Grace said, as if it explained everything.

  A reluctant breath came from Brogan. “Mrs. Castilla,” he said presently. “We need Mary Grace for awhile, so will you be able to get yourself back to her house? Unless you’d rather have one of the officers drive you?”

  Ghita stared contemplatively at Brogan and then at Mary Grace. “The day I can’t drive myself home is the day they’ll put me in a nursing facility,” she said finally. “I have a date with some tequila and maybe later a mall.” She leaned down to kiss the top of Mary Grace’s head. “I’ll drop the Miata off at your house later. Wait until I tell your father about this. He’s going to flip a gourd because he missed all the excitement. I’ll talk to you later tonight.”

  Brogan watched as Ghita stalled the Miata twice and then drove off down the street. Then he stood so still she thought he might have fallen asleep while standing still. “So what are they going to do?” she asked politely, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  “To you? Probably nothing. To Trey. Well, he admitted to vandalism and his notes seem like poorly justified stalking, so we’re talking about some felonies here. I think that his mother might have to sell some vintage stuff on eBay, if she wants to bail him out.” Brogan’s voice was a little strange. “I told you-” his words cut off mid-stream and his fists clenched as he fought for something she didn’t understand.

  Finally, he started again. His tone was gruff and barely controlled. “I told you not to investigate anymore on your own.”

  Mary Grace said, “I was…afraid.”

  Brogan started. “Afraid?”

  “Afraid of going outside. Afraid that my other friends would be hurt. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to step outside of my house again without worrying about what was going to happen next. Afraid that this whole sorry mess was never going to be over.” She sighed. “And in order to not be afraid, I had to do something. I had to. I bet you don’t understand that.”

  Brogan was silent for a moment. His face was like a piece of hewn granite. “I understand fear,” he said, his voice giving nothing away. “But I was on my way to talk to Trey Kennebrew. I went to Pictographs, and when I learned he had gone home, I followed him here. It’s why when your mother called that I was so close.”

  “Oh,” she said in her best little girl’s voice. “Did I jump the gun? No pun intended.”

  Brogan ground his teeth together. Mary Grace swiveled her head around a little and was that steam coming out of his ears? Alarmed she started to stand, and that was when Brogan caught her around her arm and guided her all the way up. She began to trip, and he easily brought her upright, swinging her toward his car. The momentum carried her along. She was practically trotting at his side trying to keep from stumbling.

  “I thought they needed me to make some kind of statement,” Mary Grace protested weakly.

  Brogan opened the passenger door and dumped her inside. “They’ll get it later,” he growled. “Put your seatbelt on.”

  Mary Grace did that while he carefully shut the door and then came around the car to the driver’s side. She heard him saying something to one of the Duncanville PD’s officers, but she didn’t catch what it was. Then he was inside, his seatbelt was fastened, the car was started, and they were moving through the neighborhood.

  She cast a sideways look at Brogan and decided further conversation could be held off for later. They left Duncanville and drove about twenty minutes until he pulled the sedan into a Highland Park area house. It was a small house, but it was well kept and in one of the ritziest areas of Dallas.

  Brogan sat at the wheel for a moment. He said, “We bought it right after we first got married. My ex-wife, that is. The property values hadn’t skyrocketed yet.”

  “This is your house,” she said feebly. Good conversation gambit, M.G. Sounds really good. Very adult. “What are we doing here?”

  His jaw set into place. “Get out of the car,” he said, no quarter given.

  Mary Grace undid her seatbelt and got out of the car, following him up the walkway to the front door. He unlocked the door and gestured her to precede him. She took two steps into a darkened hallway with a lovely foyer table, when she heard the door slam shut.

  Brogan spun her around and her back hit the wall with an echoing thud. His head swooped in and his lips were harshly demanding as he pressed himself against her. His entire body molded itself against her softer form, leaving not the least amount of space in between the two of them. His keys went sliding down the hard wood floors of the hallway.

  Mary Grace froze for a moment. Her mouth opened to protest and his tongue shot inside, warm, inviting, tangling with hers intimately. Fire blasted through her body, shooting directly to the center of her thighs. Her breasts throbbed with passionate energy and she didn’t waste any more time trying to understand. Her arms wound around his neck and pulled his head closer to hers, fighting with his tongue, trying to get every inch of him inside her that she could. His thigh insinuated itself between hers, and she couldn’t help letting her body slide down that hard muscular limb, causing a delightful resistance that scorched to the very heart of her.

  Suddenly, even through the erotic rush that was threatening to overcome her, Mary Grace knew that Brogan was angry with her. He was terribly, violently angry with her and this was the only way he could take it out on her. The heat and breadth of his erection could be plainly felt, grinding relentlessly into her mound. His hands shaped over her shoulders, down to her waist and curved over the roundness of her buttocks, pulling her so close that they couldn’t tell where the other stopped.

  It could have been minutes or hours later when he pulled his head back. Brown eyes glittered down at her, silently asking the same question that his body had been demanding. When he recognized the answer he nibbled his way down to her shoulder. His hands parted her simple blouse, by way of ripping it apart. Buttons fell onto the floor and found their way to the discarded keys.

  His dark head was bent over her breasts, his thigh still causing that wonderful friction between her thighs. One hand softly touched the top curve of her breast, and then cupped it over the
brassiere. His thumb rubbed endlessly at the nipple. Mary Grace arched her back and forced the breast solidly into his hand. Brogan let out a sound that was half groan and half curse. His hand yanked the bra up and his lips locked onto one nipple, fiercely suckling at it.

  Mary Grace answered by rubbing her leg against his dick, slowly letting the fabric of her jeans slide and slither along the length of him. Brogan found the other nipple and laved it with his tongue, nipping it once. Her hand slipped in between their bodies and found him, marveling at how searingly hard he was underneath a layer of khakis and underwear. He grunted encouragement.

  Her fingers went up halfheartedly and pushed the jacket from his shoulders, snarling with each of his arms in turn. Then she was undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, finding and loosening the tie at his throat, and divesting him of all the clothing from the waist up. His chest was well muscled and covered with brown hair the same color as his head. His nipples were tight little nubs as she teased each one.

  Brogan tugged at her jeans and yanked them over her hips, taking the thong along with it, pushing it hurriedly to the floor and flinging them away with his foot. Her shirt and bra followed a second later. He pulled back and stared down at her for a moment, his gaze hot and full of longing. “Beautiful,” he said gutturally. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Mary Grace couldn’t say anything. Every part of her throbbed with passion. She wanted Brogan with a fervor that couldn’t be matched. She had never felt like this with a previous lover. His hand touched and cupped her breasts, gently squeezing, and when she moaned, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Brogan grasped her by her the waist and set her on the foyer table, the marble cold against her buttocks. He spread her legs and unfastened his pants. He shoved clothing aside so that his erection sprang free. He fumbled in a pocket and withdrew a packet. Ripping it open with his teeth, he unrolled the condom over his penis. Then blissfully, his attention returned solely to her. One of his hands probed at her center, a finger delving into her moistness, finding the tiny pearl that screamed for his attentions. The finger twisted and rubbed, and then dipped inside her, testing her readiness. Then another finger joined it and Mary Grace threw her head back, arching her back, bringing her breasts upward.

  Brogan couldn’t help himself. His lips touched each nipple, sucked, and nipped, drawing it deep into his hot, deep mouth. His fingers worked in counterpoint. Long minutes later, Mary Grace was about to beg when his fingers withdrew and he drove himself into her with a long moan of relief. Her legs wrapped around his waist as if she would never let go.

  Every bit of her concentrated on the part of them that was moving together, to the part of him that was stretching and rasping deliciously at her. He thrust and he thrust again, his lips and teeth pulling at her nipples as she whispered support to him. Her orgasm hit her like a freight train and her legs convulsed helplessly.

  Brogan shouted out as he followed right behind her, following her into a golden, mind-shattering oblivion.

  Chapter Fifteen – Thursday, June 23rd

  Always drink plenty of water. Some say as much as eight glasses a day. But I say what size glasses? The jumbo cup from 7/Eleven or the delicate cups from Auntie’s Tea and Crumpet Shoppe? And good Lord above, please let there be a bathroom nearby because that

  water goes through me like Niagara Falls at spring thaw. - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

  “You’ve had sex,” Callie said from the hospital bed. “And I’m getting out of here tomorrow. I get a walking cast next week. Woo-hoo.”

  Mary Grace was dressed in a ruby red, scooped neck, baby doll tunic and Jordache velvet skinny pants with black, dotted, peep toed pumps from Franco Sarto. She knew she looked good even if she wasn’t dressed to dine in a five star restaurant. She felt good, too. Every bit of her body tingled with a corporeal glow that would never, ever come out of a bottle. She had spent most of the afternoon in bed, certainly not sleeping, but enjoying herself and Brogan as well. She wasn’t surprised that Callie knew what dirty little deeds she had been up to, but that Callie hadn’t called on her cell phone right in the middle to give an effervescent cheer. Not that I would have answered it.

  “They arrested Trey,” Mary Grace said, disregarding Callie’s statement. “For the brake lines, for the explosive device, and for the gun shot attempt. Attempted murder. Assault with intent. Something about deadly weapons and I think they threw in some laws concerning stalking. There might have a littering charge mentioned for some reason. However, they didn’t have any evidence about him being the one in the car that hit you.”

  “I know,” Callie said smirkingly. “Victor told me yesterday.”

  “Victor?”

  “The Arlington detective,” Callie prompted. “He came by to see me. Told me all about your little breaking and entering endeavor, and what you found. He said Trey confessed to the brake line job, but that he vehemently denies the rest. And I think you had sex at least three times yesterday. Maybe four. You shameless slut.”

  “I bet the detective didn’t tell you that,” Mary Grace retorted. Damn, how does Callie do that? “And it wasn’t four times.” She groaned internally at the way she had defended herself without meaning to give away more information than she wanted to impart. “It was like three…and a half.”

  “A half?” Callie cackled so hard that she nearly rolled out of bed, cast and all.

  Mary Grace pulled up a chair and plopped down. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” she said pertly. Callie stopped snorting for a single moment and then resumed with extra emphasis on the hee-hawing. Mary Grace was checking her fingernails for nicks when Callie finally grunted to a wheezing stop.

  “Seriously,” Callie sniffed. “I’m glad that got the guy. I was beginning to worry that nothing was going to happen until they…well…until…you got…um. You know.”

  “Yeah,” Mary Grace said glumly. “Me, too. When they had my body on the medical examiner’s table, then they would have said something like, ‘Golly gee willakers, I guess someone really was out to get her.’”

  “See, you weren’t paranoid after all. Someone was out to get you,” Callie said brightly. “Where’s my Ben & Jerry’s?”

  “Your mother said you can’t have any more until you’re on your feet and threatened to call up Abercrombie & Fitch and have me banned for life unless I complied. She also suggested that I might have been more than partially responsible for getting you hit by a car and thought that a visit to the priest would do my soul a world of good.”

  “What?” Callie sat up in her bed and yanked at the bed control, stabbing buttons at random, while the bed jerked up and down in agonized protest. “I’m twenty-eight years old and I can’t eat what I want? I’m going on a hunger strike.” She paused for a moment. “Okay, it’s over.”

  “Well, you’re Catholic. She’s Catholic, and you still live at home. I’m Catholic. My mother’s Catholic, even if she probably is a nether demon. We’re both hosed. It’s a fact. They probably have stoolies on the staff here reporting back to them. As a matter of fact, there’s probably an electronic listening device attached to your bed frame.”

  “Bahhh.” Callie crossed her arms over her chest.

  “But I didn’t listen,” Mary Grace relented cheerfully. She brought her purse up and extracted a bag. It contained a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Brownie Batter ice cream and a plastic spoon which she presented to her friend with a flourish.

  Callie’s eyes fixated on the ice cream container and she said, “I worship you. You’re a fashion goddess and you have the absolute best taste in ice cream, ever. You are the unqualified apex of my world. So was he any good? Or were the second, third, and a half times pity fucks?”

  Mary Grace choked. When she recovered Callie had eaten half of the pint. Mary Grace said, “You know, I’m not so sure about Trey.”

  Callie looked up and licked ice cream from her upper lip. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I don’t think he tried to
kill me at all. He cut my brake lines to see what I would do. But I don’t think he planted a bomb in my rental car or tried to shoot me or tried to run us both down. He doesn’t have brown eyes. He doesn’t own a thirty-eight pistol and one wasn’t found in his house. And I’ll bet a hundred pints of Ben & Jerry’s that he doesn’t know any blonde haired mommy with an infant she carries around in a sling. Finally, I’ll bet a thousand pints of Ben & Jerry’s that Trey isn’t the ‘Die, Mary Grace, you little bitch,’ type.”

  Callie put the lid on the ice cream and carefully licked the spoon clean. “Well, cray-diddley-ap. If that’s true, then the killer is still out there and no one is looking for him except you, and me to a lesser, broken leg, fractured skull extent.”

  “Give me the ice cream,” Mary Grace said morosely.

  •

  Shopping wasn’t really the pinnacle of Mary Grace’s world. Sometimes she was perfectly happy sitting in a park enjoying sunshine and a gentle breeze. She had been pleased getting a little bouncy-bouncy by a certain Dallas Police detective. Occasionally, she was content painting in the little bedroom of her house she used as a studio. But shopping, well, shopping was like getting a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. It wasn’t exactly addictive and if Mary Grace stuck to the serious sales, then it wasn’t going to break her financially, but it wasn’t the low prices that really got her blood pumping. It was fun, sporting, ambitious, exciting, and thrilling all at the same time, rolled up in a little bundle that made her squeal with avaricious elation.

  Some people will never understand it, Mary Grace thought sadly, looking through a pile of half price sweaters. Since Callie was in the hospital, Trey was in a holding cell, her job was in questionable straights, and her mother was contemplating a hangover at her sister’s house, Mary Grace was at a loose end. Her yard didn’t need to be mowed yet. Her house was clean. Brogan was working. A maddened, bomb-planting, gun-toting would be killer could still be after her. She didn’t feel like painting. What else was left?