by J. D. Mason
He should’ve felt sorry for her. But those kinds of things, things like sympathy, were a waste of time and energy. He took it personally that she was afraid of him, though. The way she stared at him didn’t sit well with him at all, but then, even that had more to do with him than her.
“It’s chilly in this room,” he said as if it were a revelation. Marlowe was cold. “I tend to run a little hot, so I need it cool. The air is always running, even in the wintertime.”
Defensive Marlowe eyed him suspiciously, cautiously. He’d made so much progress getting her to let her guard down, and now she’d hurried back behind that wall of hers and all his hard work had been for nothing. Plato got up, went to the drawer, pulled out a clean T-shirt, and held it out to her.
“It’s clean. I just washed it,” he assured her. He motioned his head toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take a shower, Marlowe. It’ll warm you up and make you feel better.”
She moved robotically, standing up and disappearing into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, Marlowe sat curled on the sofa across from the bed, wrapped in a blanket.
“What did he say to you, Marlowe?” Plato asked, sitting on the edge of the bed closest to her.
She’d showered. The water had warmed her, and he hadn’t made any sudden moves. All in all, he figured that the two of them were maybe back to being on the same tracks, if not the right ones.
“He … he was looking for that thing you found,” she said pensively. “That drive.”
Made sense that if that thumb drive wasn’t hers, it had to have been his.
“He thought I had it.”
“Did you tell him I had it?”
She shook her head. Marlowe had tamed that wild mass of hair and braided it down the back of her head. She looked like a teenager, and for the first time, he noticed that she had freckles.
“He wanted to know who you were.” Her voice trailed off, and the tears came back and rested inside her eyelids. Marlowe blinked until they vanished. “He’s seen you.”
“He’s been watching the house.”
She shrugged and then nodded, pursing her lips together to keep the crying at bay. Courage, Marlowe. Courage.
“How’d you get away?”
“I lied and told him that it was in my purse,” she admitted.
He chuckled. “And you pepper sprayed the hell out of him.”
Damn! She was poetic.
“He’s going to come back,” she whispered. “Isn’t he?”
Plato saw no reason to lie to her. “He thinks you have something that belongs to him. Obviously, it’s important to him, because according to the news, he’s been dead for over a month. He could’ve left a long time ago and nobody would be the wiser.”
She swallowed. “If he thought I had that thing, why is he just now coming back for it?”
“He might not have known right away that he’d lost it. Or if he did, maybe he thought he’d dropped it inside his car.” Plato explored all sorts of possibilities for why Price had waited so long to come looking for that thing. “Your house has been crawling with reporters and cops, Marlowe. He could’ve just been too damn scared to show up before now.”
“Are you going to kill him?” she asked, those honey-brown eyes glazing over, almost as if she were in her own kind of trance.
This time, those damn tears started falling. Plato suspected that Marlowe had known all along what his role was in this theater, but she’d stopped short of wrapping her mind around it because a part of her didn’t want to believe that the devil had really shown up at her door and that those damn possum bones were right.
“You should try and get some sleep,” he said.
She didn’t move at first, but then she pensively nodded and lay down on the sofa, curling her legs underneath her.
“The bed’s more comfortable, Marlowe,” he said. “That air vent blows right above you.”
Marlowe stared curiously at him. “And you’ll take the couch?”
Plato frowned. “Hell no. First of all, I’m too tall for the couch. And second of all, I’d catch my death of cold sleeping underneath that air vent.”
“You could turn off the air conditioner,” she reasoned.
“I could.” Plato left it at that and climbed back into bed.
She curled up even tighter. “Don’t worry about me,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll be fine.”
Plato shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The sun would be coming up soon, he was tired, and she was determined not to give him the opportunity to get any, so he figured he might as well go to sleep.
Born Sick
ED’S HEART HAD NEARLY beat a hole in his chest by the time he made it back to his car. He hadn’t been followed, though. Ape man wasn’t foolish enough to follow Ed across that field. The mother fucker was huge, though. Too big to physically engage in a fight with. The best Ed could hope for was a decent shot to get him down, either for good or at least long enough for Ed to get away.
Ed drove back to his motel room and collapsed on the bed. He was sick of this fucking town, this fucking room. How long had he been in this one? A week. Only a week, but it felt like an eternity. Living off burgers and tacos because they were cheap. It was time to move again. Ed just had a feeling that it was time to move. Marlowe. Marlowe would tell somebody what happened. The police. They thought he was dead and that she’d killed him. And that all was well and good. He wanted everyone to think he was dead. He hadn’t thought that anyone would blame her, though. But it didn’t matter.
Ed did love her. He loved her, and he loved Lucy. Two very different types of women, but that’s what made it interesting. Fun. Pretty Lucy, tall and elegant and practical. Practical to the point sometimes of being boring. Practical to a fault. Unimaginative and unwilling to venture beyond what was reasonable to experience the unreasonable. Unlike Marlowe, who was unreasonable in every way. She was almost cartoonish in how damn impulsive she could be, but he loved it.
One kept him balanced, grounded, and focused. The other … the other let the beast roam free and do whatever the fuck he wanted to do, and nothing was too absurd.
Was she fucking him?
Ed raked his hand through the tangled mass on his head, growling low in the back of his throat at the thought of that mother fucker in his bed, in his wife. Of course he was. Ed grabbed the front of his shirt, pressed the material to his nose, and sniffed. He could smell her all over him. Sex was her nature. Her body, the way she spoke, the way she looked at you, all of it reeked of sex and sensuality, raw and hot and sticky sweet.
Marlowe’s sex drove him mad. It made him want her in ways that weren’t natural. She’d told him about it once.
“The women in my family are cursed,” she’d told him. “Men love us too quickly and easily. They can’t help it. They chase us, catch us, make love to us, and the trap is set. The spell is cast, and just when it all seems that everything is ripe for a happily ever after, something happens to them.”
“Like what?” he’d asked, laughing and thinking that she was joking. “They die?”
She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t blinked. “Some do. Some just disappear, and sometimes they leave us pregnant. We only give birth to girls. A boy hasn’t been born in my family for generations. And if any of us do marry, it’s never for long.”
He used to think it was bullshit. Now he knew better.
Lucy, on the other hand, was a closet freak. There was nothing he couldn’t do to her in the sanctity of their home. Ed had literally explored every orifice on that woman, but you’d never know it by her stiff demeanor. A lady in the streets and a freak in the bed. It was the dichotomy of Lucy that turned him on.
* * *
Marlowe had that flash drive. It was in that house, or Marlowe really did have it in her purse. He must’ve dropped it that night when … Ed had checked the backyard. Hell, the police had checked it twice and hadn’t found shit. It wasn’t outside, so it had to be inside. Ed remembered putting it in the pocket of
his shirt after he’d taken it. Or had he put it in his pants pocket?
“Shit,” he muttered in frustration.
He couldn’t remember. Like it mattered. But it did. Ed had changed his shirt before he left the house that night because it was covered in blood. He’d packed quickly, changed shirts, and … had he changed his pants? Was there blood on the pants, too? But he hadn’t left either of them in the house. He’d stuffed those bloody clothes into the bag he’d packed so that he could toss them. Wash them?
He was going to have to go back. The thought made him want to puke because he knew that he’d be risking his life by going back into that house again, but he had no choice. Marlowe had the one thing left in this world that could save his ass. Without it, he was fodder. He had nothing.
Ed knew after he’d left Lucy that he’d be running for the rest of his life. He’d taken money from the wrong people, and they’d never stop looking for him, long after the police stopped searching for him. His former clients, however, would need a body as proof that he was no longer an issue.
Now that Marlowe knew that he was alive, she’d be watching for him. Or she’d have the police looking for him. Or that big dude—waiting. Getting to her again wouldn’t be so easy. Ed had looked everywhere in that house for that drive. The only conclusion that made sense was that she had it and she carried it with her. Without it, he was dead in the water. Without it, he was trapped.
Worshipped
THE WALLS OF HER WORLD were crumbling down around her, and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. Eddie wasn’t dead. Jesus! She still couldn’t believe that this night had actually happened. Admittedly, she’d almost bought into the hype that it had been him burned in that car. But a gnawing feeling in her gut just wouldn’t let her, and now she knew why.
The bones had warned her of a devil coming for her. They never said anything about two of them. She wasn’t wrong about Plato. He’d shown his true self tonight. Without coming right out and saying it, he’d made it clear who he was. He wanted Eddie and would stop at nothing to get him. She’d thought that he cared about her, at least on some level. But Plato cared about her as much as he could use her to try to find Eddie. He didn’t give a damn that her freedom weighed heavily on what had happened in that house tonight. Marlowe was alone in this fight for her life, and she was losing.
That cold air blew right on top of her, and even that blanket she’d wrapped herself in wasn’t helping. Plato had taken her keys. If he hadn’t, she’d have gone to the police and told them about Eddie, but would they have believed her? The cold added insult to injury. It made her feel even sorrier for herself, downtrodden and pitiful. She got up and looked for the thermostat to turn down the air. Marlowe couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on the wall. And because it wasn’t on the wall where any sane person would put a gotdamn thermostat, frustration rose up in her, and she felt like crying again.
He just lay there, spread out like a big old moose, sleeping soundly and comfortably on top of the bedding like he didn’t have a care in the world, and she was envious. That bed looked so comfortable, and she was so tired and so cold and so scared. Holding back this river of fear was exhausting. Her body ached from fighting Eddie. The realization that he would’ve killed her was taking hold, sinking in, and rooting. The ground underneath her was giving way, and there was nowhere to run, no safe place, no way off this shrinking island. Marlowe was utterly and completely alone. No one could help her. The realization of that thought was horrific and overwhelming, and it pressed down on top of her like a weight. Marlowe covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob, then went around to the other side of the bed and crawled onto it next to him. Heat radiated from him like a furnace; warm, welcoming heat enveloped her and lured her just a bit closer to him, but not close enough to touch him.
Marlowe sighed, relieved by at least some comfort. It wasn’t long before her heavy lids fluttered closed, and that blanket of warmth coming from Plato lulled her to sleep.
Careful, Marlowe! He’ll bite you if you get too close!
* * *
Light from the sun slicing through the curtain and shining across his face woke him up. That’s what made him open his eyes. But she’s what got his attention. Plato turned slowly over on his side, being careful not to disturb her or the bed too much. Marlowe lay curled up next to him, sleeping soundly. The blanket she’d wrapped herself in on that sofa had slipped down to just below her waist, revealing the lacy band of her panties.
She hadn’t fallen asleep right away. Plato had heard her moving around for quite some time before he’d finally drifted off. Marlowe was absorbing the brunt of everything happening that had anything to do with Ed Price. She was a shining example of what it’s like to make a mistake that you have to spend a lifetime paying for. Price had scared the shit out of her, and in his own way, Plato had scared her, too. But it had needed to be done. She needed to understand the gravity of her actions and the consequences that they could bring. It was Plato’s job to dole out consequences. He did that shit for a living and was better at it than most.
Those pretty lips begged to be kissed. He couldn’t help himself, and he didn’t want to stop himself this time. He put his hand underneath her chin and gently raised her face until it met with his, and before she could even open her eyes, he kissed her.
His kiss was met with a slow, soft, and steady response. His tongue found the tender, sweet flesh of hers. A moan. Hers. Then his. She reached for him. That was all he needed. Plato rolled over onto her as Marlowe stretched out on her back, spread her thighs, and invited him in. She could’ve been dreaming, not knowing that this was real, that he was real, and that the two of them were on the verge of sealing an ancient pact revealed to her through possum bones.
He broke the seal of their kiss and stared hard into those pretty eyes of hers. Marlowe stared back, her gaze steady, holding. Something had made her change her mind, but he had no idea what. Hours ago, she’d been terrified of him, and now …
“Are we gonna do this?” he asked, daring her to say anything else that didn’t sound like a yes.
He waited. His cock swelled and pressed against his sweatpants.
She nodded.
He hadn’t expected that. Plato turned his head slightly to one side and stared intensely at her. “Are you sure? Because once I start, I’m not stopping.”
Marlowe hesitated at first but then raised her lips to his and kissed him lightly. That was it. If she had any other reservations about what he was about to do to her, she was absolutely beyond the point of no return.
Plato reached over to the nightstand for his wallet, or more specifically, for the condom inside it, tore open the package with his teeth, and slipped that thing on, all while Marlowe planted sweet kisses on his chin and neck. Grown men could slip into latex without missing a beat, fucking up the mood, or falling out of ranks. Hell, he didn’t even have to take his damn pants off. But as soon as he put on the condom, he pushed his lips against hers again, mated his tongue to hers.
Plato lifted up her shirt and cupped one of her breasts. You kiss a nipple the same way you kiss a mouth, the same way you kiss a pussy. You kiss it like it’s the only part of a woman’s body that exists. The result is a magical unraveling of a beautiful woman in your hands, opening and unfolding herself, making an offering of herself to you of her own free will. Plato pushed up onto his knees, leaned back on his heels, and stared hungrily down at Marlowe’s magnificent breasts.
“Do it,” she whispered, tugging at the band of his pants.
He reached for her waist and pulled her toward him, raised her hips off the mattress and onto his thighs, and pulled his dick free from his pants.
Marlowe bit down on her lower lip at the sight of it and took a deep breath. He slipped a finger between her skin and her panties, slid the flimsy material aside, and pressed the tip against the warm, moist lips of her pussy and in one fluid move pulled her toward him as he pushed himself into her as far as he could.
“Aaaah!” she cried out, closing her eyes and licking her lips. Marlowe was hot. Marlowe was wet, and she was ready.
Plato pulled out and then paused to catch his breath. He was going to get his. That was a given. But if he wasn’t careful, she’d pull that nut from him too soon, before he could satisfy her. She writhed against his thighs, opened her eyes, and looked like she wanted to cuss him out. Plato smirked, pulled her to him again, and again drove deep into her. Marlowe grabbed hold of his wrists, dug her nails into his skin, and held him.
He lowered his body down on top of hers. The rhythm had to be slow, steady, and even. Plato had to focus. Focus. The moment he lost focus, it was over. He studied her expressions, breathing, movements. Watching her kept him present. His dick kicked hard inside her, angry at him for holding back. Sometimes, it took over. Felt too good. Went too fast, and he’d have to pull back, steady himself, pause, and regroup.
“Slow down, Marlowe,” he heard himself say more than once.
She worked magic with those inner walls, massaging him and milking, and … he pulled out to the tip.
“I said slow down.”
Marlowe stared back at him, her eyes darkened, her lips moist, and she kissed him and then whispered, “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t.”
She lured him again, and he began to wonder who really had the upper hand here. He started up again, balanced on his elbows pressed into the mattress on either side of her. Marlowe’s moans grew louder. She wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. Her hips thrashed violently against his, and he was afraid he’d hurt her, but if he was hurting her, then she loved the pain. She cried out, “Yes! Oh, fuck! Yes! I’m coming. I’m coming, Plato.”
Marlowe clung to him as if her life depended on him, and a warm wave pooled between their bellies as her body spasmed inside and out, and she bit into his shoulder.