by V. P. Trick
Was it a delayed reaction from the motel? Why? If anything, the picture was easier to look at now, the guy all cleaned up on, his eyes closed like he was sleeping. Eyes closed. Shit. The photo showed the john’s fucking eyes, the jerk’s fucking face! Good-looking face, not a bruise on it. As a piece of black underwear had previously covered the stiff’s face, she had not seen said face at the scene. Now that she had, she had reacted to it. A hair-trigger reaction. Shit. It could only mean one thing. Fuck! You know the fucking guy!
The Guy and Him
As soon as he went rigid the team sensed something was wrong. Nobody said a word. Charles kept looking at him, Patricia and Hamilton in turn, at a loss what to do.
After what felt like a long time, Patricia finally looked up at Charles, wide dark-blue eyes frowning. “I need to talk to Charles, I think,” she said, nervously wetting her lips. “Alone. Just for a couple of minutes. If you don’t mind.” The damn woman was way too polite.
No way are you doing this alone, Angel. He knew she would keep to herself and give Charles only what she considered strictly necessarily; she’d walk all over the poor guy just like she had done at the motel. Your need-to-know routine isn’t going to happen, Pussycat.
He motioned the team back to the conference room. “Why don’t we all sit back down? And maybe you can tell us the name of the guy? If you please.” He too could be damn mannerly.
She glared at him, anger spurred by her defence mechanism finally kicking in. Good. Chris was getting angry himself. The six-degree of separation theory did not apply to the damn woman when it came to stiffs.
She stayed by the door, ready to walk out. Run out. He flanked her side; he was a fast runner, much faster than her.
She started to talk before everyone had their ass on a chair, “His name is Rick Lemieux.” She stopped and started again, “His name was Rick Lemieux.” She stopped again.
Chris waited; she had more to say for sure. And indeed, she had.
“His grandfather was French-Canadian.” That explained the name. “I don’t think he had any relatives. His parents died about twenty years ago. He had some money from the insurance his parents left him. He didn’t hold a job.”
“You sure it’s the guy? How did you know him?”
She glanced at the open door, stared at it before turning her frowning gaze to them, chin set. “I met him a few years ago at a book show. We went out a few times. I have not seen him in almost two years. That is all I know. I don’t know where he was living or anything.” She shrugged, end of story. She had given them a name, and apparently that was all they fucking needed to know.
He replayed the information. She had not seen the guy in two years. Two years ago was her Joshua period. Was the Lemieux guy before or after Joshua? During? Chris studied her while she blatantly avoided looking at him by frowning at Charles. The slight blush colouring her cheeks and neck hinted that she was not telling all. He waited for a beat, hoping for her to add more. Nope. She had said it all. The fucking Joshua period. Those fucking bastards again.
Chris had promised himself to one day hunt each of the remaining ones and shoot them down. Shoot them dead one by one. Even after the outrageous amount of money he’d given the fat Mario jerk for a job well done during the quarter disaster, he still owed the guy, a strange debt of honour, so he would keep Mario for last. He sighed. He would have to save Mario’s ass from prison or something to clear the debt; then he was going to kill him.
Back to the present, MacLaren. Now, what? Damage control first. The team sat stunned, so he called it a day. He could feel his guys’ eagerness to push her, the questions hanging on Charles’s lips, but Patricia wouldn’t answer, not now. She needed time to think − she often needed time to think and ponder and overthink before she recklessly acted in a spur-of-the-moment, fucking spontaneous, half-ass, over-the-top plan − before she gave him straight answers. Who was Lemieux, Darling of mine? Hopefully, she wouldn’t mourn this dead. She was sleeping at his place tonight.
“You guys in the mood for a beer?” He asked around. “My treat.”
The team was always in the mood for a beer. Even more so when they had open cases or unfinished business. Fucking right, unfinished business. “Reid? Le? How about giving Patricia a ride, I’ll meet up with you there?” He had a feeling LeRoy and Reid wouldn’t be the only ones around for drinks. “Charles, Ham, my office. Now.”
He didn’t wait to watch them scamper out of the conference room.
“Ham, I want you to run a background check on Lemieux while I talk with Charles. See what turns up,” he ordered midway to his office.
“Charles, let me make a couple of calls before we review the case again. Any objection to working with us on this?” He didn’t wait for Charles’s answer. To have the case transferred (and Charles temporarily assigned to his team), he had to hunt for a replacement for the local chief.
He briefly thought of the quartet’s leftovers but decided against it. He had enough enemies already, hadn’t he? Enemies but friends also, it took him about a dozen phone calls, half an hour of favour calling, flattery and bribes to set up everything; he even called Central to check it with them. Not that it would have made a fucking difference for him. Just keeping my eyes on Lemieux for you, Darling of mine.
He briefed Charles about the way of the team. About his ways. “I know you want in. I see it in your eyes, same as in my guys, but Charles, it won’t be easy.” Fuck, the guy looked like a kiddie cop. A fucking rookie.
He briefly hesitated on what to tell the kid about Patricia. “About Patricia. She works here part time. She. Is. Not. A. Cop.” He decided to spell out precisely what was allowed and what was not. “Anything she says, asks, demands, requests, orders, or begs for, you clear it with me. She doesn’t do anything or go anywhere without me breathing down her neck. Got it?” As he spoke, he speculated how long it would take for her to trick the rookie.
He repeated, keeping it simple, “Never do anything she asks; never go somewhere she wants to, unless I, your boss, have authorised it specifically, out loud and face-to-face. And Charles? I will never consent to it. Ever.”
To, hopefully, loosen the kid up and keep him out of trouble, he teamed Charles up with Ham and Des. “No one on the team works a case alone, yet alone a new guy. So for now, you’ll be working solely on the motel case with Officer Hamilton and DesForges. I want the three of you to become the best fucking pals on the job.”
Perhaps some of the rookie’s politeness and wholeness and cleanliness would rub off on Hamilton and DesForges? Yah right, fat chance. But teaming Charles up with those two had one major advantage, DesForges was the least susceptible to Patricia’s manoeuvres. This case was going to be hell.
Charles’s training was beginning as of right now, and it was going to be a crash course. He took Charles with him to the bar. About time they arrived too if he wanted to get to her before she got drunk. Not that he didn’t like her drunk. All Chris wanted now was a drink, the hint of sweet womanly perfume, and a fair amount of skin contact with some serious rubbing on a soft, sexy, damn female.
His men were in a chummy disposition at the bar. The calm before the storm. Easy to tell they had already indulged in more than one drink. As predicted, Shapiro and Frankke had joined the fun. The guys scooted over to make room next to her.
She smelled damn sweet, her hair was a bit dishevelled, and she was in a surprisingly friendly frame of mind. She never reacted quite the way he expected her to, did she? Maybe she hadn’t been that close to the Rick guy. Her leg brushed against his, and he watched indulgently her being a little flirty with LeRoy and Charles.
They ate together, the guys making fun of one another, of Charles. Mostly of Charles. The wine was excellent. She didn’t eat much. She got drunk and fell asleep on the way back. He guided her barely awake to the elevator, then to his bed. So much for his skin rubbing plan. Something was definitely up. The case was going to be fucking hell.
MacLaren Goes Back to Work
Chris was in the shower when Patricia woke. He had already received a preliminary report from Ham. Chris presumed she was hoping he’d get enough information on Lemieux to keep them busy and her off the hook, although they both knew he was going to drag it out of her. He always did. Eventually.
She was at the present buried under the sheets making as if to be asleep. She had underwear on but nothing else since he had partly undressed her the night before, the least he could do. Getting drunk was yet another, easier escape route. Way easier than being forthright, isn’t it, Angel? Like running away without moving. Damn woman.
Could be she wasn’t sure exactly what to tell him. Or how to tell him. Not good. Joshua was a touchy subject between them. Joshua was in her past, and she sure fought hard to keep the guy there. Perhaps not wanting Chris to go on a witch hunt? Whatever gave you the impression that I want to, Darling of mine?
Chris woke her up for breakfast. She didn’t talk, barely ate, visibly woozy from her drinking. Chris being true to himself, he had cooked a full meal: scrambled eggs, toasts (with jam for him and maple syrup for her), strong coffee for him, orange juice for her. He didn’t comment on her drinking or lack of appetite. No remarks still when she took forever to get ready. He merely waited while she showered, waited and admired while she dressed and dab on some makeup. He sipped his coffee enjoying the show, a grin on his face.
Too bad she didn’t seem to be in the mood for a quickie. His mistake, he should have gone down on her before she was out of bed. It might have improved her spirit; it always worked on him.
They arrived at the precinct around eight without having uttered a word in the car. With his sunglasses on, hands gently holding the shift stick and steering wheel, he was in control. He liked driving, especially with her in the car. He faked a relaxed attitude, a little smile tugging at his lips when he felt her eyes on him. As they rode, her perfume and his cologne mingled in the air as if they were making out but without the breathing and the moaning. Fucking poetic.
At a red light, he pushed a wavy lock away, tucking it gently behind her ear, and let his fingers linger on her neck. Pity. The touch was not enough to make her moan, but he did hear her catch her breath. Waking up slowly today, aren’t you, Angel?
Bridget was back at the office.
“We weren’t expecting you back so soon, Bridget. You do look much better. How do you feel?”
“I do feel much better, thank you. Perhaps a little weak, but nothing a good day at the office won’t alleviate.”
“Good then. Glad to have you back.” And he was, for he would get his girlfriend back. “Patricia can help you settle back. Have her explain the new pad for the phone, you’ll see, it’s mighty impressive.”
Bridget might appear impressed by the thing, but Chris suspected she wouldn’t use it once. The women kept each other company, one weak from the cold, one distracted by sorrow. Together they printed, sorted, copied, stamped, filed while he marvelled, watching them through his office window, at where the hell all that work had suddenly come from.
Why had Bridget showed up early? Had Patricia’s convincing job not worked as well as they had thought or had one of the guys complained about her answering skills? Impossible. With the new pad, Patricia had managed to keep up with the calls. Besides, even if she had been lousy, nobody would have complained about her. Make fun or tease, yes, but not rat her out.
Then what?
Bridget kept Patricia quite busy at that, so much so, the damn woman flatly turned him down when he suggested coffee at Vitto’s.
“Sorry, Big guy. I don’t have time; we’re swamped. Too much filing.” She looked tired from the previous night. Was she starting to wish she had finished her breakfast or called in sick and stayed in bed?
He should have kept her in his bed, kept her exhausted between his sheets. A quickie for him (two or three for her, the damn woman was an amazingly sensitive creature), and he’d have left her sleeping only to call later. She still owed him a dirty phone call, didn’t she? Damn woman.
LeRoy showed up first, then Charles shortly after. DesForges and Hamilton arrived as a couple. Then Reid.
“Bridget, I want everyone in the conference room in five minutes.”
“Everyone, Chief?”
“Yes, Bridget, everyone includes Patricia.” Time to see how the damn woman was recuperating from her hangover.
Lemieux in the Past
“You can do it, Pattycake,” Lemieux coaxed.
She sobbed once. “Ask one of the guys.”
“You can do it, Doll,” Lemieux repeated softly.
So she did. It was always like that with her. Once she put her mind to it, she could do anything.
Lemieux loved her but believed Joshua was better for her. They were both crazy. They were all crazy, but those two’s craziness was alike. They lived in their own world. Hers seemed sweet, full of fairies and knights. Knights was their name in the game. They were going to win, that crazy fishing trip was only the preparation, laying out the battle plan. They were just fucking around, Joshua mostly for he had her. Joshua was better for her.
Correction. Joshua had been better for her, but Lemieux was not so sure anymore.
Lemieux still remembered the taste of her. On his skin, in his mouth. He had tasted the inside of her. He remembered all the women he tasted; there weren’t that many. Of the five, Pattycake was the last.
Ordinary females he just played with, dozens and dozens of common cunts, but only five women he had truly tasted. Savoured. He liked playing. He thought about playing all the time. Except those times when he was working. He was playing then too, except more seriously. Strange. He was crazy, no doubt about it. Bleeding like a pig and he still wanted to play.
That stupid hook hurt like hell. The kid was an idiot, the most stupid of them five, them six counting her. Them six since the other women did not count. Of them six, the kid was the stupidest.
Of them five, Joshua and the king both thought they were the smartest. Mario was not so confident, but he was probably the smartest. Of them six, she was, no contest. Rick knew. He was convinced Mario knew too. She hid it well. Since Mario and he knew, did that make them smarter than Joshua and the king? Either way, the kid was the stupidest. An idiot savant.
She had her hands on his crotch. She did not realise she had her hands on his crotch. It drove him crazy how she could be so provocative without trying. The females he did were provoking and flaunted it. They sold it, some cheaply, others not so. He played with them. No strings attached. Bondages weren’t strings.
How could anyone fall for the Cake’s silly costumes? She looked different just now. She was not wearing a disguise with him. He had made sure she would not need to wear any camouflage with him.
When her left hand gripped his thigh, Lemieux felt it in his balls. Her left hand dug into the flesh his inner thigh, opening his thighs, making room for her right hand to manoeuvre. She was brushed and sobbed and kneaded and unknowingly teased. He remembered her touch from before. Before Joshua.
The others feared the sight of blood, so they left them alone.
“What you doing down there, Cake?” He groaned. “I’m not complaining about your hands, though. Take all the time you want.”
“Stop laughing! I’m trying to pull the damn hook out without hurting you!”
She braced herself with a hand on his thigh, against his crotch. One hand steady and soft while she tore his flesh.
He climaxed while she tore him.
She cried when she saw the cut the hook had made. She had not seen him come. His shorts were already wet from the fishing; she did not notice.
He hid his climax from her.
He kissed her hair softly. He liked the smell of her hair, a mass of long, brown and blue waves. Like the sea. She was so thin now. She had not been this thin before. Before Joshua. He knew she did not love Joshua. He had listened to her breathing when they had sex before Joshua; she did not pant the same with Joshua.
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nbsp; He had watched her with Joshua. Last night, in their cabin, he had watched them. Her thin and pale against Joshua’s slim but muscular, bulkier, white and hairy frame. Her orgasm had hurt him. Lemieux had not wanted to come on the fishing trip, but it was her idea. She was crazy. She had too much vitality for their world; she belonged in a world of her own. A queen.
This was Lemieux’s last game. She was to be his last queen. Joshua was taking her sanity, taking her life from her.
Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line
Her Old Friend
Patricia caught sight of LeRoy as she entered the conference room. He sat in his usual spot at the end of the table, looking pretty relaxed. Lucky guy. He smiled up at her. She forced a smile in response.
The terrible duo, Hamilton and DesForges (as usual DesForges had sneaked into the office without her noticing him), sat side by side on their usual window-side of the table. The pair nodded and kept on sipping coffee. She could really go for a latte right about now, preferably somewhere else.
Reid motioned her to the seat next to hers at the opposite end of the table from the guys. Not in a good mood, was she? For whatever reason, Frankke had also been summoned for Christopher’s grand jury, for that was what this meeting was. A damn inquisition!
Frankke saluted her very formally. “Good morning, Miss Patricia. May I say you look beautiful today? Blue is most certainly your colour.” The guy had a weird sense of humour this morning; she would have preferred his habitual silent nod.
He stood up to let her sit between Reid and himself. He had taken Frédéric’s usual spot; the poor kid would have had a fit had he been cited. Odd humour, she thought of Frankke’s seat choice. She should have fallen for a guy like him: polite, discreet, usually silent, classy, big and strong like a barrel. Uncommitted.