by V. P. Trick
“Short dude with the pinch and the red tie,” Reid said, pointing at the hand-to-knee jerk.
“Figures. You always go for the muscles. How about you, Babe?”
“Hum. I’m not sure. I see too many possibilities.” Your eyes can wander around, Pussycat, but they better end up on me. “If I have to pick only one, then I guess, for propriety, considering this morning, I have to pick Christopher.”
“No way, Princess. I don’t do drunks.” Like hell, he didn’t. Any fucking time, any place, any which way she wanted, except when she was drunk drunk. He wanted to still; she was so fucking lenient when she was drunk, close to submissive. Well, not submissive as much as obedient. OK, not that obedient but still so pliant. Soft. Delicate.
He had fucked drunks in his previous life without giving a damn, but her he couldn’t unless he was sure she wanted him. Was it too late to ask for consent now? Was a yes a true yes if she was already tipsy? Damn woman. Her not falling asleep on the way back would be her way of telling him she was sober enough. If not, he’d wait until morning. I can wake fucking early, Princess. Then again, he planned on making sure she did not fall asleep tonight.
“I famished. How about Portuguese? I saw a grill place that smelled good next to where I parked,” Reid suggested around ten.
They kept their cheery mood all through the meal. The stroll in the cool air revived Patricia. LeRoy held both women’s arms during the walk while Chris followed behind. He didn’t mind; the damn woman was fucking sexy from behind too. Nice jeans. Sleek legs in those jeans, a great ass too.
An old waitress offered them a booth at the front window. They split women on one side, men on the other. Patricia’s cheeks were pink. He liked. The night was cold even for the aviator jacket, and her nipples peaked under that turtleneck of hers. He had a boner since seeing her in the bar. If she hadn’t drunk so much, he would have made her skip the grilled meat altogether.
Patricia talked about her morning meal at the diner, her visit to the back alley. They talked about motives, means, opportunities. She liked challenges, and he could tell she was interested in the case. Impressive how she could quote entire file excerpts from memory. But even more so was how her brain worked, so differently from how he and the team worked a case. Once again, he was fascinated.
“I’m not doing police work here, Big guy. I don’t care about clues, but it’s annoying that the story’s not coming to me. I have passages worked out, but it lacks un fil conducteur, an edge. I don’t get the guy.”
“The guy?”
“The guy or the woman, whatever. The killer. He’s a coward.”
The three of them, Reid, LeRoy and especially him, they were asking about facts like what the cops had found, whom they had interviewed. She was answering with what-ifs, giving the people involved, her characters, pretend motives, imaginary means, possible opportunities. His dick hardened as the damn woman was fucking talking. He liked her chatting. Lucky for her they had not met in their twenties; she would never have had time to eat her fucking grilled chicken.
Reid took LeRoy home, and he took her home. He spoke all the way back to her hotel, asking about her visit, details of what she had seen in the back alley, what she thought were the likeliest scenarios for her story. Chris repeated the same damn questions as at the Portuguese place just to prevent her from falling asleep. Instead of dropping her off to park the truck, he threw his keys to Carl.
First thing in her suite, she went to brush her teeth and remove her makeup. Not too drunk then. He undressed while she was in the bathroom. Erection full on. He intended to get her naked as soon as she walked out. Mercifully, it took her less than five minutes to go through her night routine. Even more perfect, she walked out naked. Splendid.
She laughed when she saw him, mast at a ready. “Come here, Big guy,” she cooed as she leaned down on the bed on her back and crooked her forefinger at him.
She licked her lips and parted her legs. He kneeled on the bed, his eyes taking her in. Staring, admiring as her nipples scrunched up into tight buds. The rosy rash in spots on her skin. She blushed as he stroked himself to ease the throbbing in his shaft, almost climaxing from looking at her. His marks on her. His. His balls tightened.
He slid his hand between her legs and stroke lightly, softly, lovingly, the tension building with each stroke of his fingers as they gazed at another. She squirmed and arched her back. He waited for her to be ready, so ready. Waited for her to ask for him. Breathing. Moaning. Pleading. He wouldn’t have been able to hold back had he been twenty years younger. Even as a forty-something, he could not have lasted this long had he penetrated her.
He climaxed on the first thrust. Her orgasm followed. Her eyes closed just before the wave overtook her, his stayed open, fixed on her face. So damn exquisite. He rolled on his back, cradling her to him so she would fall asleep next to him. They slept till seven. Even him.
Her Set of Wheels
Christopher left for work right after the quick breakfast they took in the hotel’s restaurant, and Patricia went for a walk with her laptop. Yes, yet again. She was feeling tired (and a bit little sore) from her last nights with him and walking soothed her.
After an hour of a brisk and relaxing hike, she stopped at a new café near the river to work on the waitress story. Now that her psychopath killer woman was out of the way, she was working on a series of detective short stories centred on a female private investigator who always got her men (or women). But this morning, she fidgeted with her coffee. The cup’s rim was too thick, the coffee too hot, the milk too foamy. She shimmed and stabilised her table’s wobbly legs with napkins. She searched the Web for homemade cold cream recipes. Her mind was clearly not into writing, her eyes wandering to the window between two paragraphs, two sentences, two words.
A man carried an umbrella. The day was sunny, not a cloud in the sky. An infant and a dog, the dog bigger than the kid, pulled a woman along. A sleek yellow sports car drove by. With not red? One, two, three tiny cars. Economic in gas, but what about leg room? Half a dozen SUV-type vehicles, those were definitely safer and roomier but not so environmentally friendly. Christopher drove one of those, a black Jeep Cherokee, square shaped and spacious, leather interior, tinted windows, plenty of leg room, plenty of body room.
She sighed. Finding Christopher sexy wasn’t helping to keep their affair casual. The Big guy was not exceptionally tall, taller than average yes, but then so was she. Tallish enough for when she was wearing heels, a small up tilt of her chin, a small bow of his head, and her eyes were level with his. Christopher was not exceedingly sturdy. Not thin either, bigger than lean really, but with his tailored-cut suits hiding the bulk of his shoulders, he was not the type of men one noticed in a crowd. But once she had, her attention kept returning to him. His features were hard, mean-looking even as a frown perpetually emphasised his scars, but when he smiled at her, she found him damn near irresistible.
He had smiled a lot at the Portuguese. Had she been sitting in front of him, she could have tucked one of her feet between his legs and teased. He liked when she played footsy; surely she could have made him smile even more. That cocky crooked grin of his. Damn, she was not going to get anything done with those kinds of thoughts! Nonetheless, she ordered another coffee and kept on pretending she was working.
What type of vehicle does my PI character drive? Finally, a justifiable reason to waste her time staring out at passing cars. She can’t ride a manly-man car like Christopher’s. She would drive a girly car either, nothing like Ingrid’s white precious toy. Her PI’s car should be different, not something one would expect a forty-year old-female PI to drive.
Brass
While Chris’s day had started splendidly, the hours that followed were shit. Some Brass assholes from some useless fucking federal agency came over unannounced just to have him waste his morning reviewing cases. Debriefing, they called it. Yah right, more like they wanted to show off who had more leeway with Central. Power trips on both sides, the
Feds and Central.
Outside his team, Chris knew he was a pain in the ass to work with, but no way did he apologise for it. And, excluding for the murder charge, Central never had a problem with his attitude. Only results mattered, and Chris and his team got fucking results. But, from time to time, some jerks would show up and start bugging him. They flaunt terms like audit, performance reviews and so forth. Bullshit. Those wasted hours angered him, and the team had learned to stay out on his way at such times. Today, even Bridget and LeRoy (his second-in-command whom he paid so he’d stick by his side!) were nowhere to be seen.
He was alone but for the three pricks who kept rattling his cage, fussing about the same trivial details the guys before them and the ones before had fussed about. He cursed under his breath, and his fists tightened as his patience thinned, his answers getting shorter until they got. He was not going to lose it, he willed himself, boiling inside but keeping it in. Poker face. Cop face. Control as always.
A guy from Central, Communication Agent or some shit, showed up right before lunchtime. Chris recognised Bridget’s contacts at work. Not a lawyer, Central wasn’t about to send another lawyer around, no fucking way. Chris had met the Comm before; the guy was OK with the political shit.
Comm took them to lunch, some fancy French place, where Chris had to sit through the meal listening to the Feds’ dull, cheap macho talk, the jerks trying to impress him and the Comm with all the action they saw out there. Yah right.
The Fed trio ordered expensive stuff such as lobster bisque and Rockefeller steak. Chris wasn’t big on French food’s thick creamy sauces, but he had no hesitation admitting his all-time favourite dish was French. Two slim legs, round, perky breasts, medium-size but so fucking sensitive to the touch, eyes that grew darker when angry or aroused, a big smile, and a mouth that spoke with a slight French accent when angry, sad, scared or excited. A French appetiser-entree-dessert combo he never got tired of having. Intoxicating taste. He growled a curse under his breath again, getting pissed once again.
Chris glared as the guys drank French wines (Patricia would have approved), heavily, and prayed they would leave after lunch. No such luck. The afternoon dragged on, and as Comm was there to hold the local end of the conversation, Chris was now staring at them mutely. Central should be happy; he had not thrown anyone out yet. Exercises in control, fucking hard practice.
When weeks came to an end, the team wanted to write reports and update their files before leaving for the weekend. Hence, his deserting guys started showing back around three. At some point, the Feds, perhaps feeling outnumbered, finally hauled ass out of his office.
“Thank you for your time and collaboration,” the Comm guy said before leaving with the Feds. The Brass jerks did not thank him.
“Boss, can I have−”
“Give me a minute here, Ham,” Chris barked as he retreated to his office. He paced, returned some calls and looked over some documents. Not ready to talk to the team yet. Not without being a jerk.
One by one, the guys left, waving or nodding as they passed his office. At quarter past five, only Ham and Reid remained. They were arguing as usual. Fuck, not now! Same fucking annoying nonsense as if they had been brother and sister. He had acted as a referee in their fights more than once, but he had had it for today, and he stormed out of his office to stand between them, stone face. The shooting match stopped abruptly. They both knew him well enough. The face meant he was pissed, and they were going to have it.
Patricia unknowingly saved them when she arrived unannounced. Not an unprecedented event, but she had not done so lately.
“We need to talk, Big guy,” she angrily snapped at him.
What now? “Wait your turn, Pussycat, I have something to finish with the guys first. Go wait in my office.” Damn sexy having her wait in his office. He was going to throw the two kids out and have her all to himself. Unfortunately (yet predictably), the waiting part didn’t go too well with her.
“No. No way. We need to talk. Now.”
She had spent her day doing who the fuck knew what. The downside? When she worked on a story, her imagination had a tendency to run wild. On the plus side? They had talked the waitress case over the evening before, and she had been OK with the discussion. They still needed to review her report on Lemieux, though. Downside. But, plus, way plus, they had made love last night. She had been a tad tipsy, but he had liked (when did he not like her?)
Too many variables, so no way could he tell the end result. He gave up trying to guess what her annoyance was all about. Still, he needed to cool off some before talking to her. If not, their discussion might not be polite nor subtle. She wasn’t listening, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t just follow her in his office yet. Stand still.
Chris and Patricia stood face to face, blue frowning eyes to black glaring ones while Reid and Ham looked between them. All four stood immobile in the middle of the room, waiting for someone to make a move. The building grew quiet around them. They remained suspended in time for what felt like long minutes but couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.
Patricia broke first. “OK. Fine. You’re in charge. What about I talk to Hamilton while you finish up with Reid? I won’t take long. Then you can talk to him.”
Say what? “No way. You talk to Ham, I want to be there.” No way was he letting her alone with the guy. Ham was head over heels about their kiss even if the jerk was pretending not to be by screwing every fucking female he could.
“I know you’re the boss. You’re the big guy in charge.” He rolled his eyes at her. That didn’t stop her any. “Indeed, the man in charge. Of the team.” She rubbed it in. “You alone put the guys in charge and give everyone cases.” Where was she going with this? Did she want another cold case? “You gave Lemieux’s case to Hamilton here, so now Hamilton is in charge, isn’t he? And when you’re in charge, you’re in charge.”
She was babbling nonsense. I intend to learn every and all the fucking details of your relationship with Lemieux, Darling of mine. He was always, forever in charge of all, now more than ever because of Lemieux. He had given Ham and Charles the addresses Patricia had written in her report, but he had left out the rest, his way of filtering irrelevant information. Could that be what was bothering her? But surely she didn’t want the team to know the details.
“Fucking right, I’m in charge which means, Patricia. You. Go. Wait. In. My. Office.” Couldn’t she tell how pissed he was? He was only asking her to wait. To fucking wait for him, was that too much to ask? But he had long learned she was not the most patient person, especially when it came to waiting.
“Whatever you say, Chief,” she snarled, the anger in her voice matching his. She whirled around and, skipping the wait in his office, headed for the door.
He stood his ground. His jaws were clamped tight, his hands in fists at his side, the day’s anger washing over him in waves. A few seconds later, a door slammed down the hall. The women’s toilets, or what they now considered as such, was her hiding place of choice when something was wrong. When something was terribly wrong.
“Excuse me a minute.” He left his two officers standing idly and half-walk, half-ran to the ladies’ room. He heard Ham and Reid go after him, but he was already pushing the door open.
Patricia in the Ladies’ Room
Patricia barely managed to walk out of the office. Tears started falling even before she reached the toilets. Anger. Frustration. The man was infuriating! Why couldn’t he just go to his desk? Her day had been hell. The taxi ride had taken all of her paper money. She had walked up and down the dirty streets in that shitty neighbourhood all day. Her feet were killing her. She was tired and hungry. The bus ride back had taken forever. Her fellow passengers had stunk. A man had drooled down her t-shirt, and when she had stepped back, another had grabbed her butt. And now she was going to have to tell Christopher about the car. Apologising to him was hard enough when they were alone, asking for forgiveness in front of witnesses had been too much.
&
nbsp; MacLaren’s Toilet Talk
He stormed into the bathroom to find her locked into one of the booths. He knocked, perhaps harder than necessary.
“Patricia. Get out. Now.” He heard the bar slide and the next thing he knew, she had plastered herself to him, arms wrapped tightly around him, her head buried in the crook of his shoulder. His arms enclosed her instinctively. He felt wetness against his skin. Damn woman. Damndest woman. She was not the crying type.
She muttered something against his chest. He kissed her hair. “It’s OK, Angel. It’s all right. I’m here.” She had been stalked, trapped on a burning roof, shot at, without him once seeing her cry like that. “Shush, Darling, it’s OK,” he repeated over and over. “Talk to me.” Her crying enraged him, not at her, never at her, but at the fucking world for making her sad.
When Ham took a peek inside the room, Chris motioned him out with a sharp flick of his hand. She gasped, sobbed, and took a shaky breath as her body slowly loosened. His anger had dissolved. Her mumbling died down.
She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek before gently pushing him away before he could return the kiss. Wide, serious eyes, now green from the tears, smiled sadly at him. Her lips quivered, but she offered a smile nonetheless.
“I think I need a minute.” Take all the time you need, Angel of mine.
She threw water on her face; he handed her a couple of paper towels. Not the first time they had been alone in the toilets, her putting water on her face, him waiting with the towels. Maybe the crying was to replace her gag reflex. She patted her face long after her skin had dried. Hiding in the towels, Angel?
After one last deep breath to steady herself, she threw the towels in the trash can and, straightening her shoulders and setting her jaw, turned to face him. He leaned against the wall, observing her, his face expressionless. Patient. Ready. She was having second thoughts about talking to him; that much was evident.