Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  Waves in the Past

  “Looking good, Pattycake.”

  Just by the way she frowned, he could tell she didn’t like the nickname. He for one, liked that name, though, because she did taste like cake. Sweet, delicious, with a kick of liquor like Black Forest chocolate cake. He could eat her up any time of the day. He didn’t. Not yet. He didn’t want to scare her away.

  He liked the name and the frowning; she had such an expressive face. He could spend his days looking at her.

  “So do you, Rick,” she said returning his smile. What a smile she had. What a face. Such a beautiful face! Perfect oval. Surprisingly dark-blue eyes. Those eyes were so fucking bright that they almost glowed. But she had a darker edge to her. Luminous on the outside as a darkness whirled inside. How dark, how deep, he didn’t know yet. As dark as him, he hoped.

  Wide blue eyes that could turn on you in a second. Eyes that could start a fire burning just as fast. Long, blue waves framed her face, snaked down her neck, her bosom almost reaching her navel. Perfect tits, small, firm, sensitive. Fuck me, not that tiny, but nevertheless smaller than what strippers advertised in clubs. Smaller than what he usually bought in clubs.

  Her light ensnared him. She was sweet and soft, so he tried to be. Yes, he was weary of women, those cheap whores he fucked. Yes, he enjoyed her. Too early to call it love. Too soon to call it friendship. Or was it?

  So much light. So much lightness. Like she wasn’t entirely there. She offered half of herself to him, to the world, but kept the other half somewhere within. He liked where their relationship was going. He was comfortable with her. Talking. Laughing. Teasing. Yet, she seemed sad sometimes. Lost. He waited and observed, intrigued, aroused by the mystery of her. Unsure of what exactly she expected from him.

  They had sex, more of few times, more than he had had with the same woman in a long time, but he had yet to feel her. Climaxed she had. The pleasure had loosened her body, her smile, without reaching her eyes. He would have seen her inclination in the darkness of the blues. She had not surrendered, not even after. Lost she remained.

  He showed her his car. Some old rusted big boat of a car. Huge. Wide. Awaiting his handiwork on blocks.

  “I’m going to bring it back to life and take you for a spin,” he said, meaning both her and the car. Maybe that was what he could give her. A spin. A life anchor, a real-life bulwark. Even though he suspected she was beyond his power, she was well worth the try.

  They sat in the car. Sexy. He sat in the driver seat; she sat in the passenger seat. They talked and listened to the radio. He slid his ass to the centre of the seat. He stretched his arm around her shoulders.

  He made love to her. Love, not sex. He came when she did. Louder. Longer. He collapsed inside her. She was nothing like the whores, not even as the women before. It scared him. So big a void in him. He demanded. No, he implored, with his hands, with his body. The taste of her. Stunning she was in that instant, and from then on, beautiful she kept on.

  Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line

  Back to a Teenage Boy

  They celebrated but barely.

  “How about we go to the wine bar near the park?” She suggested. “I wrote the damn report there, so it is appropriate we go there for my resignation. After all, Lemieux has a lot to do with it.”

  But since traffic was hell, he took them home, his place. He had a selection of red wines he kept aside for just this type of occasion, when he got her all to himself for an entire evening, without anything pending between them. Well, almost anything. She had lied repeatedly − not sure yet how much − since the beginning of this mess. And she had gone to see those detectives (albeit it appeared to have gone smoothly). But all in all, he was in a good mood. Hopefully so was she. Romantic and charming.

  He had big plans for the evening. On the way back from the library, he had called the little Italian place they both liked near the office and had them prepared some plates, to be delivered at his place around seven. Chris and Patricia were among the owners’ favourite patrons, so they always went out of their ways to please them. In return, both he and Patricia always went out of their way on tips.

  A seven o’clock delivery left them with an hour to unwind, an hour to relax and get comfortable. He wouldn’t bring up her visit to the locals during those sixty minutes. He didn’t plan on talking much during those minutes anyway because he planned to occupy his mouth otherwise. He realised he was smiling, caught her watching him with puzzlement and kept on smiling.

  The first thing he did upon arriving was to pour them a drink. A red wine for her, a scotch for him. Of course. They stood side by side, drinks in hand, glancing out the front windows as traffic thinned out on the street. After a few sips, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He listened to her soft pants, the best fucking therapy, and waited. Your move, Princess.

  She put her arm around his waist without looking at him. He didn’t move. He liked when she came at him like that. Her initiative, and like now, a slow approach it often was. He liked. He remained immobile; plenty of time, an entire hour before the Italian restaurant delivered their food. And all night after that.

  Her hand moved from his waist to his back, slowly, to his neck, so leisurely, without her eyes leaving the window. He caught the beginning of a smile on her lips, heard her breathe faster. He didn’t move. She rested her hand on his nape, hovering and caressing for the longest time. He didn’t move. He liked a lot. She pasted her body to his, her lips on the vein on his neck. He liked immensely.

  He waited, frozen and expressionless, but surely she knew he was ready. So ready, Angel. I’m waiting for your move to lose it. The vein beat under her lips. Pulsing so fast, oh so very fast. They needed not say a word. He could have stayed like that all evening but knew she wouldn’t last that long. She was the impatient one. He grabbed their two glasses and set down them on the windowsill. Keep your hands on me now, Angel of mine.

  Her legs wrapped around him as he lifted her to him. She tightened her arms around his neck, hiding her smile against his skin, her lips anchored on his throbbing vein. He leaned her back to the window, her front pressed to him, and again, he became motionless, enjoying the feeling of her against him, so against him. Throbbing. Gradually, she started rubbing against him. He started stroking back, his groin gyrating and kneading faster and faster, burning.

  “Right there, Pussycat? Do you feel that?”

  They kept on dry-fucking like teenagers, his growls and her moans ringing in his ears. They climaxed fully clothed. She smiled against his neck; he grinned in her arms.

  “Once again, the dry-cleaner will look at me funny.”

  “A man your age!”

  “You’re only five years younger, Princess.”

  “How indecorous, Big guy.”

  “Fucking right. Well worth it, though.” He might bring her to his dry-cleaner one day as an explanation. A look, a smile, a brush of her hand on the man’s shirt, and the guy would understand. He smiled wider.

  Then his phone rang. The tone ring meant work. Thankfuckinggod the call had not come in a couple of minutes earlier.

  “Mac, Ham here.” Ham was the detective on duty tonight. “We got ourselves a stripper.” Fuck. “No need to dress up, Boss.”

  No way was he going to tell Patricia where he was going. “I have to go, Dollface. You can wait here if you want, this shouldn’t take long.” Like it never did. “The food should be here soon. Eat, watch television, drink, wait for me.” Just fucking wait for me. He hoped to find her in the same frame of mind as before. Teenagers fucking.

  MacLaren’s Look-Alike

  Chris woke up in a bad mood. Shitty evening. The rain had started again. It took forever to get to the strip club.

  Half the club’s neon lights out front were busted. Broken bottles and condoms littered the parking lot. The club’s interior was just as classy. Three steps down from the shithole Patricia had taken him to.

  A disgruntled Ham was waiting for him at the
edge of the security perimeter. What was the matter with the guy, Ham usually liked that kind of place? That kind of case.

  He went over the details for Chris. “I came over to check the place out and had a few beers. You know, to blend in. I talked to one of the girls. Very friendly place.” Ham’s style, no doubt. “She took me backstage to talk. Fuck that place’s noisy.”

  Yah right. Chris knew his guys well enough, knew what ‘talking’ meant in Ham’s case in a strip club; the fucking guy talked with his hands even more than with his mouth. Even after the false wrap with Greta, Ham had not learned. Or maybe he had for he wasn’t into take-out anymore. His officer now restrained his consumption strictly to the premises.

  Chris had also noticed a brusqueness to Ham when he talked to the strippers girls that had not been there before. He didn’t give a shit on how his guys ran their lives as long as they got the job done without unnecessary interference. And, Chris chastened himself, with Patricia no longer with the team since of this morning, he was once again able to follow his own fucking rule.

  Ham had been with a stripper, ‘talking’ with his hands and tongue. “You know how it goes down. I asked her about the hooker at the motel, showed her the picture and all.”

  Chris easily imagined the scene. “She knew her?”

  “She didn’t work here, but Candy said−” Candy, for real? Ham didn’t seem to mind the name. Hence, Chris didn’t comment, “−She’s seen her once or twice with a girl that used to work here.”

  Chris wondered if Ham had told the stripper he was a cop. Probably not, not then at least. Sometimes, it was better to keep things simple, and money was a better introduction. He had done the same with Patricia when they first had met. Not the money, the cop thing. The damn woman had known nonetheless.

  “I asked her about the friend. Candy says she quit a couple of weeks back, she ain’t sure when, but the boss-man says weekend of the motel shit.” Ham kept on talking as he walked Chris through the club.

  Chris nodded at the few police officers he recognised, shook hands with the forensics people on the scene and followed Ham, passing the bar, the stage, the backstage access, through the strippers’ changing room, now empty of girls.

  “She was supposed to come to work on the Saturday night but never showed up. Not all strippers have regular shifts, so the boss-man didn’t do anything about it.”

  “Meaning nobody went looking for her, and nobody reported her missing.”

  “Roger that. They all thought she would eventually show up again. Or not.”

  Chris had to hand it to Ham, even with a couple of drinks behind his tie and his hands full of fleshy things, his officer’s instincts were impeccable. One of the reasons Chris liked him so.

  “I asked to see the girl’s stuff; turns out she had left her costumes behind.”

  They didn’t have a lot to search. Ham pointed at a shoebox, the whole of her nine different outfits fitted in it. Bras, panties, whips and masks.

  “The boss gave me her address. I’ll go check it out later, and yes, I’ll take the rookie with me.” Charles, he meant. “The asshole’s probably napping now.”

  Chris was pretty sure Ham hadn’t called Charles yet. Initiation or something. And Ham sure as hell hadn’t invited him to come with him earlier for the talking hands shit.

  “The recent departure of the stripper, you know, her leaving her job the same weekend as the motel showdown, got me thinking. I wasn’t suspicious or anything at first, just fucking curious.”

  Thus, Ham had walked around the place, talked to the boss, the muscle guys, before going outside to have a look around the parking lot and the building. Cop instinct. Ham had noticed a small hatch at the bottom of the back wall, had talked to the boss again. They had reached the basement door at that point of Ham’s story.

  “The place’s some kind of dirt cellar. Overstock of beers and shit.”

  Ham had retreated the keys − Chris didn’t ask how, hand talking again, flashing a badge − and gone downstairs. Just a hunch. The ceiling was low, barely five feet. Standing on the last stair with the boss-man, Ham had checked the place with his flashlight, had seen some freshly overturned ground and had investigated.

  “Good job, Ham. No unnecessary interference.” Chris put a hand on Ham’s shoulder and squeezed. Impressive police work. Then again, he expected no less of the guy.

  “Look, Chris, it ain’t pretty down there.”

  “What the fuck, Ham?” Why was Ham warning him? He had seen plenty of dead bodies on the job, way more than Ham. He shrugged the comment off. Ham followed him downstairs.

  A woman was almost unearthed. The friend of the hooker as identified by the stripper. She was buried, her grave shallow, some two steps from the front wall’s left corner.

  “The glow from the outside neon and the street lights illuminates the hatch.” It was bright enough now with the squad cars’ flashing lights outside to see the mount. “Even without the floodlights it’s bright enough, the boss-man says. The killer could have buried her anytime, day or night.”

  Chris stayed at the base of the stairs for the medical examiner’s team was at work. His breath caught when he saw the vic. The woman looked familiar. Shoulder-length brown hair (although not naturally brown the lighter roots indicated), and curly. A slim figure. Average height. He leaned closer. Younger than Patricia. Less pretty. Thicker, puffier lips. Bigger breasts, more compact somehow, implants most likely. The nose was shorter, a tad crooked to the left. The clothes were cheap-looking, dirty and torn. Hard to tell with the closed eyes, but the eyelids seemed smaller. Later, he couldn’t say how, but he knew the eyes were blue.

  He stood frozen steps from the body for a long time until Ham finally pulled him out of his daze. They stepped outside. He needed some fresh air. He’d been breathing through his nose, his jaw clamped shut, since laying eyes on the dead stripper.

  Ham offered him a cigarette.

  The nicotine hit didn’t relieve him of Fists and Knot. Watching the forensics people comings and goings, they smoke in silence.

  “I’ll take care of the scene. I have to interview some witnesses,” Ham offered.

  Fine by him, it was Ham’s case anyway.

  Fuck. He couldn’t get the image of the vic out of his mind. Curly brunette, tallish, slim.

  “She looks kind of like the Cake, doesn’t she?” Ham, stating the obvious.

  Fucking right he was. They could have been sisters, an older, taller, so much more beautiful and vibrant woman and a younger, plainer, worn-out and duller version. Patricia didn’t have any sister that Chris knew of or any other relatives for that matter.

  “The hooker too, come to think of it. Naked body, I hadn’t noticed the resemblance before,” Ham added matter-of-factly. “Less gorgeous than the Cake; both vics way less beautiful than her.”

  Chris didn’t add anything. What was there to say?

  “Think it’s a coincidence, Boss?” His guy’s voice was almost steady. Almost.

  No answer necessary. A hell of a coincidence. For once, Chris wished he believed in coincidences, for he might have been able to sleep later. He remained at the scene for hours until Ham growled at him.

  “You put me in charge, Chris. Get the fuck home, I’ve got this.”

  As he drove back, he hoped, wanted, needed Patricia to be at his place, yet he knew she wouldn’t; knew it was better she wasn’t. He didn’t drive to her hotel for she would have known something was up.

  What little he slept, he slept poorly. He might have to put her back on the case. From a clerk to a hostile witness to a potential target.

  She’s a Library Geek Now

  From the window, she watched as Christopher’s truck peeled down the street. Another evening interrupted by his job. Christopher loved being a cop, and he was great at it, nothing else to say. She wasn’t upset but wasn’t going to wait for him, though.

  She considered herself a patient person, and she was, and more than most, but not with him, defin
itely not with him. Waiting for him made her imagination run wild. He had not told her where he was going; she had not asked. Yes, she admitted to herself, she had wanted to, but damn, this was her first day off the job! Her self-control made her feel mildly euphoric.

  Maybe she should ask Reid out? Although, first, she needed clean clothes since the window episode had left hers, well, somewhat wrinkled. Before she left, she retrieved the food from the over and set the plates in the refrigerator. The Big guy will appreciate the leftovers when he comes back. Had she expected him back soon, she would have kept them warm in the over but past experiences had taught her that by the time he got back, the fancy Italian meal would be overcooked. She taped a note on his door. ‘Food in the fridge. Bon appétit! Try not to smoke too much.’

  A cab ride later, she changed into comfy sweats and elected to stay in. She ate a bowl of cereals wrapped in a blanket, watched television and ended up falling asleep in front of a French film.

  The days dragged on. She barely saw Christopher. His workaholic side sure was in full tilt this week. Not that she minded, she too had plenty of work to do. She proved it by going to the library every day. Arriving at eight o’clock every damn morning, leaving at six, she researched and wrote and reread and reviewed and annotated and corrected, putting more hours than a regular office day job. All she lately, it seemed, was work, work, work! Apparently, everybody had a life except her. The more time passed, the more she got distracted.

  On Wednesday, she caught herself daydreaming about the diner case. The sky outside her library window was flat grey, as bland as her mind. She continued her research on PI investigators. What type of background and training they had. What tools and equipment they used in their work. Cameras were the universal tool of the trade − Grand. She knew a lot about cameras; the one in her phone was state of the art. For sure no PI had a camera (and-or a phone) quite like hers − for it turned out PI did mostly surveillance work. As in they sat in their cars day and night and waited. Definitely not her kind of job. If she wanted to have fun writing the damn thing, she needed to keep her PI character busier than just sitting her in a car, however badass the car was.