Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  His behaviour, his courage during the fight (once he stopped talking) had impressed her tonight. He so wanted to be city-like. The club was his idea. Well, mostly his idea. Hum. So maybe she had given him a few hints, but he did suggest it at some point.

  “I want to do something Hamilton does,” he had said.

  “You’re already doing everything Hamilton does for this case, aren’t you? He does take you with him, right?”

  “Because he doesn’t have a choice.”

  “Hamilton is a tough guy, and Christopher or not, he wouldn’t take you with him if he didn’t think you could handle it.” Seeing as Charles had not appeared convinced, she had asked, “Where have you guys been to so far?”

  “Stripper clubs. Feels like it’s the only places we ever go to.”

  “Stripper clubs are good places for a crash course. And from what I heard, Hamilton is good at working that scene.”

  “Maybe he is, but it doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a woman; probably you can’t understand. Or maybe you can because you’re a woman but− I don’t feel comfortable in those clubs. I never know where to look.”

  She couldn’t help Charles on that, she didn’t know either.

  “Hamilton’s left me in the car the last two times. Says he can’t get any collaboration when I’m around. Apparently, I look like a cop.”

  Patricia suspected that it might not be only collaboration Hamilton wasn’t getting. Did cops get freebees from strippers? She would have to ask the hookers. Would the hookers give her credit until she got her money back from where the cops had confiscated it? Hamilton’s ex-hooker lady-friend Greta would know, but Greta wasn’t here at the moment, was she? Besides, Greta had a nice garden now and was working hard at putting the life of a strip club dancer behind her. Hence, Patricia wasn’t about to embarrass her with silly questions.

  What if she asked Hamilton directly? Hum. Had they been on speaking terms, she might have, but ever since the kiss (no more than a brush of the lips really), Hamilton wasn’t quite the same with her. Angry still at her tricking him. Asking him how he composed with the cop doing strip clubs, hookers and handouts might not go so well. Not to mention, he might tell Christopher.

  So what about some freebees, ladies? If the female officer ever remembered she existed and brought her back to the cell, she might ask the smallest hooker, the other two were scary. No petite women any of them. Their backs must hurt with all the breasts they were carrying. With her medium bosom flattened into a sports bra, Patricia had felt quite the flat chest teenager next to them. And their breasts were nothing to their butts. The scary part was, nothing swayed when they moved. Hard, compact fat all around. Perhaps her co-prisoners gave donations themselves. Perhaps they knew Hamilton and had given him one or two. If it were the case, that would be a very useful piece of information to have, strictly for Charles to use, or misuse, of course.

  Was the officer watching the sunrise as she waited for her prisoner’s free confession? Patricia had no watch. She tried counting the seconds but got bored. What difference did it make anyway? The room had no cameras or mirrors like on television shows. On a previous visit in such a room, Christopher had stood behind said mirror, pissed. This time, thankfully, she was alone. She rested her head on her crossed arms on the table in front of her. Where had the female officer gone? Was she fetching reinforcement in the form of a lame colleague? Good cop, bad cop once again.

  Never before had a female officer interviewed her, this might be interesting. She had seen Reid at work on the street but never while she was conducting an interrogation. Come to think of it, she had never seen an interrogation that she wasn’t a participant of. Such a silly thing, not to worry, this was going to be fun. She was in a good mood tonight. Technically, she hadn’t done anything, and, most importantly, hadn’t uncovered any dead bodies. The nauseous feeling disappeared. When she avoided thinking about Ape’s hand between her legs or of her damn shoulder, she was peachy. Tired. Happy. Thirsty. Pulsing with pain. Leaning her arms on the table wasn’t helping.

  She walked around. Nope, too tired. She sat on the floor, tucked in the corner, her head propped on the right wall, opposite her injured shoulder. She made sure she was visible from the door window; she was so not in the mood for apes or female officers to storm in guns drawn. As if she could escape. So tired.

  She closed her eyes. Her falling asleep wasn’t going to make a good impression on the good cop-bad cop girl team. Out of female solidarity, she forced her eyes back open. Maybe they were friends of Reid. Well, not friends per se, Reid didn’t do the female cop friendship thing, but acquaintances, colleagues, police academy buddies? Sisterhood, she thought again, but her eyes kept closing. She thought about getting up. Decided against it. She was just sooo sleepy.

  She heard a door open and closed far away. Her room? Was Female finally visiting her? Not a sound. Seeing how her prisoner was resting her eyes, Female had decided to let her sleep it off. Female camaraderie and all. Nice. Even in her near-sleeping state, the thought lingered without making sense. No cop was that nice, not even a she-cop buddy of Reid. The room filled with a new odour.

  What did one smell in dreams? A woman-cop’s spicy, musky, perfume? Was the woman-cop truly giving her a repose? She had not heard a chair creak. Funny what one can ponder when half asleep. An intense conversation unfolded in her head. She fought the urge to open her eyes. She refused to acknowledge what was happening in her closed chamber.

  The faintest hint of tobacco. Cologne. Manly. Nice. Sexy. Christopher’s. Damn. Please, let it all be a dream. A harmless, erotic dream. No way am I opening my eyes or pinching myself.

  PI Unlimited: Interrogation Room

  “Name?”

  “Queen Elizabeth the Third.”

  “The third?” Jane Doe, Princess Jane, Queen Elizabeth the third. You will give me your name eventually, Love.

  “Yes. The Third.”

  The woman sitting in front of him was dishevelled. Tired. Angry. Stunning. Even with her oversized clothes, makeup-free face and messy hair, or maybe because of it all, she was gorgeous. It’s her eyes, Jeremy decided. Expressive, changing, intelligent, challenging. He wanted the eyes to focus on him.

  “Why the third?” He wondered aloud.

  She stopped staring at the wall and turned her head to him. Not his first interrogation and not his first conversation with her, but this time, she was on his turf. His game. His rules. Third time’s a charm.

  Tonight he had lost a bet and was stuck working on the strippers. This one was different. Je had met her before. No stripper. Not that he wouldn’t like to see what she had under the men’s clothes.

  “Are you a first born?” She asked him.

  “An only child actually.”

  “Typical. Children from one-child families are spoiled. Makes them arrogant. Like cops,” she underlined, her wide blue eyes serious on him. Dark. Her sweet smile broke on her lips. It wasn’t often he got insulted with such a smile. She was making fun of him and liking it too.

  He did not return the smile, asking again, his cop face on, “Why the third?”

  He heard her sigh before she answered. “The first born is the responsible one. The first has to prove the parents’ worth. The second must be better. An overachiever in the shadow of the perfect first.”

  He was curious. “And the third?”

  “Everyone has lower expectations. No possibility of surprise. The first two children have done and undone it all. Proved and contradicted it all. Hence, the third has to be the best.”

  “So. Queen Elizabeth the Third, you are the best?”

  She started to chuckle, the sound surprising in the little interrogation room. He liked her laugh. “Don’t be silly, Officer. That’s not my real name.”

  “Obviously. But you are a third child.”

  “Absolument pas! I’m an orphan. An only child I believe.”

  “Thus arrogant.”


  The smile again. Cockier. “Not at all, Officer. Only men are egotistic.”

  She was clearly fucking with him, and he, the chump, he was enjoying it too. “What are women then, Princess?” Sexy. Funny. Smart. Crazy.

  “That’s an interesting question. I have no idea. Can I call my lawyer now?”

  Oh no, Darling, you cannot, not so soon, we’ve only just started. “No. Name?”

  “Really?” The teasing smile turned into a frown. Her eyes darkened.

  His turn to grin. “Again, Princess. Name?”

  With her PI licence identification number, no doubt he was going to learn her name soon, if he didn’t already have it so, at that point, she should have stopped toying with him and just gone along with the interrogation. Why did she find him so damn intriguing? “No.” Not smart, she thought. “No,” she repeated, more to herself than to him.

  “I’ll just write down Princess for now. Address?” She gave him the address of the strip club where she had been picked up. “So. Name: Princess. Address: Castle, Magic Kingdom.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “With you, Darling, anytime.” The fuck if he was falling for that woman. “Soon I hope.” No serial killer will ever again lick down your neck, Princess. Only me.

  He should have let her go then. Not smart. Months later, he found himself stuck in a fucking alley, rain pouring on him.

  Dating wasn’t his thing. Even worse, dating a private investigator. Never in his life plan. Then again, neither was falling in love. You hunted the jerk long enough, Princess Love. Tonight, we get your fucking waitress killer. Tomorrow, I get those gorgeous eyes of yours solely focused on me.

  It rained all night.

  Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line

  MacLaren’s Girl

  Fuck, she looked lost curled up as she was in the corner. The boots looked heavy and, without shoelaces, they sagged around her ankles. The baggy jeans clang to the outlines of her legs, making them appear skinny under the thick fabric. She had covered her head with the hood of her sweater, locks of hair shielding her face.

  She was awake now; he could tell, even though her eyes were scrunched up closed as if she wasn’t ready to face the crowd yet. Too fucking bad, Pussycat, because I am. She let out the teeniest of sighs. Showtime, Princess.

  He had traded a future yet undetermined favour for her released and had retrieved her shoelaces, money, and jacket. And Charles. No way he was keeping the fucking rookie after this stunt. I won’t make the quartet mistake all over again. The Charles was taking the blame for the whole mess didn’t make sense, not with her involved. What’s the story here, Patricia? What possible explanation would the damn woman have this time for her evening at the fucking strip club? Wait for her version, Chris chastened himself. If he could get one. If he could get a true one.

  Here she was, sleeping. Fucking sleeping! He breathed through his nose, patted his pockets for his cigarettes. Found his pack but remembered all the precincts had turned no-smoking years ago.

  She blinked a few times before her eyes focused on his shoes, then slowly travelled to his legs. His thighs. His crotch − He cursed under his breath when his cock grew harder, barely a glance from the damn woman! − His abdomen. His chest. His chin. Her eyes stayed there. Come on, Princess, let me stare down at those blues of yours. Her eyes remained glued to his chin.

  She rolled on her herself, pushed her ass off the floor stiffly, stood and made a show of dusting herself off, before sighing theatrically. He left the room and, after a few seconds, heard her boots clapping as she fell in steps behind him.

  He dropped Charles off at the stripper club. “Meeting. Ten sharp tomorrow. My office. Don’t be late.” He watched as the rookie got into his car, head down like a fucking school boy about to be scolded. Got that right, kiddo. Big time.

  Where to now? Patricia sat in the back seat, passenger side, farthest place from him. So fucking typical, Dollface. She had yet to say a word. Even with Charles, her fucking strip club buddy, she had kept silent. She had hugged the guy, though. A goddamn hug with a kiss on the cheek. Meaning what? That it was OK? Wrong! That it wasn’t Charles’s fault? Wrong again, the guy had driven her there! With the hood and the cap, she looked like a college kid.

  Her looking lost and tired, he understood, but her not being angry or defensive, he didn’t. His place then.

  He parked in the garage and turned off the ignition. They sat silently for a while. Theirs was a relationship based on silences and sighs. Sex. Friendship. Trust also. Unwavering trust encased in their silences. His omissions. Her lies she laced from half-truths. Anger. And love, as of yet not mention out loud. Whatever, wherever, whenever, however, forever, Angel of mine.

  She didn’t run out of the car. Granted, she couldn’t, he had learned pretty early on her defence mechanisms and had the child safety latch on both back doors at all times. Simpler that way. Not that she would run very far, he was a much faster runner than she was. Not in the mood tonight, Angel. Not before we talked.

  Running after her lead to tackling; rolling on the ground closely followed, which meant getting into close physical contact, him on top. And that triggered rubbing on her part, her technique for pushing him away, thus making him even harder, which in turn, induced him to seduce her, and getting her aroused resulted to him wanting more. Fucking too distracting. Amusing. Sexy. Arousing. But not tonight. He wouldn’t learn anything about Charles and the fucking strip club once the tackling started.

  He studied her in the rear-view mirror. No worries, no guilt, he thought again, shaking his head. He got out and opened the back door on his side. She lowered her head ever so slightly before scooping clumsily to his side of the car. She fucking strolled to the elevator at an even, remorseless pace! Fuck, this better be good, Princess. I can’t wait to see how you spin this one.

  He kept on studying once they were safely in his place, as she took off the cap, the boots, the jacket that was his and the sweater. He had a moment of unadulterated hope at the thought of her giving him a little striptease to ease the tension. No such luck, struggling with the arms, her unveiling stopped at the sweater. Good thing too, because sex would have distracted him from their chat. His boner was already messing with his concentration.

  “Booze or coffee, Pussycat?” She smirked at his chin. “All Right. Since it’s nearly five in the fucking morning, coffee it is.”

  He turned the espresso machine on, got milk and made foam milk for her latte while she sashayed, that oh so very rare slow walk of hers, and leaned, not sat, on the kitchen counter to observe him at work. When the coffees were ready, he got eggs from the fridge and made scrambled eggs. She took care of the toasts while he cooked. Is guilt making it difficult for you to focus, Princess? She wasn’t buttering the slices of bread as precisely as per her usual. His girlfriend usually made sure to spread butter right up to the crust. He did not vocalise his amusement at her sloppy job.

  Since she took an enormous bite of toast before the eggs were done, he realised the distracted spreading came more from hunger than remorse. Her hip propped against the counter, she licked the butter and crumbs from her fingers as she watched him cook under her eyelashes. He liked when she watched. Not an awkward feeling in her, though, he thought yet again. This better be fucking good.

  They ate the eggs standing up, her hip to the counter, her nose in her plate, his back to the fridge, his eyes on her face. They had yet to say a word, but their silence was comfortable like always. As soon as she took the last morsel of eggs, he grabbed her plate and stacked it on top of his in the sink. When he extended his left hand out, she gave him her cup without a word. He made two more coffees, double espresso and latte as before, setting them on the kitchen table near the windows, and sat at the table looking at her, a smile creeping up on his face as he curled his forefinger to motion her closer. It wasn’t light yet, but the morning light was creeping in.

  She approached the table reluctantly with a small shake of her
head. As she neared his side, she shoved the table lightly with her butt, threaded herself into the gap she’d made between his chair and the table, and straddled his thighs, her ass on his knee but her pelvis away from his crotch. She propped her feet on his chair’s lowest side rungs and flattened her palms on her thighs. Tempting but not yet teasing, this was going to be fucking good.

  “Hi, Big guy.”

  Sweet. “Hi, yourself.” Nothing more. I’m going to make you work, Pussycat of mine.

  “Long night?”

  She sure was good with euphemisms. “You mean short.” By now, he was smiling; she, on the other hand, looked somewhat unsure. Good.

  MacLaren and the Boss’s Woman

  “I think my strip club visit with Charles went very well.”

  Say what? Chris’s mind went blank.

  “To think he was worried he wasn’t tough enough for you guys. But he did well tonight, didn’t he? He tried to break off a fight.” She made a V with her forefinger and her middle finger. “Twice.”

  He frowned (might have growled too) at her fingers; her hand returned to her thigh.

  “He even saved me from a punch. You should be proud of him. He did well,” she repeated.

  Proud of what, Princess? The kid had taken her, his boss’s woman, to a strip joint for Christ sake! And what was that about being punched? Did she participate in the brawl too? The woman didn’t know how to fight. A kick here and there, punches thrown aimlessly, fists without power. The few times she had fought him for real, it had turned into foreplay. He hated to think she fought with anyone else but him. Jerks at a strip club did not deserve to fight with her!

  “Of course, Charles shouldn’t have bothered calling you,” the damn woman was saying. “Everything was under control, Big guy, really. He’ll learn; you’ll see. I’m sure he will be fine.”