by V. P. Trick
Her confession got a grin out of him. Finally.
“You said you were going to stay out, remember, Pussycat?”
She smiled back, a somewhat wavering smirk but a smile nonetheless. “I said I was going to stay out of Lemieux’s case. That’s solely of what I’m keeping out.”
“Better than nothing I guess.” He grew serious again. “No snooping around in back alleys or unknown places alone. Whatever time of the day or night. Whatever idea you have. Got it?”
What was she, a child? “Got it. Boss.”
He sighed, loudly, to make a point, and shook his head. “It doesn’t mean I’ve rehired you.”
“No, of course not. It means I’ve un-resigned.” She gave him a tight hug.
Fuck was she wet. Shivering. And holding tight. She had been crying all right. He cursed himself. “Let’s get you in the shower, Princess.”
She held on to him. “No, please, not yet.” Small, shaky voice. “Let’s just stay like that for a while, please?”
Anything you want, Angel of mine. He held her until she stopped shivering, but the knot in his stomach didn’t go away.
PI Unlimited: Your Type in the Past
“Nice hair,” he commented as she came out of the shower.
Their first night together. Wanting to see what he’d make of her crazy curls and blue strands, she had foregone the wig tonight. Ready or now, here I am.
He was sprawled over the covers. Naked. He had a gorgeous face, almost feminine, and a glorious body, both lean and strong, almost scary. He had been coming to the diner for a while before she had agreed to a date.
He was gruff yet always polite, although he had a way of looking her over that made her feel self-conscious. And pretty. He kept calling her all those silly names. Doll. Cake. As if he couldn’t read the name tag on her outfit.
The date led to another date. Gruff but funny and courteous in a dangerous kind of way.
Until now, she had hid her hair under a dark-brown hair wig (her natural colour). The diner was located in a working-class neighbourhood, the blue strands wouldn’t have helped with her tips. She was used to that type of reaction hence her wearing the wig at school too. Blue hair had not helped her grades but it had caught the attention of her male teachers. Some men were colour-blind. Blue doesn’t mean easy, assholes.
He lent her a t-shirt and made coffee. Three in the morning and they were drinking coffee. Her heart was beating at a hundred and fifty at least. They talked. The place belonged to a friend of his, temporarily out of town.
She strolled around, studying her surroundings. Blank walls. Books on shelves. He had his own room. Books and drawings. She browsed as her hair dried. Left to itself, her brown waves curled around her face, down her shoulders and breasts and back. The blue waves mingled in a mass more sea than mud.
“You look thinner with all the hair,” he said a couple of weeks later.
She shrugged, he said that each time, and smiled. He was a good lover, a good man too. Crazy, though, but not like her. Crazy wild.
“Come here, Babycakes.” She sat on the edge of the bed near him. “You ever think of quitting that diner? Seems to me you could do so much more.”
“I can’t quit, not yet anyway.” She had not sold enough books yet.
“I’ll pay you.”
“Pay me? Surely you don’t mean you’ll make a kept woman out of me.” A courtisane, how old-fashioned. And how was it that she was not terribly insulted?
“Nothing like that, although if you are interested−”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Yah, that’s what I thought. I meant I’ll pay you to write. To draw. Whatever. Be your own private Maecenas.”
She pouted and rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Silly. You don’t even have a real job.”
“Sure I do. Might not be a regular job but then, I’m not a regular guy.”
“That you’re not. How come you don’t have any decoration? No pictures, no frames, no nothing.”
“I never stay around long enough to bother. I’d love a portrait of you, though.”
“I hate for anyone to photograph me.”
“I’ve noticed. That’s why I stole pictures of you while you were sleeping and writing, but I want more. I want you to make a portrait of yourself. Not a selfie but a portrait. Can you draw yourself for me? A full-body painting. Please.”
She knew he liked the looks of her, he said it often enough, he demonstrated it often enough. He would watch her, his eyes travelling up and down her body over and over for long stretches of time. Before they made love. During. After. Even when she fell asleep, she sometimes felt the weight of his eyes. She wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, but she slept well when he was near. She felt protected.
He set her up in his friend’s small living room. Knowing she liked that dark crushed raspberry-pink colour, he had bought a thick blanket of that exact colour for her to lie on. He had rented spotlights on tripods, or maybe he had them already, stored in the garage. That shed was full of tools, more so than any real handyman could dream of or need. Tools and a rusting car, his only personal possessions. She didn’t mind, she didn’t own much herself.
He used the lights as anchorage for the mirrors. She stretched on her back, naked, her sketch pad in her hands. She studied herself in the mirrors and painted.
“Make it a three-quart view, right side.”
“Why that angle?”
His answer came, disarmingly simple. “The couch’s on the right of you. I sit. You crayon.”
Hence, while she drew, he sat and watched as she sketched herself. Studied her as she observed and drew.
At first, she traced outlines of herself. Warming up. A few lines and curves. A drawing every minute, then one every five, prolonging the pose until one drawing took half an hour. She got to know her curves. Not just the right side. Front and also left. Got to know his planes and curves too as she traced him. He sat, hands on his lap. Hands shielding his cock.
She made a right side three-quart view of herself. In the painting, her blue waves covering the swell of her breasts, the undersides light in contrast to the richness of her hair, one rosy nipple peeking out. The pale skin of sleek legs light cut against the blanket’s deep colour, a fold of fabric modestly covering her pelvis. Waves of blue, strips of creamy white, a sea of deep fuchsia. She drew herself drawing herself. If one looked carefully, the dark shadow at the right edge of the painting outlined a manly pair of feet and legs.
She kept the other drawing, the one where the feet and legs were attached to a naked male body sitting on a black leather couch. Head slightly bend. Soft hair partly hiding the model’s left eye. His right fixed on the painter. The couch backrest showed the imprint of an arm and hand, although in the painting the naked man had both hands on his groin. He was not shielding his cock as much as holding it down.
Later, pouring coffee, carrying plates, she still felt his eyes on her.
Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line
Their Resembling Theories
“You know, I’ve been thinking.”
Fuck, not again!
Early Monday morning, he was enjoying a tender moment as Patricia sat on the counter watching him cook breakfast. An extraordinary perfect morning until then at least. She had awoken at five in the morning, a little after him but a good hour earlier than her usual time. Since she was up, he was making eggs, bacon and toasts. She looked sleepy and damn sexy.
After her late shower last night, she had changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, both his. The clothes betrayed her uneasy feelings. Easy to tell why; she was thinking too much and getting restless. So fragile. She had fallen asleep in his arms, untouched, while he had stayed awake for a long time. Green in her eyes got to him every time. He needed leads on Lemieux and the diner girls before she took matters into her own hands.
She smiled at Christopher’s expression. She was not as skilled as he was at decrypting facial expre
ssions, but at this very instant his frown clearly screamed, “not that again,” shortly followed by, “what now?”
She waited patiently. She too could be patient. Sometimes. She was feeling amorous this morning. She liked the kitchen counter and knew he enjoyed it too. She was thrilled; for once, he didn’t have any idea what she was thinking.
Until then, he had been thinking about sex. Her next to him on the counter, legs crossed (for now) was like foreplay. The counter top’s height made cooking comfortable. Its height made other things damn near perfect. Her. She had taken a quick shower again this morning; the oversized t-shirt had returned, but she had exchanged the sweatpants for a pair of white panties. Mussed hair, dreamy expression, she looked stunning.
His feeling became painfully evident. They might still have time for his thoughts if her thinking didn’t turn into a big discussion.
“Christopher, are you listening?”
He turned off the heat. The bacon was crispy, the scrambled eggs fluffy, and the toasts were just about toasted.
He stood in front of her. Hands on her knees, he opened her legs. Then, his paws groped her butt, and he pulled her to the edge of the counter. He stepped between her legs, her breasts brushing against his torso, his hands fisting her butt, and leaned into her for a perfect moment in his favourite spot in the world.
“Now, Angel of mine. I’m listening. What is it you’ve been thinking about?”
She frowned briefly before kissing him. A hard kiss, one hand in his hair, tugging, one hand on his ass, quickly, before it insinuated itself into his pants. The kiss left him breathless. He took the hint.
Later, they ate rubbery eggs, cold bacon and mushy toasts; a perfect breakfast he thought.
And then, again, she said, “Mon chéri, I’ve been thinking.”
His first thought? Today’s going to be one fucking special day! Then he caught her mischievous smile and grinned at her. “I guess on the counter earlier, that had been my thinking, right?”
“Yes, it had, Big guy. It had been mine too, but only after you showed me your, hum, thoughts.”
He laughed. “OK, stubborn woman, I guess I can’t escape it, so shoot.”
“Lemieux. I’ve been thinking−”
He tried cutting her off, “Fuck, Patricia,” but she covered his mouth firmly with her hand.
“Christopher, please. Let me finish. I know you think Lemieux is going out with me over and over, but I believe you’re wrong. I think I was just his type.”
Gripping her wrist, he removed her hand from his mouth and tucked it against his groin before he tried butting in again.
“Shush, Big guy.” She covered his mouth back with her other hand and continued, “I’ve seen some of the women Lemieux dated. He went out with other girls after me, you know, countless of women at that. They all had the same physique. Brown hair, medium-to-tall, and like me, none was, shall we say, bodacious. So maybe you’re right, it’s not a coincidence they look like me, but it’s me that resembles them. He picked me up, remember? He picked me up because I had the right physical attributes.”
He stared at her. “Not bodacious?” Was that how she thought of herself? He didn’t. She was the most fucking sensuous woman he had ever laid eyes on. “Fuck, Patricia.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I fucking don’t, Princess. Truly, I don’t. You’re the poet here; don’t you know what images the word draw out for me?” And for most guys he knew. “You are sexy.” That earned him a derisive pout and a stare from the blues. “You are the hottest, most voluptuous and spunkiest woman I ever had the honour of fucking.”
That made her smile. “‘The honour of fucking’?”
“Yes. Fucking hard.” He heard her catch her breath and swallow. “Want me to show you?” He offered.
She blinked a couple of times rapidly and licked her lips. When the tip of her tongue touched her lower lip, he pulled her to him and pushed his tongue inside her mouth, adding as he let her go, “Yes. Fuck hard. Have sex. Make love. Screw. Come. Climaxed. All of the above.”
The damn woman laughed, not a hint of green to be seen this morning.
“Perhaps what you meant to say, Dollface, was that they had perky but not oversized breasts?”
She laughed and blushed. Damn that woman was sexy, “Fine, funny man, that’s what I was trying to say. Average breasts. I−”
“There’s nothing average about your breasts.” He cupped the soft mounds with his hands, brushing her nipples, making them harden. Fucking perfect.
“Christopher.” She stiffened under his touch, and, her expression serious, slapped his hands away. “Let me finish. I think this is about Lemieux’s taste. I’m just one in the lot.”
She might have a point. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Her voice was confident, but her smirk hinted to an almost more than an absolute. “He offered for me because I was a tallish, slim brunette,” she went on. “He must have picked up dozens before me. Like I know he propositioned many after me. OK?” Too easy.
He agreed nonetheless. “OK.”
“OK then. We agree that the killer is not after me in particular.”
He was not going to agree to anything of such, no way, but he let her go on.
“Okeydokey then,” she repeated. “So it means either the killer likes killing the same girl type as Lemieux dated, and Lemieux is an innocent victim, an unlucky bystander caught in it by accident.”
Chris doubted that in truth, Lemieux had dated any of the women but like before, he didn’t say anything. Your Lemieux jerk is anything but innocent, Princess.
“Or it means the killer was after Lemieux, and the women are the innocent bystanders. But then why two? Unless the first one was a warning? But why bury her? Hum. I think the innocent bystander theory has more potential. Perhaps if we looked more into the victims than into Lemieux?” She paused before grinning at him, her eyes half-closed, her head tilted to the side. “That was kind of working the case, wasn’t it?” Not waiting for his answer, she laughed playfully, “Does it mean you’re fired?”
No fucking way.
She Goes Down Memory Lane
Patricia had trouble focusing on her writing, her mind going back and forth between the diner girls and Lemieux. Diner girls. Lemieux. For some inexplicable reason, she sensed a connexion between the three murders. Three? Two dead young women in back alleys, one stripper, plus Lemieux, made four, five if she counted the strangled overdosed hooker. One male, four females, all dead. How? Why?
The more she thought of the women, the more nervous she got. Her early morning start with Christopher had been perfect. Making out on the kitchen counter! The Big guy sure knew his way around the kitchen. Afterwards, they had chatted over breakfast and smoothed things over, so why did she feel unsettled and restless?
She arrived for her lunch date two hours early; she had not written a single line nor had she went for a walk. After Christopher had dropped her off at the hotel, she had showered, packed her laptop and taken a cab to Beatrice’s workplace. A new place might pull her out of her moody funk, she had thought. It had not.
Her uneasiness remained through her lunch with the ex-waitress. They opted for a sandwich place in Beatrice’s office building. Patricia ordered a plain tomatoes-and-lettuce sandwich, but her appetite deserted her midway, and she couldn’t finish it.
Beatrice was friendly enough, cute in a drab and understated way. Dark suit, white blouse buttoned up to the collar, lilac eyeshadow, pink lipsticks, black pumps. The woman dressed to the nines like a technical accountant, sharp and dull except for her purse, a worn-out, faded big dark-green thing of a purse, too heavy from the way it made the girl slumped to the side.
“How can you carry that around? I had a bag the size of yours once, but it gave me a backache.”
“You know how it is; you need your phone, and your pad, and your makeup case, and paper tissues, and a book, wallet, and so forth.”
Too
thbrush, toothpaste, a bottle of water, oh no wait, I’m still resigned. Patricia asked politely about Beatrice’s job before probing subtlety about the diner girl.
“We were friends. We had a couple of classes together, so we hung out sometimes. I had been working at the diner for a couple of months already when I suggested Cindy came work there too. One of the old waitresses wanted fewer hours, so we had an opening.”
“You enjoyed working together?”
“Very much. We became closer, not best friends but close friends. We went shopping and did stuff together. We had similar tastes.”
Patricia checked down her list of questions, and Beatrice answered in stride.
No, the girl hadn’t had a boyfriend at the time. No, no male customer had shown a particular interest in the girl, none that Beatrice knew of at least. No, neither the cook nor his helper had made advances at the girl. Yes, the cook had asked the girl out, but he had asked her too, like colleagues; wasn’t the guy married anyway?
“I read about the murder in that diner a couple of weeks ago. You think it’s related?” Beatrice asked Patricia. “Have you ever been to that diner? The papers didn’t show pictures of the victim, why was that?”
Why the questions, woman? Morbid curiosity was not Patricia’s thing, but maybe talking about that murder might stir up forgotten memories. Unless it upset Beatrice? “I don’t quite know, Beatrice, but−”
“What did the staff at my old place say about this recent kill?”
“Not much.” Not wanting to think about it herself, she gave a vague answer. “We haven’t discussed it.”
“I went there a couple of times. It’s only three blocks from where I live now. Call me crazy, I like diner food. I never went back to my old place, though. What happened to Cindy, it’s still−”
“That’s quite understandable, I wouldn’t go back either had it been a friend of mine.” Thankfully, she had not known any of the four females, only Lemieux. Moving on. “Look at the time! I’m sorry to have kept you so late. I hope you won’t get into trouble at work. You have my phone number, please if you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call. It was nice meeting you, Beatrice. Thanks again for your time.”