by Debra Webb
And I couldn’t see shit.
The perpetual plunk of dirt had stopped hitting the top of the coffin, which meant one of two things...either the men had been scared off by something or they’d finished.
Whether the enemy was still hanging around or not we had to get out of here. I definitely couldn’t do this alone. Not with my back to the only part of the damned box that opened. Scratch that...didn’t coffin’s have latches? Weren’t they on the outside? What do you want to bet they locked us in?
Not even factoring in all that dirt.
Then another reality hit me. There would only be so much oxygen in this box. My mental ranting and raving was using it up fast. Any physical exertion would do the same.
Shit.
We needed help.
Think!
I had to think.
My cell phone.
I forced my arm down and behind me until my shaking fingers could angle the thing from my back pocket.
Working hard not to breathe too quickly, I pried the flip top open and almost cried out loud when the lighted display greeted me. The signal was weak but it was there.
I glanced at Dawson. His eyes were still closed but I didn’t see any blood. He was breathing. That was always a good sign.
Holding onto calm by the very skin of my teeth, I entered the home number for Hobbs and prayed that my AT&T service, even a signal this weak, wouldn’t be interrupted or abruptly stopped by something as trivial as two or three feet of dirt.
“Hello.” Breathless. Male. Hobbs.
Thank God.
“It’s Jackie,” I said, trying not to gulp down any extra air as I spoke. “I’m in trouble.”
“What’s new?”
Oh, God. I didn’t have time for this. Nor did I have the O2 to spare to tell him about it.
“Jackie, are you there?”
My silence proclaimed trouble just as loudly as anything I could have said.
“Come to Woodlawn Cemetery. They buried us alive. Hurry, Hobbs, I don’t know how long the air will hold out.”
“Holy sh—I’m on my way,” my loyal assistant promised. “I’ll bring help.”
I closed the phone and quickly did the math for the time required for Hobbs to reach the cemetery then, even with help, dig us up. I knew the amount of air in a particular space had something to do with cubic feet. How was it that formula went?
Oh, to hell with it.
We were most likely fucked.
Dawson abruptly started to struggle beneath me.
“Don’t move, Dawson.”
He stilled at the sound of my voice but I could feel his heart pounding in his chest which meant he was sucking in more than his fair share of air.
“Don’t breathe so fast. We’re buried alive. Hobbs is on his way to save us.”
“Are you shitting me?”
I drew in a much needed breath of my own. “Be very still and don’t talk. We don’t want to run out of air before help gets here.”
As if I hadn’t said a word Dawson’s arms went up around me and he started to shove at the closed lid. Even if the lid weren’t locked he would never be able to get us out with all that dirt pushing downward before he used up the available oxygen in his battle against gravity.
I pinned his shoulders down and growled like an animal, “Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t even fucking breathe.”
Of course he had to breathe, but surely he understood what I meant. My mind whirled with unfeasible ideas for escaping. Hysteria nipped at my flimsy hold on self-control.
“Okay,” he relented, the one word choked.
I felt him relax under me. Thank God.
I don’t know how many seconds passed...maybe it was a minute but I had to relax my neck. Couldn’t hold my head away from him any longer.
He made a sound when my chin settled on his shoulder. I wanted to ask him how badly he was hurt but resisted the impulse in light of our current need to conserve energy.
A few seconds later and the atmosphere had evolved to a whole different level.
Okay, I know we were both thinking the same thing. We might not live through this. Hobbs could have an accident en route. The oxygen could run out way before he got to us. There might be more dirt on top of us than I’d estimated. After all, I hadn’t exactly been measuring the precise distance on my way into this predicament. But, somehow, things moved from the possibility of certain death to the undeniable fact that our bodies were pressed together in the most intimate places and ways.
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about anything else. The number of boyfriends and/or relationships each of my friends had gone through in the past ten years as compared to me. We’d all divorced about the same time.
Okay, not a good idea. That only led to how many we’d had sex with.
Sex.
Why did my entire existence always boil down to that one-syllable, three-letter word?
Oh, God. I felt Dawson’s...oh, damn. I resisted the urge to flex my hips.
“Sorry.”
The muttered word came out hoarse and ragged as hell.
I blocked the sensations the sound prompted. I did not want to feel any of this.
Not right now.
I tried to think of my son...my mother...my uncle. All the people I loved and might never see again.
It didn’t work.
My entire being focused in on the feel of Dawson’s still expanding cock as it pressed hard against my pelvis in just the right spot.
In spite of my best efforts my pulse sped up. Fire kindled deep inside me.
I had to shift my position.
“Don’t move,” he warned in a low, guttural tone that lit that same fire I’d felt below in every cell of my body. My breasts started to tingle.
I held perfectly still, every muscle melting against the hard, tense, incredibly masculine ones supporting me. I had known he was built well, but I hadn’t known just how well.
His heart beat a little faster now. But I couldn’t say anything because I knew mine did too. Not to mention my brain had zeroed in on the generous size of his rock hard dick. Well, at least I’d gotten a preview of what I’d missed. Boy, would the girls be jealous. Dawson was not only gorgeous but he was nicely hung.
I hadn’t realized until then that my fingers were knotted in his shirt. I told myself to relax, but my limbs wouldn’t obey the command. I could smell his skin...that hint of aftershave he’d used this morning, the one I couldn’t readily identify, and the scent of clean, male sweat. I moistened my lips and counted backward from a thousand.
His hands were fisted at his sides. I felt the tension radiating down those strong arms. The leanness of his abdomen...the contours of his chest.
Why did I have to notice every little thing?
The brrrrr of my cell phone vibrating against the side of the coffin jerked my thoughts away from Dawson. I grabbed it, flipped it open. Even that movement made him groan. I swallowed back a moan of my own. “Hobbs?”
“We’re at the cemetery. Where the hell are you?”
“The part where they bury the indigents. Hurry!”
“Wait...I think I see it.”
Thank God. I closed the phone. “They’re here.”
“Good,” Dawson croaked.
Since help had arrived and I was still breathing, some kind of switch flipped inside me, amplifying my more primitive urges somehow. I couldn’t bear the feel of him against me like this a second longer. I had to move. I wasn’t sure if the whimper came from him or me.
“Jesus, don’t move.” His hands flattened on my butt and held me immobile. “Just...don’t...move,” he pleaded.
I braced my hands on his shoulders and drew back to glare at him though I couldn’t see a damned thing. “Look,” I snapped, “I can’t stay like this. You’re...I’m...” I felt him move against me. I gasped...tensed as a wave of sensual pleasure washed over me.
“I...” He didn’t finish whatever he intended to say.
“Stop
it, Dawson,” I warned...my body mimicking his little move before I could halt the automatic response.
His breathing grew more rapid, more shallow...more ragged as he obviously struggled not to do that thing again.
He’d flattened his palms overhead...against the cheap silk-like fabric. I knew from the trembling in his arms he did so to keep his hands away from me. I couldn’t pry mine loose from his shirt...I’d stopped trying the moment his hips ground harder into mine.
My body hummed with anticipation...with the need to find release one way or another, even if it killed me.
I moistened my lips and had to draw in a deeper breath. The smell of Dawson’s aroused body saturated every square inch of my insides. I knew his lips were no more than an inch from mine. Jesus Christ, I wanted him so damned bad.
Vibration above us dragged my attention upward. Hobbs and whoever he’d brought to help were digging us up.
Thank God.
We had to hang on long enough for them to reach us. It was hot and muggy in here...like my bathroom after a long, long shower. I tried to focus on anything but the here and now. Told myself it would only take a little while longer.
That thought flew apart when the trembling in Dawson’s arms escalated to the whole body tremors. At first I worried that he was hurt worse than I realized...a seizure maybe? Then he groaned helplessly and I knew that wasn’t the case.
He was coming.
My body plunged into autopilot before the thought fully assimilated in my brain. I could almost hear my G-spot screaming Wait for me!
I let it happen...had no control...undulated my hips...soaked up the pleasure of feeling how hard he was...how enormous...how I knew, without doubt, he would feel thrusting deep inside me. It didn’t take much effort...took even less brain power.
His hands found my hips, pressed me downward, sending spirals of pleasure along my every nerve ending. We whimpered together...helpless and at the same time somehow in control in the only way we could be given the situation.
He tensed. Bucked hard against me. Groaned like he was dying. I bit my bottom lip to hold back a cry of desperation as my own muscles contracted violently. He bucked twice more then went slack beneath me.
My head dropped onto his shoulder. His arms fell against me. My body throbbed with completion and I closed my eyes and surrendered to the exhaustion. Couldn’t think anymore...
Too tired...shouldn’t have...
I needed to breathe more deeply...couldn’t...needed to stay awake...couldn’t...
Then I relaxed...stopped fighting it...
Cool air whirled around my sweat dampened body. I groaned...hugged myself. Shivered.
“Jackie!”
I could hear Hobbs’ voice but it sounded far away.
Hands pulled at me. Friend or foe...I couldn’t tell but I had no strength to fight or flee. Couldn’t even open my eyes.
Suddenly I was on my back staring up at the stars in the night sky. Where was I?
How did I get here?
“Wake up, Jackie! You’re okay now. Open your eyes, girl,” Hobbs ordered.
“Dawson?” My voice sounded strained...weak.
“Don’t worry, he’s still alive.”
Hobbs leaned closer. “What happened?”
Lacking the focus or wherewithal, or maybe both, to speak I remained mute. I felt as if I’d had the hell beat out of me in addition to going on a week-long drinking binge. Somehow I dredged up the power to rotate my head toward movement in my peripheral vision. Two men I didn’t immediately recognize were attempting to bring Dawson around.
Recognition kicked in belatedly.
Ben and Jerry.
Dawson and I owed our lives to Hobbs’ gay posse.
“Jackie.”
I managed to turn my head back to look at Hobbs. “Hmmm?”
“Who’s the dead woman we found buried with you?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Somewhere during my unauthorized sexual education, between Harlequin romance novels read under the sheets with a flashlight and the stories my girlfriends told about back seat romps with various high school sports hunks, I remember hearing the orgasm called the mini-death.
I’d never actually thought of it that way, but I knew better now. Admittedly, mine and Dawson’s experience was more likely connected to oxygen deprivation rather than orgasm, still the concept crossed my mind.
We’d scarcely looked each other in the eye afterwards, especially considering the police had arrived immediately following our rescue and we were both busy trying to figure out where the dead woman had come from. Her body had been dumped into the grave, along with the dirt, on top of us. The next few hours had been spent with Nance. He’d barely allowed the paramedics to look us over before he grilled us with questions we couldn’t answer. I was a bit shaken and bruised and Dawson had a lump on the back of his head. Otherwise we were fine.
The conclusion was that we’d stumbled upon the perps in the act of concealing a homicide. I barely restrained a ya think? Since we couldn’t identify any of the men involved in our attack, which had clearly been a set-up but we couldn’t tell Nance that, Dawson and I were free to go home after giving our statements.
Dawson hadn’t shown up at the office until noon. He’d gone straight to his own corner, I’d stayed in mine. Obviously neither of us wanted to face the other. Hobbs had talked to Alita who had been appalled at the story of what took place in that cemetery. She’d apologized over and over for being someone’s stupid pigeon. Hobbs explained that the term was stool pigeon or patsy, but I’m not sure she comprehended the difference.
Though I felt confident that Dawson and I had been set up, there was still the remote possibility that we might very well have stumbled upon something simpler, totally unrelated to Disposable. But I doubted it. Or maybe I was simply obsessed with the whole business.
Even now, two full hours after I’d left the office for the day, I wanted to wince each time I thought about last night’s close call.
I shoved the final pin into place that would secure my French twist for the evening. Color rose in my cheeks every time I allowed my mind to wander back there—which was about every two minutes. I told myself I wouldn’t have let things get out of hand if I hadn’t been nearly certain I would die and not have to face the consequences.
Wrong.
I’d been attracted to Dawson from the moment I laid eyes on him. Why deny it? I made a promise to myself that I would keep our relationship professional. Had to keep my personal life and my work life separate. Nevertheless I had come as close to failure as I was willing to own up to. It was as basic as that. Granted I had extenuating circumstances to blame for my transgression, but the end result was the same: I had crossed the line.
Thank God we hadn’t kissed.
It sounded dumb, I know. But somehow I consoled myself with the idea that our lips hadn’t met. Our bodies hadn’t even touched. Not really. Layers of clothing had separated the whole naughty business.
I would hold onto that token consolation and pretend it hadn’t actually been sex. My gaze narrowed as I stared at my reflection. That might be stretching it a little, but if it made me feel better I could look at it that way. Hookers did it all the time.
Denial was a significant part of modern day survival.
The telephone rang, dragging my troubling thoughts back to earth and reality.
It was Friday night.
The blind date.
The bane of a single woman’s existence.
I stepped into my Christian Louboutins and reached for the phone. Whether the date was a total washout or not, I didn’t want to have any regrets on my part. I didn’t like taking the blame for failure. Did I mention I had a few obsessive-compulsive tendencies?
As a safety net I’d selected my Jade dress. There was no going wrong with this dress. It hugged every curve. Complimented my figure as if it had been designed specifically as a smokescreen for my particular flaws. The silky fabric caressed my skin i
n a way that even turned me on.
“Mercer.”
“Before you give me a piece of your mind, let me explain.”
Mom.
“Hey.” Then I remembered that we’d missed having lunch together yesterday and I’d ignored her call last night while otherwise occupied at the cemetery.
“An emergency meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary came up. I completely forgot our date. Hope you didn’t wait around for me.”
I smoothed a hand over my dress. Yep, I looked killer in this one. “That’s okay,” I assured her. “As a matter of fact I forgot too. Got caught up in something at the office.” I frowned. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“Hells bells, I guess I forgot to check my machine.”
Worry nudged at me. Alzheimer and a number of other ailments with memory loss as a primary symptom zoomed through my mind. My mother enjoyed great health but I still worried.
“I should have taken a nap this afternoon,” she said by way of explanation. “Those damned broads kept me up half the night. I’m still not firing on all cylinders.”
I could accept that. Whenever I didn’t get enough sleep I forgot plenty myself.
“I know what you mean. Was your meeting with the ladies productive?” I analyzed my reflection in the full-length mirror once more. I didn’t look half bad for a woman who’d spent a portion of last night buried in a coffin.
“My word, look at the time. Gotta go, dear. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
A distinctive click punctuated the end of the call.
I stared at the receiver for several moments. Was she giving me the kiss off or what? She’d definitely avoided my question. But why?
Before I could ponder the question too much the phone rang again.
“What’re you wearing?”
It was a good thing I recognized Donna’s voice or I could have mistaken the call for a lesbian heavy breather.