Beautifully Damaged (Contemporary Romantic Suspense)

by Faye, Amy

  She came up coughing as he pulled himself out in time to shoot another rope of cum that traced a line from her chin down to where her pretty dress covered her tits.

  "Good girl."

  Erin growled. "Get out of my apartment."

  "I'll be back," he said. "I'll see you next time."

  She leaned back against the door, more angry with herself for looking forward to it. What the fuck was wrong with her? This wasn't about sex, and it certainly wasn't about relationships.

  She was trying to catch the bastard who was killing these women. Craig showed every sign of being capable of it. She reached her hand down, pulled her dress up. Instead, she was like a bitch in heat.

  She didn't waste any time with getting herself ready. She was already as ready as she could be. If he'd decided to come back in and please himself with her pussy—she pushed the thought away. It wasn't about him. Wasn't about what he wanted.

  She needed to feel release, needed the sweet oblivion of an orgasm to wipe away the arousal that she didn't want to feel any more.

  Her fingers moved in quick, short circles, forcing the orgasm out through her fingers. Forcing the pleasure out of herself. She let out a soft moan, and then a louder one. It didn't matter if he left the door open. The only thing that mattered was what she needed, now.

  She could feel her orgasm approaching fast. She pinched a sensitive nipple, another shock of pleasure to add to the whirlwind of need that was building up in her belly as she played with her pussy.

  Her body got tense as she raced over the edge of oblivion, circling her clit hard and fast and chasing the pleasure as far as the trail would go. Finally she slumped over.

  She needed to get out of these clothes, and she needed to catch that son of a bitch Craig for what he'd done to her sister.

  If he'd done anything like that to her—Erin couldn't think of it. Her sister wouldn't have enjoyed it like she had. Becca was the good girl.

  Erin was the bitch, and sometimes bitches enjoyed things they shouldn't.

  Sixteen

  The day had already been long, and now it was only getting longer. She shouldn't have been called out, but Roy had texted her and she was going regardless.

  There was another one. This one was newer than any of the ones they'd found, but he'd broken the pattern. It always happened eventually, Roy said. And when it happened, that was when they managed to find something that would bag the bastard.

  She came into a scene that was already too crowded with people. She didn't have a badge to flash, and the suit wore a badge that read F.B.I. on his hip, so she couldn't even rely on his recognizing her.

  "I was called out to the scene. Get Schafer. He'll confirm the story."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Official personnel only unless I have orders otherwise."

  "Then go talk to Roy. Schafer. He told me to come to the scene, and here I am. I'm a cop, God damn it. Can't you at least do me that favor?"

  He looked askance at the reporters around. "No, ma'am. I have to stay here."

  "You can't go off for one goddamn second?"

  He caught someone trying to slip under the caution tape with one arm and pushed them back, without too much concern for their safety or the safety of the camera on their shoulder.

  Then the agent shot her a look as if to say 'see?'

  "She's with me," came a voice from behind. Roy's voice.

  "Yes, sir."

  He stood aside a second to let Erin through. She could hear him say "Not you" to someone who tried to follow her through. She could only imagine the stink-eye that they caught for it.

  "Sorry about the trouble," Roy said, giving an apologetic smile. It was already a long day, and it was only going to get longer.

  The woman was surrounded by groceries. She'd been out shopping, it seemed, and had taken a cut down a back alley. The part of town wasn't so bad this time, and it was the middle of the day when she'd been stabbed.

  "What did you need me for?"

  "Call it a gesture of good will and inter-departmental cooperation."

  "Okay," she said, pulling on gloves. The body was cool, but it wasn't ice cold. Pretty, dark-haired. It was hard not to notice the similarities to the other women.

  "Do we have an I.D.?"

  "Sure we do. Irene Cassidy, aged twenty-eight. Leaves behind a husband, aged twenty-seven, and a little girl, aged four."

  Erin didn't have anything to say. She looked up at Roy, who gave her an understanding shrug. It was sad, no doubt. But neither of them had time to waste on feeling sad right now.

  "Time of day is different."

  "Yes."

  "And the victim was married. Could she have been stepping out on the side?"

  "Not likely," Roy answered. "We've got techs going over the home P.C. now, but it's not looking very likely at all. Far as we can tell, the husband used it mostly. She was less the computer type. Used it to buy stuff online when she couldn't get it local, that sort of thing. Not a heavy user."

  "And she was married, to boot."

  "Yes."

  "Any chance that it's a coincidence? Husband did it and copied another killer to make use figure it was him instead?"

  "Again—not likely."

  "No, I didn't think so."

  Erin let out a breath. She could already guess what had happened. It wasn't hard to do. If he was a sadist—and she knew Craig sure as hell seemed to be one, her feelings on which were a whole mess she didn't want to untangle right now—then she'd definitely riled him up earlier.

  He could have gone right out and found someone to kill. Someone who wasn't her. Why he put off killing her instead, she didn't know. She only knew that she couldn't exactly afford to go out at night with her 'new boyfriend,' or maybe he'd get a repeat performance in.

  "What else can you tell me?"

  "Not a whole lot else. She's a model citizen. Good mother, far as we can tell. Everyone who we've been able to talk to—understand we've only had the scene for an hour or so—seemed to love her. Heartbroken. I mean, you know, everyone says that, but my guys say they buy it."

  She considered telling him about what she'd done. Considered it for a long time, because it would have answered quite a few questions that were sure to be looming large in Roy's mind. But telling him would mean that either she became the F.B.I.'s bait, or he'd make her stop. Either way meant that she let someone else have control, and she couldn't do that.

  Not when it was her sister's life. Anyone else, fine. She'll take shotgun, let them call the shots, and she would do what she had to do. But they would just fuck it up, she knew. The only person she could count on in this case was herself.

  "Two murders in, what, three days? He's getting faster."

  "This one wasn't planned," Schafer answered off-hand.

  "No, I guess it wasn't."

  "We're sweeping the place for prints, but we're not expecting much. We're more hopeful for fibers and hairs."

  "You said when they break pattern, they make mistakes."

  "That's right. We'll make a cop out of you yet."

  She soured at the joke. "But does that mean that he keeps going with the plan? Should we expect another murder within the week?"

  Roy crouched down next to her, exhaling through his nose. "I hope not."

  "But you're afraid so."

  "But I'm afraid so," he agreed.

  "Then we have four days to nail him."

  "At most," Roy said. He sounded tired. She almost wanted to invite him back to get some rest at her place. She'd just learned a great new trick, after all, and she was eager to practice. The fear of the wrong person bursting in told her not to.

  "Is there anything else?"

  "Sure. You learned anything from your, ah, time off?"

  "Oh, yeah. Sure. Talk shows are garbage."

  Roy gave her an even, frustrated look. "Okay, sure. Keep your secrets. But when you get done being clever, give me a call. If you find anything out, it's better we both know everything. You can't catch him si
ngle-handed, and I need all the information I can get if I'm going to do anything about it."

  "Okay. If anything happens to come on Oprah—"

  "She's not doing T.V. any more," Roy said reflexively.

  "Fine. Whoever, then."

  "You want, like, Wendy Williams."

  "That's fine."

  He looked up from the body. "I'm just saying."

  Erin stood up. Had he had her as an appetizer, come out for this murder, and then finished her off again for dessert? She felt for her car keys and took them in hand, only realizing after a minute that she was gripping them hard enough to hurt.

  "I'll text you." Erin turned to leave.

  "Hey, you want to get dinner later?"

  She knew that he wasn't talking about inter-agency cooperation any more, and she could feel the butterflies in her stomach at the idea. She wanted to. She'd had a good time with him, back in Wyoming when he wasn't being a bastard who stole important cases from people.

  "Maybe when you're done here," she said. She wanted to refuse, to save what little dignity and independence she had left. She needed to keep working on the case, to make sure that she didn't set off another one of these murders. The words came out on their own. "I need to get a shower."

  Seventeen

  The second that she got out of the shower she already felt better. A long day, no question, but she'd be able to make it through. Somehow. She checked that the chain lock was still fitted in the door before she went back to her bedroom to get dressed.

  Something had her spooked about the place not being totally secure. Somehow, Craig Hutchinson had made it in, and while she absolutely didn't have any trouble believing that he was the sort of man who knew a few locksmiths' tricks, that didn't make her feel much better about the situation. If he could get in once, then he would be able to get in again, no problem. Which meant that Erin need to constantly be on her guard until she was able to put him behind bars.

  Erin heard her phone buzz from its place, face-down on the cabinet. She picked it up and answered.

  "Russo."

  "Good to hear your voice again." Roy's voice was low and rough with tiredness. "Have you figured out where I'm taking you for dinner?"

  "No, and I'm not going to. Ask someone else for a recommendation, but you're going to surprise me. I told you that."

  "You might have forgotten, and I'm a stranger in a strange land, you know."

  "That's what makes it so fun." Erin could imagine him squirming, and smiled at the thought. He didn't seem like the kind of man who ever squirmed. Rather, he seemed like the kind of man who was incapable of squirming. Like he might try and fail.

  "Then you'll have to come find me. I'm pulled off on the side of the road here next to a…" A pause, in which she could imagine he was looking out the window to read the name of the place. "McDonald's, I guess. You guys even have strange McDonald's out here, huh?"

  "Not that strange."

  "Well, come find me. Then we'll find someplace to eat."

  "We're not having McDonald's."

  "Boo," he teased. "Obviously we're not. Now, you're a detective. Time to start your detective training. Come find me, and then we'll find someplace. But I need a guide around town, so I don't get lost."

  "But getting lost is half the fun."

  "Then we'll both have fun, smart aleck."

  "See you in a bit." Erin hung up the phone and pulled on some clothes, the cold having pulled her skin tight around her body and raising goosebumps.

  She tried four McDonalds locations before she found the government-issue sedan that Roy sat in. He stuck out like a sore thumb, so she should have realized that she didn't need to pull into the others and look carefully.

  The car was instantly recognizable as a government car, kept in reasonably good shape with blacked-out windows and government plates. It might as well have said "I'm with the F.B.I." on the side of it for all the good it did hiding the information.

  She opened the passenger door and slipped inside.

  "You found me!" He feigned surprise.

  "Somehow. I guess it's just my incredible sense as a detective that led me to your location, first try."

  "Really. First place you checked?"

  "Absolutely."

  He looked suitably impressed, though she suspected that he had no illusions about her telling the truth.

  "Well, I was thinking Italian."

  "Perfect. Drive me away, Romeo."

  "I don't know if I'd go that far," he chuckled. "How about just dinner?"

  "Good enough for me," Erin purred. They made their way back onto the streets, busy enough to take a good look around. As she had promised, she provided very little—if anything—in the way of directions.

  He'd ask if she had a recommendation every few corners, or if she liked a particular restaurant. She practiced her shrug. Finally they pulled into a restaurant with 'Italian' in the name. Erin hadn't been there before; in fact, hadn't heard the name. It was too far north to be part of her usual repertoire, but she wasn't about to criticize just because of that.

  They were seated and a thirty-something who looked like they'd made poor life decisions came to ask what they wanted to drink. Water, they both answered. A minute later, breadsticks came with the drinks. Erin picked one up and slowly started making her way through the basket.

  "How are you liking Los Angeles?"

  "Oh, you know. It's a big city. They're all pretty similar, when all you have to go on is a field office and a hotel."

  "I suppose that's probably true, when you get to enough of them. I wouldn't know."

  "Then you should have recommended someplace."

  "Nah," she said, waving the suggestion away with the half-eaten breadstick in her hand. "Where's the fun in that?"

  "So you're doing all this for my benefit, then?"

  "Of course!" She smiled. "I care for your education, Roy. Think of this as a pre-test. Then, over the next few days, you learn about the city, and we see whether or not you're as knowledgeable as the locals on the spots."

  "I don't think that I'm going to learn that much in only a few days."

  "That's because you didn't have someone tutoring you all those other times."

  "And you're planning on being my… what, tutor? In food-related matters?"

  "Well, that and detective-work, of course. But I think we should start with where you're closest to success."

  Roy's lips pinched together in annoyance that might have been feigned. "You're right. I'm sorry. I should've known better."

  "That's the spirit. Grovel just a bit."

  "Groveling isn't my thing," he said. His voice was mild, but his expression had changed, just a little bit. As if he wanted to show her that he was a little bit dangerous. Compared to Craig, Roy Schafer was a kitten, and she wasn't sure that she minded it one bit.

  She'd already gotten herself into a spot that she shouldn't have gotten herself into. Now that she was hip-deep in trouble, the suggestion to leave it alone, to go home and watch a pack of hyenas pretending to be people rip apart another woman on the basis of female sisterhood.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Erin wanted to tell Roy what she'd done. Wanted to get some feedback on what she was supposed to do next. It was a dangerous game that she was playing, and explaining how she got the information she was hoping to get, when it was finally time to cash out, would be hard. It would make it that much less awkward if she were able to get him in on the game plan now, before the trouble had come up.

  Would it make the evidence that they got inadmissible? She wasn't sure. But that wasn't what she was concerned about right now. Undercover agents worked on cases like this all the time. All she was doing was working undercover.

  But undercover cops had someone pulling their strings, someone who could pull them out of the situation if things got too dangerous, and here she was, walking the tight-rope without a safety net.

  "Roy, I need to tell you something, and I need this to stay betwe
en us."

  "Okay," he said, sitting back and looking for the waitress who hadn't taken their order yet. "I can promise that. Probably."

  "Well, probably will have to be good enough." She let out a breath. "I may have made contact with Hutchinson."

  "I assumed you would," he said, rubbing his nose. "What have you got?"

  "Nothing yet. The guy's scary, though. I wouldn't put it past him. He admitted to knowing my sister, though he says he hasn't heard from her since she left Minnesota."

  "Okay. We can work with that. What's the cover?"

  "I'd—" Erin let out a breath and tried to still her heart beating. "I'd rather not say."

  "That's fine. I'm not your dad. But stay safe, and the minute that there's trouble, you call me, alright?"

  "Okay," she said, making a mental note to save his number again. She might not forget this time.

  "I'll text you to check in once a day. If I don't hear from you within an hour or two, we bring the hammer down. Fair?"

  "Fair enough," she said. The waitress was coming up, finally, her wide hips swishing as she walked with a hurry that suggested that she just realized how long they'd been sitting there, the breadstick basket still empty.

  "Oh, look at that," the waitress murmured. "You're out of breadsticks. Well, I'll get you some more of those, but could I take your order while I'm at it?"

  Erin let out a breath. Not the best Italian place she'd been. But it was a learning experience, just like it was going to be digging into the muck that was Craig Hutchinson.

  Eighteen

  Waking up late had always come hard for her. But when Erin avoided sleep long enough, it was an unhappy necessity that she had to deal with in spite of her best intentions to sleep as little as necessary and never past the sunrise.

  She opened her eyes slowly, and closed them again. The sun had somehow found a way through the blinds that managed to fall square across her eyes, and after a night's rest it was blindingly bright.