Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “You need anything—you call,” Blade said as he walked out the back door. The wood of the screen slapped against the door’s frame.

  “I gotta get on out of here, too, but I’m damn glad to see you’re out,” Rebel said, then turned and headed for the door. “Ain’t no way you killed your ol’ lady, and it’s about time the law wised up.”

  “Thanks again, Rebel.”

  “Anytime,” he waved his hand as he walked out the back door. “Anytime.”

  When the screen door slammed in finality, Snake jumped. Aside from the rumble of Blade’s old truck and Rebel’s Harley as he pushed the electric start, then drove off down the stone driveway, the house was completely silent. He felt sorely alone, much like within the walls of CCNO. Sure, he had his buddies; and he had Comet and Ajax, too, who, master quickly forgotten, lay curled beneath the large oak outside the back door, but he had little else. Damn, but he wasn’t even sure he would have a job to go to come Monday morning.

  The one thing Snake knew, by now, Kip would be aware of the fact that he had been let out of the correctional center; that he was once again a free man. News travels fast in a small town. He doubted, though, when he walked into the shop a few short moments away, he would be a welcomed sight. Snake had little choice; Kip would not likely forgive him. But nevertheless, Snake needed to say the words anyway. He had never been sorrier about anything in his life.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed for the shower.

  * * *

  Snake stepped off his Softail, the black paint with its red-and-gold pinstripe shining in the bright sun. The black-and-white bandanna he wore around his head kept the hair from flying into his face and the sweat from dripping on his brow.

  He took the silver sunglasses from his face and tucked one bow into the waistband of his leather pants. His chest, covered with nothing more than a black quilted vest, sported a gleaming silver cross suspended by a black nylon cord.

  His courage nearly escaped him as he stepped up to the front doors of the shop, a neon green sign stating the fact that Napoleon Harley- Davidson closed their business on Sundays. Inhaling a deep breath, he swung open the silver and glass door and stepped into the showroom. Three Harley-Davidsons sat for display in the center of the room. To the left of the displays were seats, handlebars, and ’shields, where to the right sat an assortment of Harley wear from T-shirts to bathing suits and leather jackets.

  Snake walked up to the brown-and-tan counter, a guardrail wrapping the front, the heels of his boots muffled by the gray carpeting. Lindsey, a short, petite blonde, walked from the parts room to the showroom. Her eyes rounded when she saw him, her gaze taking in the wounds of his face, though she didn’t comment on them.

  A smile cocked on Snake’s lips. “Glad to see you, too.” He laughed.

  Her face reddened about the shade of a rear taillight when lit. “Of course, I’m glad to see you, but…”

  “Kip,” he voiced for her. “Is he here?”

  She pointed through the opened entrance to the back of the shop. “In the service area.”

  “Alone?”

  “Everyone else went to lunch.” She tugged on her earlobe.

  Snake knew, whenever Lindsey Buckner got a case of the nerves, she tugged on her ear. No doubt, the whole place knew by now he had slept with Debra Lewis. After all, with only nine people in employment, how slow did he expect news to travel?

  “Thanks,” he said, then walked around the counter and to the back room. He wasn’t about to cause poor Lindsey any more discomfort than he already had.

  Snake walked through the parts area and into the service room, where he spotted Kip kneeling before a bike, adjusting the push rods. Snake stopped when he got to the end of the long green workbench and waited for Kip to look up.

  Obviously not needing a visual to know who was standing in his space, Kip said, “I wasn’t expecting you. You got some balls, I’ll give you that much.”

  “You knew they were letting me out.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “So I was informed.”

  “And you didn’t think this would be the first place I’d come?”

  Kip shrugged, continuing his work as if Snake hadn’t even taken the initiative to show up. Normally Kip never fixed the bikes himself, that was the reason he hired help. But whenever something bothered him, Kip had a tendency to pour himself into his work. “I was hoping you’d have had better sense.”

  “You saying I don’t have a job?”

  Kip slammed his wrench on the counter as he stood and glared at Snake. He gaze softened minutely, if at all, when he glanced at Bull’s handiwork, then quickly iced over. Snake thought hatred would brim the depths of his brown eyes; instead, fury radiated slowly within them, along with what only could be thought of as a tinge of pain. An ache centered in Snake’s abdomen, gripping his gut like a vise.

  “I’m saying, I think you need some time off.” Kip’s clipped tone turned the cam, tightening the hold on Snake’s gut.

  “I’m sorry,” Snake finally said.

  Kip chuckled non-humorously. “You think that will fix things, Snake? You think you can walk in here, tell me how sorry you are, and I’ll forgive you? Think again, my friend.”

  “So what? It’s over? Just like that?”

  Kip went back to work on the motorcycle. “You were like my brother.”

  Snake paced the area in front of Kip. He wished he could rant and rave, tell Kip he deserved more because of the time put into their friendship. But in truth, Snake knew he deserved no more than he got. He deserved Kip’s wrath.

  “It will never happen again,” Snake finally said, stopping in front of the motorcycle. Christ, like that would ever fix things. “It should have never happened to begin with.”

  “True enough.” He knew he shouldn’t ask, but somehow he had to know. “And Debra, how is she?”

  Kip looked at Snake, malice bubbled within his eyes like a pot near to boiling over. “You want another shot at her, Gallego? She’s in the front office.”

  “Christ, Kip. How the hell could you think—”

  He stood abruptly and pointed at Snake with the tip of the wrench. “I never would have thought in the first place. But you went behind my back and screwed my old lady anyway. What the hell do you want me to say, Snake? I forgive you? I understand? Because I sure in the hell don’t. You think for one minute I would have ever screwed Jillian?”

  The knife cut clean through his heart, nearly causing Snake to double over. Luckily, he had an empty stomach or the urge to wretch might have overpowered him, sending him to his knees. Instead, he stood tall, shoulders back.

  “No,” Snake said. “I trusted you.”

  “And I you, my friend. Now, get the hell out of my shop, before I change my mind and fire you anyhow.”

  “When do you want me to come back to work?”

  “I don’t know.” Kip returned to his business, dismissing him so easily. “I’ll call you.”

  Snake stood stationary as seconds, seeming like hours, ticked by, staring down at the top of his best friend’s salt-and-peppered head. A small shuffle drew his attention down the hall, leading to the offices. Debra’s eyes locked on Snake’s the briefest of seconds, then she fled back the way she came. His gaze returned to Kip, who continued his work as if he had not known his wife had just made an appearance. But Kip had known; Snake could tell by the stiffening of Kip’s shoulders.

  Without another word, Snake went back into the showroom. Lindsey Buckner sat on a stool behind the counter, blowing bubbles with her gum.

  “See ya, Snake,” she said between snaps of the pink goo.

  “Yeah.” Snake chuckled, the weight of his sins heavier now than when he had first walked into the shop. “See you around,” he said and stepped through the double doors into the blinding sun.

  Chapter 11

  Smoke filled the bar, gathering beneath the low-hanging stained- glass lights and cur
ling around the patrons like a phantom in a horror movie. Liquor poured and flowed freely. Here, sins compiled and no one had to atone for anything. This was the place for the weak. This was his hunting ground.

  He tipped the glass of soda to his lips and swallowed the clear liquid, feeling the carbonation bubbling against his esophagus. Never one to indulge much in smoke and drink, he carefully watched all who gathered. Somewhere in the bar, someone didn’t belong, leaving their husband and possible children to fend for themselves. A wife’s place was at home, beside her spouse, seeing to his every wish, his every command. Being a mother to her babies.

  Love, honor, and obey.

  He felt it his job to seek out a woman and make her pay for her infidelities. And tonight, he would find one such person.

  Boredom necessitates excitement.

  At the end of the polished bar, a shrill giggle caught his attention. Long, blond, curler-made ringlets bobbed on her head as she smiled at a man who had a date with a bottle of steroids. Muscles bulged to unnatural proportions from beneath his tank and too-short cutoffs. His thighs flexed; his pecs jumped at command as he seemed to put himself on display for the blonde. The girl squealed like a stuck pig and clapped her hands together. Her big, sloppy breasts jiggled in a too- tight tee that ended just below them. The cheeks of her derriere sloped beneath her jean shorts, giving all the men a good view of what lay beneath. Cellulite gently dotted her thighs.

  Slut.

  Had she a wedding ring on her tapered fingers, he would be all too glad to show her what adulterated devotion would get her.

  His fingers tightened around the glass as he quickly took another swallow and forced his gaze away. After all, he had to focus his mind on the task. Single women held no appeal to him—though they could bring dishonor to the female gender as easily as the sleaze at the end of the bar. They didn’t need him, they needed a stern husband to show them their station in life.

  His job came when the grooms failed to rein in their willful brides.

  Another female patron caught his notice, sipping gin and tonic through a slender pink straw. She caught his stare and smiled, her ruby- painted lips having a natural pout to them. She flipped one side of her brunette, softly-flowing hair over her shoulder, a large carat diamond wedding band glistening in the low lighting.

  Anticipation slithered up his spine.

  He tossed a few bills on the bar, picked up his glass, and walked to the table.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked, noting the three empty chairs. She smiled, her eyes flirtatious.

  She was the one; she had to die.

  The hollow of his gut told him as much, like the looming feeling of death, what a hawk surely must feel as it descends upon his prey.

  With a long, red, manicured nail, she pointed to the slut at the bar. “I’m with my girlfriend, but she seems a little preoccupied with Conan up there.”

  “I take it you don’t find his type appealing,” he said with a smile meant to charm her.

  She took the bait—hook, line, and sinker. Now all he need do is reel her in, careful, not too fast, lest the drag on the line snaps it and he loses his catch altogether.

  “No,” she grinned. “I like men who are more…natural.”

  He noted a shyness in the way she glanced at the table whenever he caught her eye. She absentmindedly toyed with the hair resting over her shoulder.

  He chuckled. Charm, he reminded himself.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” He took the shake of her head as a no. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure,” she said, holding up her glass of ice. “Gin and tonic.”

  Only a matter of time. A few dates, a few bucks, a few fucks.

  His hand tightened reflexively around his glass. His smile grew as he waved the barmaid and ordered two fresh drinks.

  “You come here often?” he asked.

  “Not really. I’m from Liberty Center, actually—south of here. You know where that is?”

  The fever grew within. “I certainly do. What’s your name?”

  “Samantha Duncan.”

  “As in Duncan Paving?”

  “You know of them?”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  Her smile faltered. “Are you from around Liberty Center, then?”

  “The general area, but I know of your husband.”

  “Oh,” she said, the titter in her voice betraying her nervousness.

  His smile grew as he winked at her. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Her shoulders relaxed; her gaze softened. “So what’s your name?”

  “Shawn.” He held out his hand and shook hers. “Shawn Michaels, and I’m damn glad to meet you.”

  * * *

  A few days passed since LeAnne had last laid eyes on Marcus Gallego, but he still invaded her thoughts with the force of a runaway train. She desired him, that much was evident, and there was little she could do about it. At least now she would never have to lay eyes on him again, and like everything else, the infatuation would fade with the memory.

  LeAnne’s gaze fell on Chad, who worked the area like the politician he was. They were definitely on his playground.

  But no matter how hard LeAnne tried, she could never quite imagine herself getting use to this sort of social event. Anyone who was anybody in Henry County had turned out for the engagement party of Judge Hargrove’s son.

  Chad wore a pair of khaki dress shorts and a cream-colored polo top. His shirt clung to his well-toned body. LeAnne should consider herself lucky. She never missed the way single women eyed him.

  Standing from the folding table and chair set, she straightened her short, rayon skirt and walked to Judge Hargrove and Chad.

  “A private conversation?” she asked.

  Chad smiled warmly, his love for her apparent in his gray eyes. He placed an arm about her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Of course not, babe. The judge and I were discussing the possibility of his son, Tony, coming to work for me when he passes the bar.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” LeAnne said, leaning into him. “That would certainly give us more time together.”

  “Jealous of my job?” Chad chuckled. “I guess that’s better than being jealous of another woman.”

  LeAnne cocked a brow. Jealousy had never been a part of her makeup. Besides, Chad Baker’s cheating on her was as likely as his breaking the law. He towed the line of justice. “Should I be?”

  He grinned, then kissed her forehead. “One more month, and I’ll show you just how devoted I am to you.”

  “Well, hell,” the judge interrupted. “I’ll let the two of you alone to discuss this matter. I see the guests of honor have arrived. If you’ll excuse me.”

  The robust judge waddled off like a penguin in his black jacket to greet Tony Hargrove and his fiancée, Julie. She appeared younger than her twenty-one years, her eyes green and her hair a soft auburn. She clung to Tony’s hand.

  Tony flashed a dazzling smile at his approaching father, who greeted each with a warm hug. The judge spoke a few words to them, then turned to his gathered guests.

  Handed a glass of champagne by his elderly secretary, he raised it skyward and said, “To the only son I ever had, who means the world to me, and to his future bride.”

  Cheers went up, applause filled the air, and champagne was passed. The smell of grilled steaks tempted the hungry. Judge Hargrove certainly knew how to throw a party.

  Moments later, Chad and LeAnne sat at a table across from the mayor and his wife, eating rib-eye steaks, herb and buttered potatoes, and little ears of corn. The shrimp appetizer long forgotten, LeAnne picked at the sautéed onions and mushrooms, not really paying attention to the conversation, her mind on the unsolved cases.

  She could not help but think of Jillian Gallego’s lifeless form, as her house sat about a half-mile west of the Hargrove’s. Though three months had passed, LeAnne could still see the picture of the beautiful woman fresh in her memory, just as Miranda H
olliday still was. Neither of these women deserved their fate, though someone out there would beg to differ. The more she studied the cases, the more positive she was that the same person committed both crimes.

  “Isn’t that right, babe?” Chad asked, interrupting her musings.

  She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Chad. What were you saying?”

  He gave a disgruntled sigh and turned to the others. “Forgive my fiancée. Her mind has a tendency to wander—especially of late.”

  “I can speak for myself, Chad,” LeAnne said, not liking his jealous- sounding tone.

  He glared at her, albeit briefly, then turned his smile back on the mayor. “Steve was just commenting on the case you’re working on. He wanted to know how things were coming.”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was just thinking of the very thing. Being so close to the first crime scene has me rehashing the facts.”

  He folded his hands atop the table and gave her his full attention. “And what facts do you have? The media isn’t telling us much.”

  LeAnne glanced at Sheriff Joe Drake, who had just arrived with a beautiful blonde on his arm, one she had not seen before. She wasn’t sure how much of the case the sheriff wanted to divulge, so LeAnne decided to keep her answers vague.

  “We have two women murdered, MO pretty much the same. They were strangled in their beds, wrists tied to the posts. No sign of struggle in either case. We’re still working on a list of suspects.”

  “From what I’m hearing,” Steve said, leaning closer to LeAnne from across the table, his tone hushed, “that it might be someone within the department.”

  “I’m not ready or willing to comment on that as yet,” LeAnne said, surprised how fast word got around.

  Steve chuckled, rested back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Come, now, Detective, we all know Wymer has been suspended, without pay. From what I hear, his wife is spitting mad and threatening to divorce him.”

  LeAnne wished the men would go back to ignoring her. She fared much better. “Deputy Wymer was officially suspended, pending an ongoing investigation. Which investigation, I’m not at liberty to say.”