by JB Skully
The phone rang again, right next to her, and she jumped.
"Play the sex game, Max,” Cameron whispered insidiously. “You remember how. Use sex for something good this time. And please, try to sound a little bit more like Bethany. You're not going to fool anyone as it is."
Ring. She disregarded it. “Why are you riding me?"
"Answer the phone."
She did. It was part of the plan. This could be Helen's Achilles. Cameron was right. She had to at least try to sound like Bethany. She closed her eyes. “Hello, this is Helen. What can I do for you tonight?"
"What are you wearing, Helen?"
Sweatshirt, jeans, and boots. She plopped down on the floor with her back to the wall. “Black lace bra. Garter belt. Stockings. High heels."
"What color are your panties?"
She bit her lip before answering. The pages of the script were supple in her fingers, but Bethany had long since stopped needing them. They fluttered to the floor. “I'm not wearing any."
"Christ. Are you wet?"
"I don't know. Do you want me to touch myself?"
"Jesus, yes."
She let out a soft sigh. “Mmm. Yeah, I am. Real wet.” She didn't know where the words came from, nor the tense, needy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Bethany's strength trickled through her veins.
"Are you hard?” she whispered with a throaty growl.
Bethany writhed. Bethany's nipples popped out. Bethany basked in the power of his harsh moan across the wires. Max knew this time she really did sound like the woman.
"I wanna stick my cock in you."
"I want you so bad."
"I wanna fuck you until you scream, oh yeah."
"I'm screaming while you're doing it."
"Oh yeah.” He grunted, groaned, let a harsh cry, and then the phone went dead. He wasn't going to pay for a second more than he had to.
She felt dirty.
"Was it him?"
"No."
"Why does a little sex talk bother you?"
She didn't answer his question, but asked her own instead. “Why did she do it?"
"You tell me."
Max closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the cool paint of the wall. There was an ache in her belly that didn't come from too many jelly donuts, a pain in her heart that had nothing to do with watching Cameron die two years ago, and a hollow place inside her that couldn't be filled. “Talking to them was the only time she ever really felt like someone wanted her."
Phone sex was a drug to medicate Bethany's loneliness, like Max used one night stands.
"She wanted to be wanted, and someone killed her for it.” Max swiped at the tear on her cheek. It wasn't her own. She never cried.
She took a breath, then gathered up the pages of the script and stuck them back in their hidey-hole. Neither she nor Bethany needed them.
"Find her killer. Give her peace, Max."
She looked into the darkness as if she could see him. “That's why you wanted me to do this, isn't it?"
"So you'd have empathy?"
"Yeah."
"Do you?"
She worried her bottom lip. “I do want to find her killer."
That was all the answer he'd get.
The phone rang yet again. This time she didn't jump out of her skin.
Chapter Ten
The sound of the ringing phone felt like part of a dream. It wasn't. Max shivered with the cold of the linoleum against her butt as she sat on the kitchen floor. She listened for the dog's bark next-door, in case someone was close by. Though the smell of death was barely detectable now that she'd gotten used to it, she tasted the fetid air with every breath she took through her open mouth.
She knew Achilles was on the other end when he drew a breath to speak, felt his voice like it was a guitar pick striking a chord deep inside Bethany Spring. A chord of disappointment struck deep inside Max.
"I thought I'd die before I heard your voice again, Helen."
Max had convinced herself Achilles was Bethany's murderer. So much for her psychic abilities. If he had killed her last night, he certainly wouldn't be calling the dead woman tonight.
Or would he? Maybe he was clever. Clever enough to try throwing the police off his track. Had there been an infinitesimal hesitation when she'd answered? Had there been some vital clue in his tone? Oh, but if he was setting her up, he was so very crafty about it.
"I didn't think you'd call after our last conversation,” she murmured, buying time. Did she sound like Bethany? Would she fool him?
"Why wouldn't I call? Because we fought? You should know better. The push-pull of any relationship, Helen, my love. I'll always be back for you. Forgive me for pushing too hard?"
Deep. Throaty. Masculine. Bethany scrambled to the surface of Max's consciousness. He was her Achilles. And more. Perhaps her Achilles’ heel. Her weakness.
"I forgive you.” Bethany would always forgive him if he kept calling her, kept telling her how beautiful she was, how seductive her tongue, her voice, and how enticing her imagination.
"What are you wearing tonight?"
There was something about that voice, something familiar yet elusive, something tempting yet frightening. It wasn't because she'd heard it in her dreams. It was more. The timbre carried an underlying sense of menace she recognized from ... somewhere.
Max played the game, praying that in the end she would win all the answers she desired. Her lids fluttered down, shutting out the moon filtering through the curtained back door; so easy to let Bethany slip into her. All she had to do was allow the invasion. The cold floor fell away into the soft giving cushions of the sofa. The rough denim fabric of her jeans melted into the sensuality of satin.
"I dressed for you,” she whispered and knew he couldn't tell the difference between Bethany's voice and her own.
"Tell me,” he rasped, a breath warming her as though his lips were next to her ear.
Eyes closed, mind open, Bethany's thoughts and feelings flooded her. For once, Max let them take over completely. Satin fell open across freshly shaved skin. The scent of peaches swirled in air still humid from her bath. She licked the luscious taste of chocolate from her lips and sipped the fruity wine.
"I'm wearing a teddy. I can feel the silk between my legs, pulling tight against me as I move. I imagine it's your tongue."
"Ahh, God. Touch yourself. Let me feel how you feel against your fingers."
She'd heard his voice so many times, she'd know him anywhere. And nowhere. He could have been a thousand men. He could be only one. His moan vibrated through her body, ignited a fire between her legs.
Bethany's legs parted, her hand skimmed her breasts, her beaded nipples, the smooth flesh of her belly, the silk of her curls. “I'm wet, slippery, soft. There, do you feel that, my clitoris?” She cried out as her index finger nudged the sensitive core. “Lick it for me."
"You taste like whipped cream. Come in my mouth."
Bethany's fingers worked her magic, her hips bumping with the rhythm, his breath harsh in her ear.
"Put the phone down there. Let me hear you. Let me hear how slick and dripping you are."
She came as she did, imagining his head between her legs and his tongue inside her, all over her.
She dragged the phone back to her ear.
"I want my cock in your mouth. Suck me, God, I love it when you suck me."
As if he were there with her right now, she could smell his masculine musk. “I can taste the salt of pre-come on my tongue. I lick the tiny slit, stick my tongue in it and drive you wild. Then I take you, my lips all the way down to the base of your oh-so-lovely hard cock. Do you feel it? Do you like it?"
"Christ, yes.” His breath was ragged in her ear.
"Faster and harder, I suck and swirl all around you."
"I wrap your hair around my hands and ram all the way home."
Her breath came as erratically as his. “I love it. Oh God. Fuck my mouth. Fuck me.” Tasting him, feeling him slide in
and out of her lips brought her to the edge of orgasm. She wanted this, wanted him, so badly. He pulsed in her mouth.
"Jesus Christ, I'm going to come.” He groaned, moaned, then growled deep against her ear. “Swallow me. All of me."
She came at precisely the same moment he did, his thick come shooting down her throat. Bucking against him, she felt everything he did and more, her body drenched with her own juices. She swallowed, then ringed his cock with her tongue, licking away the last vestiges of potency.
He breathed heavily for long moments, sharp, heavy. Then finally, he calmed. Her body still vibrated with orgasm.
"Smell your fingers,” he grated against her eardrum.
Bethany sniffed, her body's scent redolent on her skin.
"Taste your fingers."
She sucked on them.
He let out a long breath. “Now you know what I'm tasting when I go down on you."
Oh yes, she reveled in the taste and knew they were one for that moment.
"When I kiss you, I can taste my come on your tongue.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love knowing you've taken it all, swallowed every drop. Tell me you love it, too."
"I love your come in my mouth, down my throat,” she said with the same reverent whisper.
"I always knew you loved it, you dirty little bitch."
His words hit her like ice cubes down her back. Max came alive with a jolt. The receiver bumped her chin. Her eyes popped open. She sat on the kitchen floor, knees to her chest, one arm wrapped around them and her panties damp with Bethany's excitement.
Oh God.
Those words. She'd heard them before. Somewhere. Somewhere bad. Somewhere in a bad dream.
She slammed the phone down just as she started to hyperventilate.
* * * *
Max was halfway through the doggie door and stuck before she remembered her hips were a tad too big when hitting the hole dead on. She twisted and pulled and pushed, frenzied, as if Bethany's caller could jump through the phone lines and grab her like Freddy Krueger.
Tears of anger and panic welled up in her eyes. Dammit, dammit. She wiggled and wriggled violently, then collapsed, the bottom of the doggie door digging into her above the pubic bone.
"Calm down,” Cameron soothed.
"I am calm,” she hissed. “Just get me out of here."
"Talking to yourself again, Max?"
Shit.
She looked up. Arms akimbo on massive hips. Tree trunk legs. Walk-all-over-me boots.
Witt.
Hips still wedged in the doggie door, Max gave him her brightest smile. “Why Witt, whatever are you doing here?"
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Max looked from Witt to her butt in the hole and back again. “Well, right now, I'm kind of stuck,” she said, still with the bright smile pasted on her lips.
"Let me rephrase the question. What the hell are you doing breaking through a police seal?"
"Actually, I didn't break it.” She glanced up at the yellow tape. “As you can see, it's still intact."
"Your butt won't be when you get out of there."
Ooh, very ominous. She couldn't see his eyes at this distance, but she was sure they were stormy. Stormy weather ahead. “Ah, do you think you could help out a little here, and we'll discuss this later?"
Witt tromped up the porch stairs. Max turned sideways to look up at him, and her hips slid free. Her palms skidded across the wooden porch—thank God she wore gloves or her palms would have been chock full of splinters—and she tumbled out in a heap at his feet. Not a good position to be in with any man, let alone Witt.
He wore boots, scuffed, thick soled, military style boots, the kind she liked best on a working man. Her gaze traveled his jean-clad legs, skipped up to his waist. She went bug-eyed when she got to the black and red plaid shirt. She'd once—or twice—had a fantasy about a lumberjack...
This was all Cameron's fault. “Dammit, did you push me?"
The words were out before she thought. She was talking to Cameron, of course, since she was sure she'd felt a ghostly hand on her butt.
"I'd be more likely to leave you and call the cops. Is he here?"
She rose, took two steps to the side because, as usual, the man was crowding her, then tugged off her gloves. Shoving them in her back pocket, she dusted off the knees of her jeans. She was only briefly embarrassed by the paint stains on her sweatshirt. Witt didn't seem to notice. Sucking on her bottom lip, she reviewed her options. Tell him the truth. Or lie. What came out was somewhere in between. “I don't know who you're talking about."
"Your husband. Cameron Starr. Assistant District Attorney Starr. Is he here?"
"Oh, him.” She shifted from her right foot to her left. “Don't you think we ought to get out of here before that dog starts barking? We might get caught."
Witt didn't seem to be in a hurry. He ignored the question. He spoke in a soft voice to match hers, but there was nothing tentative in what he said. “Did you know Bethany Spring's father was your husband's last case?"
Whammo, like a sharp shooter, he hit her right between the eyes with that one. “No way. He would have told me."
"Before or after he was dead?"
She took a deep breath, prayed to God for strength to understand and deal with snippy, pissed off cops, and ignored his question. “What exactly was Bethany's father's case?"
"Don't know."
She waited ever so patiently. Witt added nothing. Crickets chirped in the bushes. A train whistled in the distance. The dog slept on. “Can't you find out?” she was forced to prompt.
"It was only mentioned peripherally in your husband's case file, a reference to what he'd been working on at the time. Ordered the Spring file from Records. Should have it in a day or two.” He paused, and his eyes looked almost black in the darkness. “Findings came down on that case after your husband was dead."
"Dead.” God, she hated that word. So inevitable. So final. Yet life with Cameron had never ended. She wrapped her arms around her middle, suddenly feeling the night chill.
"Coincidence, Max, I don't like it. The number 452, Bethany Spring living next-door to my mother, your husband's involvement in the father's case. Ask him what the hell's going on."
Chapter Eleven
Max's eyes damn near felt like they'd popped out of her head. “I thought you thought I was crazy."
"Nutty as a fruitcake were my exact words. Ask him anyway."
It was the strangest thing she'd ever done in her life. Cameron's answer was in her head before she'd even finished thinking the question. “He says he can't remember anything before he died."
Witt wagged his finger and raised a blond brow. “Seems to remember you well enough."
She pursed her lips. “He says I'm quite unforgettable."
"Second that."
A pleasant little quiver ran up her spine at Witt's words. She didn't add that Cameron had also said she was a pain in the corporeal ass. She was sure Witt would second that, too.
"So if he remembers you, why can't he remember what happened before he died?"
"He remembers strong emotions, not events. He usually doesn't remember any details unless I remind him first.” It was what Cameron claimed, though she wasn't totally convinced of his ghostly amnesia. Sometimes Cameron came out with stuff she knew they'd never talked about since he died. Like his persistent questions about that argument they'd had the night he died. He remembered something she certainly didn't.
His voice pounded relentlessly inside her head, drowning out her own thoughts. “He doesn't remember the Spring case at all, but the name does feel familiar to him."
"Did he mention anything to you about it before he was killed?"
She sensed Cameron's excitement, started to speak. It was like translating a foreign language, with Cameron's thoughts coming so fast, she could barely keep pace.
"Will you wait up,” she snapped. Her throat was dry, and her tongue felt odd, like the time she'd taken too
many codeine after a dental visit.
"Okay, okay. There was something else, something that took his mind off the case, but he can't pinpoint what it was."
Witt, a quick study, abandoned the questions about memory and went straight to the heart. “How'd he feel about it?"
She didn't like talking feelings with Witt. Even if they were Cameron's. “Angry. A little worried. Puzzled."
"Anything else?"
She listened, then shook her head.
Witt stared at her for a heartbeat, then grabbed her arm. “Let's get the hell out of here."
What are you thinking, she wanted to scream at him. What does it mean? Cameron.
I love you. Let him help you. We'll talk about this later.
So she let Witt pull her across the lawn, let him hoist her over the fence and detour around the sleeping dog to the opposite side of the yard. He went through the hedge first, giving her the all clear, then pulled her up and over to safety. Relative safety. Except that the touch of his hands stayed on her skin like phantom fingers, and that didn't leave her feeling anywhere near safe. He'd done all of it, too, without saying a word.
She wanted to throw a tantrum.
She still felt the slime of Bethany's Achilles.
The street was empty, though she could hear distant traffic down on the El Camino. She glanced at her watch. Just after one. She couldn't believe she'd been in the house that long. Witt's hand reached out, slipped along her flesh, past her elbow, over her forearm, and down to take hold of her hand.
No one had held her hand to walk down a street in two years.
Dammit, she hated to admit how good it felt, her fingers snugly in his. Proprietary. Wanted. Special.
Bethany liked it, too, skin tingling, heart racing. Yeah, that was Bethany.
"I can walk by myself, thank you very much.” Perversely she pulled her hand away.
Witt merely shrugged. She knew the creep was only waiting to get back to her car to explode. Well, she'd beat him to it. She widened her stride and quickened her pace, already digging in her pocket for her car keys.
Within sight of her Miata, Witt's voice rumbled close to her ear, “Don't even think about leaving until we have a little talk, Max."
Damn the man. He was getting as bad as Cameron, reading her every thought and move. “Don't you have to get up early for work in the morning? I wouldn't want to get in the way of your beauty sleep."