Nothing More Beautiful (32 page)

“The name’s Tommy Hammer, ma’am, and I’ve
solved over 100 cases, so why don’t you sit down and tell me about
your brother.”

“Tommy Hammer?” I laughed.

“You got a problem with the name, babe, then
take your case to someone else.”

“You’re very good at this,” I said, taking a
seat on the other side of the desk. “Do you actually want me to
make up a story?”

“Make up a story? Honey, I want you to tell
me the truth,” he said, still in character. “I bet it was those
no-good mobsters down on Amsterdam. Did they take your brother?” He
slammed a fist on the desk before I could answer, and then jumped
to his feet. “I knew it was those scumbags. Was he murdered? Dumped
into the river?”

It was easy to see that he was very into his
role. He wanted me to play along, which was the point, but it was
really the whole setup that turned me on. My heart was fluttering
as he paced behind his desk, waiting for me to reply. “They took
him, Mr. Hammer,” I said in a squeaky voice. “Mickey Billa and his
gang—they took him yesterday, and no one has seen him since.”

“Billa and his gang, eh? Looks like I’ll be
needing this.” He took out an old revolver from a holster around
his waist and placed it on the desk. I flinched. “It’s not loaded,
doll. Nothing to fear.”

“Okay, good. I’m not a fan of guns,” I
admitted. “Is that a real cigarette?”

He tossed it on the desk. “Nah, it’s one of
those e-cigarettes. It’s not on either.” He returned to his seat,
kicked up his loafers, and leaned back in his chair. “I hope you
don’t mind me saying this, Mrs. . .?”

“Betty,” I said, thinking fast.
“Betty—uh—Betty Crocker.”

Vince pursed his lips, holding back his
laugher. “Betty Crocker? Really?” His voice broke out of
character.

“Betty
Gipson . . . sorry. The stress—it’s making me
forget my own name.”

“Well, Mrs. Gipson, I hope you don’t mind me
telling you that you’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever laid eyes on,
and I’ve traveled all over the world solving cases.” He waved his
hand across a wall map as he talked.

I pretended to blush, putting my hand over
my mouth and batting my eyes. “Oh, detective.” I got up, no longer
able to play the back-and-forth game. “I must confess, I’ve never
seen such a strong and handsome man,” I said with a sultry,
seductive voice. I walked around to him and leaned on the desk. I
ran my fingers up his thighs to his crotch, rubbing his cock. “I
must also confess the real reason I came down here tonight.”

“Oh?” He moved his legs to the floor, giving
me better access. “And that is?”

I unbuttoned his pants, taking my time with
the zipper. “To see if you could solve the case of the missing
orgasm.” It was hard not to laugh as the words left my mouth. I
pulled down his underwear and grabbed his stiffening shaft. I knelt
between his legs. He melted in my grip, moaning.

His hips rocked up. I twirled my tongue
around his swelling head. He responded with a thankful gasp,
grabbing my hair, weaving his fingers in it. He yanked me closer.
My mouth engulfed him as I tried to put my lips in front of my
teeth. He pushed too fast and my front teeth slid along his soft
skin. He must have liked it because he groaned in pleasure.

I massaged his balls with one hand, stroking
his shaft with the other, while my tongue licked underneath his
head. His grip on my hair tightened, and his hips started
thrusting, his cock sliding through my fingers, hitting the back of
my mouth. I gave up stroking and clenched the base of his hard-on,
forcing the blood to the tip.

His breath had increased to rapid huffs, so
he slowed to prevent from coming too early, and removed my hands
from his soft, freshly shaven balls. He helped me to my feet as a
signal that we were moving on. Rising off the chair, he kissed my
breasts, then my open mouth. From inside his jacket, he pulled out
a small purple tube of lube and a plastic package containing what
looked like a thumb.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice jerking
with hesitation. We had never used a sex toy before.

“It’s a finger vibrator,” he said, his
character voice forgotten. With the package already cut open, he
tore the rest of the plastic apart. “I thought it’d be a good idea
since you get more stimulation from your clit.”

The way he said it made it all sound so
calculated and detached. My face must have showed my displeasure,
because he followed it up with, “I mean, I thought it’d be good
because my tongue can’t be down there at the same time. Do you not
want to try it?” His head sunk a little, disappointed by my tone of
rejection.

“I didn’t say that. It’s just not very
1930s,” I lied, a little afraid of the device.
What would it
feel like? What if I didn’t like it and he took it personally?
I sidestepped caution. That was the old me. The new me
experimented. The new me wasn’t afraid of risk. “Put it on.”

We both looked down and saw that his hard-on
was fading, so instead of jumping right into sex, he pushed me
against the desk and gave me a long, wet kiss. Our tongues met,
swirling, rubbing, mingling in passion. I inhaled his deeply-missed
scent. It didn’t take long for his erection to return.

He pushed me up on the desk. “Wait.” I
stopped him and twisted around to gaze at all the old objects on
the desk. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” I bent over and swept
everything to the floor, leaving the wood surface bare. “There.
Much better.”

He laughed, and then launched me onto the
desk again, slipping a strap down my shoulder. “Leave it on,” I
whispered. “It’s part of the fun.”

After returning the strap, he grabbed his
coat. “This too?” he asked, smiling.

I nodded, opening the can of lube, pouring
it over his cock. I gave it a few quick pumps. He put out his hand
and I poured a pile on his palm. With his dry hand, he peeled back
the long dress, slipping off my panties. His skillful fingers slid
down my clit to my pussy and up again, pinching my clit with the
lube.

I gasped, the anticipation of his touch
coiled inside me.

He found my inner lips and stroked them
between his thumb and index finger. I could feel them slowly
parting as wetness flooded his fingers. Warmth crept from my pussy
to my stomach, tingling.

Seizing his shaft, I guided him inside me,
and he slowly pushed through, penetrating my desire. A surge of
electricity shot deep inside me. My hands wrapped around his suit,
pulling him tighter. His left hand glided from my hips to my lower
back, holding me steady as he thrust—in and out, in and out—his
movements were delicate and controlled.

Before he lost himself, he slipped the
finger vibrator on his right thumb, and then clicked the end. It
started humming away. His cock began plunging deeper as his thumb
cruised down my thigh.

The slow journey of vibrations built up the
suspense as he crossed over my mound to my other thigh. He teased
and teased me until I was begging for him to touch my clit. He
relented.

A jolt echoed through my body when the
vibrator kissed my clit. Vince’s palm pressed down on my mound
while his thumb sent sparks through my veins—my blood screaming
with pleasure. He pulled me tighter, kissing my neck and trailing
down to my breasts. His hips began picking up momentum—faster,
faster, faster—pounding away. It sounded wet and sexy as he slammed
into me.

The vibrator never quit its wonderful
assault on my clit. The pressure continued to build deep inside
where his cock struck unremittingly. I tucked my face against his
neck. His mouth rested next to my ear, panting. Ever so slowly, I
began to slip away into a field of red. Everything turned to shades
of red, from pink to carmine, and suddenly the color erupted with
searing flames as my world exploded. Shards of red flew across the
field as the pressure in the back of my neck climaxed, seizing me
with rough, sensual hands. My entire body clenched, then went
rigid, my head continuing to pulse.

Then I grew aware of Vince’s teeth digging
into my neck, and that his right hand was no longer rubbing my clit
but cradling my head, his grip strong, the vibrator buzzing in the
air.

A storm of grunts and shouts followed as
Vince came. He stilled, removing his teeth from my tingling neck.
He smiled at his handiwork. “I completely lost control,” he huffed,
kissing the marks that he left.

Our shallow breaths filled the air between
us. It felt like someone had stolen my lungs and I was fighting for
air. “So did I,” I said, half a minute later.

We listened to the vibrator hum away while
we recovered from the sweaty, energy-stealing, body-shaking romp of
a lifetime.

“I
keep forgetting to ask
you,” I said, as Vince and I drove down 99 east to Oregon City the
following Saturday. “Is Terrance your sponsor?” I was driving him
this time, though not in Eddie, since Vince let me cruise behind
the wheel of his electric Mustang. Terrance was behind us on his
motorcycle.

Vince laughed. “No, Terrance is just my
bodyguard. I do have a sponsor, but when I need to, I call Alma,
not him. She’s been there through it all, you know?”

I nodded. “You can always call me, too.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I haven’t had a problem
for a few months, but I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

“So what’s his deal? How come he’s so cold
to me?”

“Who? Terrance?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror at the
giant beard above the handlebars. “Yeah, Terrance. He’s never been
nice to me. Why is that?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve found that he
generally dislikes women,” he answered.

“What do you mean? Like he’s a
womanthrope?”

“Is that one of your crossword words?” he
asked, all smiles.

“Maybe.” I returned his grin with one of my
own. “It means he hates women.”

“He doesn’t hate women,” he said, grimacing
in amusement. “He just doesn’t like them very much. He prefers the
company of men.”

“Yeah?”

“Socially
and . . . sexually.”

“Oh, Danielle was right then. He’s gay.”

“I don’t know anything about what Danielle
said, but yeah, he’s gay,” he said, as though that were an
excuse.

“So? I’ve met plenty of gay men who like
women. In fact, I think it’s pretty weird that he doesn’t.”

“Well, I guess Terrance is one of those few
who just completely ignores them.”

“So you’re saying you don’t think he’ll ever
warm up to me?”

He nodded. “But, I’ve only known him since
September, and that’s what?” He counted the months on his fingers
as he named them. “Seven months,” he calculated. “That’s not that
long. Maybe he just needs a few months to get to know you.”

“Eh, maybe. I hope so if he’s always going
to be around.”

“I’ve never met anyone’s parents before,”
Vince said, abruptly changing the subject.

“What do you mean? You’ve never met a single
parent of anyone ever?” I said sarcastically.

He glanced at me with a dull look. “Of a
person that I’m dating, no. Skye’s family lives in Virginia, and we
could never afford to fly there together, and they never came
out to visit us . . .” He shifted uncomfortably in
his seat. “What if your family hates me?”

“Why would they hate you?” I turned on
10
^th
Street. “You like good beer. My family will love
you just based on that. My mom has hated just about everyone I’ve
brought home, but she really hated the ones that asked for Busch.
Trust me, saying good things about my brother’s beer will go a
long, long way.”

He nodded as I pulled into a lot across from
my brother’s brewery on 7
^th
and Washington. Terrance
drove on by; Vince encouraged him to ride around when he wasn’t
needed at his boss’s side. “He started this place with the same
inheritance money you got?”

“Yeah, my grandma’s house was worth quite a
bit, and she had a small life insurance policy. She left most of it
to my mom, and my mom divided it between Donny and me.”

“Ah, right. And how old is your mother
again?”

“She’s turning 58 today,” I answered,
swinging my door wide. It swung too easily and I practically
slammed it shut, used to Eddie’s rusted hinges.

“Could you be a little gentler?” he
implored, inspecting the door.

“Sorry.” I grabbed the gift out of the
trunk. It was a great big box wrapped in green and blue paper with
a colorful striped bow in the middle.

Stopping in front of the restaurant, Vince
looked up and said, “‘Portertown Brewing Company.’” His eyes darted
below the main sign to a smaller one. “‘Where the Porter is King.’”
He chuckled at the slogan. “So I take it they have a different
focus than the majority of Portland’s breweries?”

“I’m not even sure he
makes
an IPA,”
I said. “So yeah, you could say he’s on the fringe.”

He opened the door for me, and I led the way
to a private room in the back where large flat screen TVs hung
along the walls; the space was usually reserved for Timbers and
Blazers games. Most of my family was already there, waiting—too
punctual for their own good. Vince had that in common with
them.

“Maci, darling,” my mother said, boisterous.
“I’m glad you could grace us with your presence.” She had always
been a snarky joker, like my father, and their bickering had gone
back and forth like bullets being exchanged, before he died in
2000. Her speech had taken a significant dive since then. She
swooped in for a hug. “I haven’t seen you since you’ve gotten a new
man. Ooh, and this is him I take it? The man who’s stopped our
weekly visits. She even calls me less because of you. So handsome—I
can see why now. Who would like to spend time with an old woman
like me when they could be wrapped in those muscular arms?” Lost
for words, Vince stuck out his hand, but she tousled Vince’s hair
before he could react. “A handshake? This is a family event, not a
business meeting,” she quipped.