Quintic (20 page)

They
settled in the cigar lounge’s big leather
armchairs surrounded by the lingering aroma of fine cigars. They
talk about Patricia’s books. Drunk as he was, she figured he
wouldn’t remember tomorrow; drunk as she was, she believed herself.
They talked about her way of life at the hotel and Johnny’s life as
an Italian safe-made man. She confessed to a weakness for
Italian-made. He brushed his lips against hers, a caress more than
a kiss. Like a friend’s kiss she had thought (feeling none of the
butterflies she got from Christopher’s kissing), a sweet
tongue-free butterfly-free kiss. So restful.

They had
laughed
and kept on drinking all the
while. Johnny had asked for her hand, a drunk knee to the floor.
“
I could use a woman like you
around
,” he had said in his business
proposal. “
You will become my
official woman for talk, sex and play. My most
cherish
.” He did not promise love, did
not even mention it.

His offer
had tempted her
. It was an off-the-wall
proposition, and she liked off the wall. She was very interested.
If Christopher had not driven her crazy, or because he did, she was
so very interested.

Why had she
turned Johnny down? S
imple. She had
fallen asleep. She had skipped supper, and the fine wines, the
smell of cigars, the warmth of the place, the softness of Johnny’s
voice had pulled her under before she managed a coherent yes. When
she woke, Johnny was still asleep (he had removed himself to his
back office and was sprawled out on an old couch, from his dead
mother’s place he told her sometimes later). She left without
waking him and went back, sober, early the following evening,
unsure if he was going to remember his offer. He did and made it
again.

S
he had turned him down. They had
been friends ever since. At the time, she had not told Johnny about
Christopher, but maybe he had guessed some. At the time, she had
not told Christopher about Johnny, but he too might have guessed
some during previous visits with her to Johnny’s.

I
t had become a ritual for Johnny
to offer her a different red wine on each of her visits, private
import he thought she had not tasted before. He kept an eye out on
the men, discouraging those he thought unworthy. Thus, their girls’
nights out went smoothly at Johnny’s bar, and they ritually drank a
dash too much of the fine wines.

When
Christopher showed up
at nine sharp with
LeRoy in tow, Reid was enjoying the company of some guy who already
had a hand on her knee while Patricia was teasing Johnny about his
new girlfriend sitting at the bar.

Johnny had a
new girl every other week, usually a model,
usually young, usually blonde. “Marketing mostly,” he told
her. “Thus unimportant. Although I must say, they present certain
advantages,” he confided with a wink. Middle-aged men,
really.

No Harm Done,
MacLaren

W
hen Chris caught sight of
Patricia, he knew right away she had had more than one drink.
Without the men having to ask, Johnny brought a beer for LeRoy and
a scotch, no ice, for Chris.

“
Take a
hike,” Reid told the knee-groping guy in her curt
Reid-style.

LeRoy made
most of the conversation, telling them about the murder
scen
e they had gone to that morning.
“Waste of our damn time,” he commented. “The case’s for the East
Precinct. If they had checked a map, we could have slept in. That
side of the street, the vic was clearly theirs.”

He
went on to compliment Patricia and Reid on their
outfits. “Pretty sleek, girls. You up the classy factor of the
place, and that’s something considering the competition. Who’s the
blond goddess, is she Johnny’s? How long before he dumps her, you
think? Think she likes cops? Although I must say, she lacks that
something special. A smile perhaps? If I had to pick a broad
tonight, present company excluded, of course, I’d go for that
brunette at the back, the one with the red skirt. She looks happy.
Like you, babes. Always a turn-on, girls having fun. How about you,
Boss? Which one would you sleep with?”

No comment.

“
Like I
don’t know, MacLaren.” LeRoy had the decency not to smirk at
Patricia. “How about you, ladies? We have a great crowd this
evening. Women like suits and ties, don’t they? Look at me, think
I’m sexy? OK, Reid, you start. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“
Short dude
with the pinch and the red tie,” Reid said, pointing at the
hand-to-knee jerk.

“
Figures.
You always go for the muscles. How about you, Babe?”

“
Hum. I’m
not sure
. I see too many
possibilities.”
Your eyes can
wander around, Pussycat, but they better end up on
me
. “If I have to pick only one, then I
guess, for propriety, considering this morning, I have to pick
Christopher.”

“
No way,
Princess. I don’t do drunks.” Like hell, he didn’t. Any fucking
time, any place, any which way she wanted, except when she
was
drunk
drunk. He wanted to still; she was so fucking lenient when
she was drunk, close to submissive. Well, not submissive as much as
obedient. OK, not
that
obedient but still so pliant. Soft.
Delicate.

H
e had fucked drunks in his
previous life without giving a damn, but her he couldn’t unless he
was sure she wanted him. Was it too late to ask for consent now?
Was a yes a true yes if she was already tipsy? Damn woman. Her not
falling asleep on the way back would be her way of telling him she
was sober enough. If not, he’d wait until morning.
I can wake fucking early,
Princess
. Then again, he planned on
making sure she did not fall asleep tonight.

“
I famished.
How about Portuguese? I saw a grill place that smelled good next to
where I parked,” Reid suggested around ten.

They kept
their cheery mood all through the meal. The stroll in the cool air
revived Patricia. LeRoy held both women’s arms during the walk
while Chris followed behind. He didn’t mind; the damn woman was
fucking sexy from behind too. Nice jeans. Sleek legs in those
jeans, a great ass too.

An old
waitress
offered them a booth at the
front window. They split women on one side, men on the other.
Patricia’s cheeks were pink. He liked. The night was cold even for
the aviator jacket, and her nipples peaked under that turtleneck of
hers. He had a boner since seeing her in the bar. If she hadn’t
drunk so much, he would have made her skip the grilled meat
altogether.

Patricia
talked about her morning meal at the diner, her visit to the back
alley. They talked about motives, means, opportunities. She liked
challenges, and he could tell she was interested in the case.
Impressive how she could quote entire file excerpts from memory.
But even more so was how her brain worked, so differently from how
he and the team worked a case. Once again, he was
fascinated.

“
I’m not
doing police work here, Big guy. I don’t care about clues, but it’s
annoying that the story’s not coming to me. I have passages worked
out, but it
lacks
un fil conducteur
, an edge. I don’t get the guy.”

“The guy?”

“The guy or the woman,
whatever. The killer. He’s a coward.”

The three of
them, Reid, LeRoy and especially h
im,
they were asking about facts like what the cops had found, whom
they had interviewed. She was answering with
what-if
s, giving the
people involved, her characters, pretend motives, imaginary means,
possible opportunities. His dick hardened as the damn woman was
fucking talking. He liked her chatting. Lucky for her they had not
met in their twenties; she would never have had time to eat her
fucking grilled chicken.

Reid took
LeRoy home,
and he took her home. He
spoke all the way back to her hotel, asking about her visit,
details of what she had seen in the back alley, what she thought
were the likeliest scenarios for her story. Chris repeated the same
damn questions as at the Portuguese place just to prevent her from
falling asleep. Instead of dropping her off to park the truck, he
threw his keys to Carl.

First thing
in her suite, she went to brush her teeth and remove her makeup.
Not too drunk then. He undressed while she was in the bathroom.
Erection full on. He intended to get her naked as soon as she
walked out. Mercifully, it took her less than five minutes to go
through her night routine. Even more perfect, she walked out naked.
Splendid.

She laughed
when she saw him, mast at a ready. “Come here, Big guy,” she cooed
as she leaned down on the bed on her back and crooked her
forefinger at him.

She licked
her lips and parted her legs
. He kneeled
on the bed, his eyes taking her in. Staring, admiring as her
nipples scrunched up into tight buds. The rosy rash in spots on her
skin. She blushed as he stroked himself to ease the throbbing in
his shaft, almost climaxing from looking at her. His marks on
her.
His
. His balls tightened.

He slid his
hand between her legs and stroke
lightly,
softly, lovingly, the tension building with each stroke of his
fingers as they gazed at another. She squirmed and arched her back.
He waited for her to be ready, so ready. Waited for her to ask for
him. Breathing. Moaning. Pleading. He wouldn’t have been able to
hold back had he been twenty years younger. Even as a
forty-something, he could not have lasted this long had he
penetrated her.

He climaxed
on the first thrust.
Her orgasm followed.
Her eyes closed just before the wave overtook her, his stayed open,
fixed on her face. So damn exquisite. He rolled on his back,
cradling her to him so she would fall asleep next to him. They
slept till seven. Even him.

Her Set of
Wheels

C
hristopher left for work right
after the quick breakfast they took in the hotel’s restaurant, and
Patricia went for a walk with her laptop. Yes, yet again. She was
feeling tired (and a bit little sore) from her last nights with him
and walking soothed her.

After an
hour of
a brisk and relaxing hike, she
stopped at a new café near the river to work on the waitress story.
Now that her psychopath killer woman was out of the way, she was
working on a series of detective short stories centred on a female
private investigator who always got her men (or women). But this
morning, she fidgeted with her coffee. The cup’s rim was too thick,
the coffee too hot, the milk too foamy. She shimmed and stabilised
her table’s wobbly legs with napkins. She searched the Web for
homemade cold cream recipes. Her mind was clearly not into writing,
her eyes wandering to the window between two paragraphs, two
sentences, two words.

A man
carr
ied an umbrella. The day was sunny,
not a cloud in the sky. An infant and a dog, the dog bigger than
the kid, pulled a woman along. A sleek yellow sports car drove by.
With not red? One, two, three tiny cars. Economic in gas, but what
about leg room? Half a dozen SUV-type vehicles, those were
definitely safer and roomier but not so environmentally friendly.
Christopher drove one of those, a black Jeep Cherokee, square
shaped and spacious, leather interior, tinted windows, plenty of
leg room, plenty of body room.

She sighed.
Finding
Christopher sexy wasn’t helping
to keep their affair casual. The Big guy was not exceptionally
tall, taller than average yes, but then so was she. Tallish enough
for when she was wearing heels, a small up tilt of her chin, a
small bow of his head, and her eyes were level with his.
Christopher was not exceedingly sturdy. Not thin either, bigger
than lean really, but with his tailored-cut suits hiding the bulk
of his shoulders, he was not the type of men one noticed in a
crowd. But once she had, her attention kept returning to him. His
features were hard, mean-looking even as a frown perpetually
emphasised his scars, but when he smiled at her, she found him damn
near irresistible.

He had
smiled a lot at the Portuguese. Had she been sitting in front of
him,
she could have tucked one of her
feet between his legs and teased. He liked when she played footsy;
surely she could have made him smile even more. That cocky crooked
grin of his. Damn, she was not going to get anything done with
those kinds of thoughts! Nonetheless, she ordered another coffee
and kept on pretending she was working.

What type of vehicle does my PI character drive?
Finally, a justifiable reason to waste her time
staring out at passing cars.
She can’t ride a manly-man car like Christopher’s. She
would drive a girly car either, nothing like Ingrid’s white
precious toy
. Her PI’s car should be
different, not something one would expect a forty-year old-female
PI to drive.

Brass

W
hile Chris’s day had started
splendidly, the hours that followed were shit. Some Brass assholes
from some useless fucking federal agency came over unannounced just
to have him waste his morning reviewing cases. Debriefing, they
called it. Yah right, more like they wanted to show off who had
more leeway with Central. Power trips on both sides, the
Feds
and
Central.