Quintic (41 page)

Comfort
also came from the long
bubble bath she took. She might have put too much bubble in the
water, though, for she couldn’t see her toes poking through the
water. She would have fallen asleep right there if she hadn’t
started thinking about the Big guy. She exhaled slowly.
Deeply.

She
missed the feeling of a firm hand washing her
back. Her shoulders. Her legs. All the other places that needed
washing. She frowned as she admitted she missed the feeling of him.
She missed
him
, had longed for him all week.
How had she let that happen, she asked herself yet again? She had
been clear from the start; she wanted nothing more serious than a
casual fling.
I should never
have let him seduce me that first time
.

From the
moment they had met, s
he had sensed how
easily she could fall for him. Dangerous. But she had let him, and
here she was now, missing his company in a bubble bath on a late
Sunday evening. So what if recently, they had agreed to stop
pretending. OK, fine,
she
had; the man was so damn
blunt, she suspected he had never once in his life pretended. He
was steps ahead of her in their relationship, damn him. The man was
impossible!

That being
said, it didn’t mean she ha
d to stop
pretending to herself, did it? Surely, they were both too old for
anything more. Obviously, she was fooling herself but so what? For
now and the foreseeable future, it was simpler not to think about
how she felt. Even
if
− and that
if
was ginormously hypothetical −
even if she was crazy about the man, he didn’t need to know that,
did he? Wasn’t he arrogant enough already?

The real
problem was, since
her resignation she
was missing something. She had enjoyed belonging to a group, to a
team.
His
team. His pack was better even than Joshua’s. All the
thinking, the thought process of following a case, the male
bonding, she
liked
. Observing him as he
worked, she loved even more. She relished both the work and her
boss, how crazy was that?

Unfortunately, none of the thousand soap bubbles provided
input on how to get rehire. She had to find something, anything,
about one of the murders, and then she could come back on top. Sort
of. If she called Christopher and casually enquired how everything
was going at the office, without asking specifically about the
cases, he might let something slip. Hum. Like the Big guy ever
slipped.

She had no
intention of talking to him about Lemieux. Talking about an ex was
a no-no in her book. Neither did she wish to ask about the diner
girl, since he might be a tad mad at her for moving the body and
antagonising the local police and being stuck with the case.
Although to her defence, she had taken care of the second, hum,
difficulty, and the third was entirely his doing.

He might
also be a bit
reluctant to her return
because, the old diner case being so close to the other, surely he
had to reopen her cold case. Damn. With the stripper Hamilton had
found, Christopher had an extra four cases these days because of
her. Conclusion? She better not probe him about work. Maybe she
could do some work by herself, like before, without telling him.
And if she did find something new, well,
when
she did, then she could
let someone know (like a certain rookie). Or she might tell
Christopher. Anonymous tip or something. She buried her smile in
the bubbles; she had the beginning of a plan.

Looking into
the diner murders wouldn’t help
Charles,
though, since those investigations weren’t his, but Lemieux was.
Anything new she could provide? Nope. She had pretty much written
all she considered pertinent in the damn report, and no way was she
going back to one of those strippers clubs anytime soon. As for the
diners, besides her vague leads, she had no clue what else to do.
Even if, according to statistics, murderers were often friends or
family members, or people known to the victims, it seemed to her
the killings did not fit the norm.

Th
e rain also played a part,
somehow. So much rain in the middle of the night made for an
unnerving scene. Time to change her perspective. She had wanted to
use the case for her book. Her PI character was to solve the
murder, but the woman couldn’t do that until she, the writer, knew
all the details for real. That wasn’t working out fast
enough.

Patience
was
not one of Patricia’s strongest
qualities, not when she had her mind set on a book project. When
she had the full sequence of a story, she wanted to work at it full
on. During those times, she turned into an even worse workaholic
than Christopher. It was one of those times now, especially since
she had so much time on her hands, as she was not sidetracked by a
job anymore. Ironic.

She wasn’t a
cop;
perhaps it was time she stopped
acting like one. Instead of doing what she thought a PI or a cop
would do, she should do what writers did. What she was good at. It
had served her well in the past. No need to look for leads, she
scolded herself, do what you do best and make them up.
Let your imagination work and make
it all up
. She needed to stop being
afraid of shadows, get her butt to the diners, sit down at one of
the cheap tables and write the damn story. Simple as that. Let the
story write itself. Her story. Her perfect dinner murder scenario.
Solve both murders in one scenario. And then, do the same with
Lemieux. Make it up and see where it goes. Maybe not write that one
in a strip club, though, not enough lighting (except on the stage,
and she was not going anywhere near that platform).

The bath
water had turned cold by the time she finally got out. She dried
herself with a large beach towel, her skin now soft and glittering
thanks to the oil she had poured into the water. She smelled
deliciously of flowers and lemons. She dried her hair into soft
waves. She studied her body in the mirror. Had she gained weight at
Ingrid’s? The woman had worked her like a dog, but they had eaten
like, well, eaten way too much and drank even more. The fact that
she hadn’t felt like throwing up since she had resigned might also
have helped.

All that
thinking and prepping up had her fully awake by now. Planning was
good. Nine o’clock Sunday evening, it was a little too late to
start writing now, though.
Excuses
. Tomorrow. Monday
morning. This week. She had a full week ahead of her. She was
happy, tired yet excited.

She turned
on the television and flicked through the channels. Nothing on. She
prepared her work bag: laptop, money, notepad, pen, Kleenex,
lipstick, toothbrush, toothpaste. Nine-fifteen.

She
picked her clothes for the next day, laying them
out on a chair, listing each piece out loud. “Black skinny jeans.
Low-heel black boots. Black V-neck sweater. Leather jacket.” Not
Christopher’s old one but her black fitted one, a kit she secretly
considered her kick-ass outfit.

Nine
thirty-five
. She still had a bit of
energy to burn. She went through her underwear drawers, telling
herself that she was going to do some sorting. Hum. She still had
the big towel wrapped around her.

The sorting
took exactly twelve minutes. She finally gave up and put on her
camouflage-print bra, the one with the silky lace on one side, with
its matching thong. She had no choice really; one had to wear a
thong with leggings. If she dressed in her kiss-ass outfit, she
wouldn’t need a suitcase with a change of clothes. She grabbed her
work bag and was out the door by nine fifty-five.

The trip
over took less time than usual.
A good
thing too, because she might have changed her mind. With the hair
and all, maybe the outfit was a little too much. Should she have
called first? What if the Big guy had an important meeting tomorrow
and a reason to go to bed early? What if he was matching the sports
game of the year?

S
ince she had the keys to the
building, she made a discreet entry. Taking the stairs so he
wouldn’t hear the elevator, she arrived at his door undetected. Her
ear to the panel, she heard the television blaring; the Big guy was
awake. She knocked twice,
knock-knock
, sharp bangs in case
he had fallen asleep in front of the television. She didn’t hear
him walk, but he opened the door almost right away.

The damn man
just stood there, holding the door with his right hand, the left on
the door frame, blocking the way. He had his dress pants on but had
undone the top three buttons of his shirt, and the tie was off.
Back from work not too long ago then. His hair was mussed; the Big
guy rubbed his hair when he was tired or unsure of the next step.
As it was late Sunday night, she went for tired. Damn, he looked
sexy.

She
gazed up at him, lips parted. She had missed
him, damn him!

He smiled,
the grin first lighting up his eyes, then curling his
lips.

She took a
step forward
, then another until she was
against him. She rose on tiptoes and kissed him, her tongue
searching his.

“
Hi
, Big guy.”

“
About time,
Princess. What took you so long?”

Although
he
seemed to like the outfit, she
undressed slowly on her way to the bedroom, leaving her clothes
neatly folded as she went. He undressed too but dropped his clothes
in a heap on the floor.

Since
h
e also liked the underwear, she let him
enjoy the view. Emboldened by his
very
noticeable appreciation,
aroused by it, she turned slowly on herself. After their week
apart, she yearned for him to be totally uncontrolled.

The growl he
let out when she cupped her breasts, the instinctual step forward
he
took as she turned her back to him and
rubbed her buttock, those oh so dark eyes of his when she glanced
at him over her shoulder encouraged her.

“Viens, mon beau
.” Come here,
handsome.

She basked
in t
he sharp breath that escaped him when
she dropped her panties, wiggling her ass teasingly. The hoarse
groan that escaped his throat as she unclipped her bra and turned
back to face him, urged her on. She provocatively covered her
breasts with her left arm, demurely shielded her pubis with her
right hand.

“Montre-moi, mon chéri
.” Show me, Darling.

The sharp
clutch of his hand on his turgescent cock when she cupped her
breasts with her hands, weig
hing them,
spurred her to rub the erect nipples with her thumbs. He uttered a
harsh gasp when she let one hand fall back to her pubis.
Oui, mon amour
.

He let
out
a long guttural grunt as his hand
tensed and fisted his cock, unsuccessfully trying to delay his
orgasm as he watched her slowly rock her hips back and forth,
teasing her clit with two fingers. He came in his hand.

“Your turn now, Pussycat.”

Gra
bbing her hips and pulling her
to the bed, he joined his fingers to hers.

“Fuck, I’m going to take you
all.”

She
swallowed a
whimper when his fingers,
nudging hers aside, sunk in and out, his thumb teasing
relentlessly.

“
Let me hear
you, Angel.”

His fingers
kneaded and circled until she couldn’t bear it. Her thighs
impulsively squeezed his hand.

“
Now,
Darling of mine.”

Biti
ng down on her lower lip did
not muffle her moans, neither did clamping her mouth around his
nipple. He visibly liked her imaginary gain weight. Not that she
asked, she didn’t talk much after. He missed the end of the game.
They fell asleep together well before midnight.

PI Unlimited: Last
Days

S
he had worked all
weekend. Night shifts were the worst. Sunday nights, families ate
early and it wasn’t unusual for the place to be full by five.
Single mothers wanting a break from cooking came in for meatloaf
with the kids. Older guys wanting a break from the loneliness of
the weekend dropped by for a quick meal. They would return home in
time to watch the game and turn in early; work was coming tomorrow.
Some couples ventured in later, eating without really talking,
barely looking at each other. She saw it all, without surprise,
without emotion; it was just a job. She was going to college; this
would not be her life.

It had rained all weekend. Weather
during rain season was darn rain. She didn’t like walking in the
rain; the weather made her feel homesick. Not that her home was all
that far away. And she did talk with her parents every week and saw
them every other week on Wednesdays.

On those Wednesdays, she rode the bus
to her parents’ house in the suburb; she brought her dirty clothes
along in a suitcase. She spent her Wednesdays with her mother.
While they did the laundry together, they talked about her
mischievous younger siblings and gossiped on what the neighbours
were doing to their lawns.