Quintic (76 page)

The
creep
was parked on the couch with his
back to her. She should have stun-gunned him without further ado.
The guy didn’t react. Could
the salaud
be sleeping at a
moment like this?
Her
moment? As she rounded the couch and realised
she was facing the wrong man, panic rose.

The stripper
club buddy grinned at her, not one bit surprised. “Hello, bitch.
Glad you could make it. I heard good things about you.”

Damn it, the
buddy
’s presence here meant the creep was
someplace close. Fear blanked her mind for a beat. A moment too
long for indeed, the creep was near. He sprung from the staircase,
grabbed her, took her gun and pushed her onto the couch. The buddy
didn’t smell too good. The stench and horror overwhelmed
her.

“
Well, well,
cunt.
I’ve been expecting you. Saw you at
the titty bar, major turn-on.” He had fooled her too easily!
Has he been waiting for me all
along?
“I’ve been expecting yah. Have
been waiting since that night for you to look for me. Been waiting
a long time, puss. Did you like my gift?”

“
What
gift?”
Think
. Blood rushed to her
ears.

“
Come on,
you
must have known I was coming? Smart
puss like yah. Must say I hadn’t expected you’d find me so
quickly.”

Was he
complimenting her?!

“
Looking
good
, puss. I like more tits, but hey,
you got enough to get me off. You’re going to be fun. We have some
unfinished business the two of us, haven’t we?”

In the
corner of her eye, she
caught the partner
wetting his lips and rubbing himself.
Don’t think. Go
. She
launched herself at the creep.

He started
laughing and fired a shot
way to her
left, but it stopped her in her tracks nonetheless. It stopped her
even if she knew he wouldn’t kill her, not yet at least. She had
something he wanted first.

He pointed
the gun at her and
took off his belt. He
started to unzip his pants.

She waited
for the pants to drop before she kicked him but aimed too much to
the right and missed. The creep was a lefty. He backhanded her. Her
nose started bleeding. He slapped her again, harder, so hard that
she flew into the bookcase. Crashed into it.

She stopped feeling.

C
hris
never found out if she had left details out. Her story made sense,
the timing was right, but she could have imagined some of the
details and left out others. She was so damn fucking good at
inventing tales, wasn’t she?

“
I went to
the car shop on a hunch;
it’s a place he
had used way back when. He met his clientele of misfits
there.”

“
With
Joshua?”

Small nod.
He had no way of knowing how true her statement was. She never
entirely lied to him, so it was at least partly true. And frankly,
right now, he didn’t give a fuck about the lying. He didn’t give a
damn as long as she was safe.
I’ll make you well whatever time it takes.

“
You know
how I hate guns,” was her answer when he mentioned the fifth gun.
“Do you see me going there packing? I went straight from the
hospital.”

Technically
not a lie for she had not denied the gun nor said she had been
unarmed, had she? A lie by omission then. She was brave to the
point of recklessness and maybe a bit delusional, but she was not
dumb, quite the opposite.

She knew as
well as he did that the asshole cops couldn’t have carried five
fucking guns. With one tucked in the back of their pants and one in
a holster each, where would they have put a third? In addition to
his side and back holsters, Chris carried a third piece, smaller,
at his ankle. None of the weapons found had the scene were small
enough. Thus, she had bought a gun somewhere.

And what
about the st
un gun? The creep aimed to
kill. He had murdered at least twice that they knew of, three if
one counted the dead-by-overdose hooker; he didn’t have any use for
a taser. To keep her still? He had crashed her into a wall and
hadn’t needed a fucking stun gun for that! Patricia liked tasers,
that much Chris knew. He had confiscated one or two from her in the
past. Right now, though, he didn’t give a damn for she was
safe.

Later,
Chris
had checked the content of his
safe. It pissed him off that no guns were missing. She should have
taken one of his; he had made damn sure she knew his safe’s
combination. Why the fuck hadn’t she asked to borrow a weapon? She
had in the past, so why not for the creep? He would have known
something was up then.
Guess
that was the point, wasn’t it, Angel?
By
no telling him shit, she thought she was keeping him safe. Funk, he
was angry at her, but that too was OK. She. Was. Safe.

Days
after the clash, at her urging, he had recapped
the shoot-out’s official version. Sitting on yet another hospital
bed, she had listened attentively, head crooked to the side. She
still had a large purplish bruise on her cheek, swollen lips,
bandages on her head (again), a pack of ice on her leg, an IV
needle in her arm, but no clouds had disturbed the blues, serious,
worried, locked on his face. Damn, she was beautiful. She was
safe.

H
olding her breath, she had taken
in every one of his words. She had remained silent for a long while
after, before finally nodding. “OK,” she had said. “This might
work,” she had whispered, murmuring so softly he thought she was
talking to herself, but he had heard nonetheless. He had not given
a shit, though; who cared about lies and perjury as long as she was
safe?

She took his
hand, lifted it to her face and placed his palm on her healing
cheek.
His
. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being there. You
know, Christopher,
mon
amour
, I’m not sorry they’re dead. I
should be, but I’m not.” She brushed her bruised lips against his
skin, that soft kiss pulling at his groin like only her kisses did.
“But I am sorry you’re the one who had to kill them.”

He
did not ask what she meant.

Loose
ends.
He had made a mistake that terrible
night. He had shot the cops, both of them. He, the man in her life,
the boyfriend, the lover, had taken charge and shot them both. He
shouldn’t have, not the way he had at least.

MacLaren-the-cop would have waited and asked questions.
First, he would have injured and questioned them and got the facts
straight. MacLaren-the-detective would have unearthed all of the
facts and all of the details. He would have made fucking
sure
.
Would have left nothing unanswered such as Joshua’s heritage. Then
he, Chris, the lover, the boyfriend, the man in her life and he,
Chris, the cop, the detective, the fucking chief would have shot
them both. No questions left.

The
boyfriend had been faster
; he had shot
first. He had wished he was killing Joshua. Now her
boyfriend-lover-cop thought, analysed and lived with the facts. He
lived with the hollow feeling in the pit of his gut. He went on not
knowing for sure if he had killed them all. If it was really the
end. If she was, once and for all, truly safe.

Career, family,
metro-boulot-dodo
and all that,
until retirement. A midlife crisis later (a
very
early midlife
crisis),
what if
the earth changed axis? Writing began, and I’m
hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Thank you for
reading my book.

If
you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment
to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

Other books

Please visit your favourite ebook
retailer for some of my other books

Duet

Trois

Quartet

Coming soon!

Six

Read on for an
excerpt from
SIX

“
P
atricia,
what the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m
packing!”

He had seen Patricia pack
before, and this wasn’t packing. She was throwing clothes
haphazardly into a duffel bag without folding any items, without
even glancing at them.

Pants and long sleeve tees, Pussycat?
No fucking way she was going to be wearing those. “I’m
taking you to the beach, remember, Patricia?”

More of the tossing. “How can I
forget, Big guy! You’ve been hassling me for days about it!”

“
Days?
Fuck, Patricia, I only
mentioned it the night before last.” A pair of jeans flew by his
nose and landed two steps to the left of the bag. “I know what
you’re doing, Angel of mine.”

“Of course, you do. You’re the
best damn detective in the metropolis! I. Am. Packing.”

“No, you’re not. You’re trying
to pick a fight.”

She frowned at him and bit her
lips.

Although, when he thought about
it, fighting was a good sign, an indication she was healing. She
had been quiet these last few weeks. Injured. Again. Out of a job.
Again. She had kept still. No coffee shop run hence no writing. No
girls’ night out hence no red-wine induced tipsy girlfriend. No
visits at his place. No fooling around.

Every time
she accidentally touched him, brushed against him, leaned too close
or kissed him (every time at his investigation), she blushed and
pulled back. She pulled back and blushed and avoided eye
contact.
Fucking OK with me,
Angel of mine. I’m patient
.

“
She’s recovering, rebuilding herself
,” or so the precinct shrink had said.

The fat ugly dirty cop had
nearly caught her after two years of her pretending she hadn’t been
nearly raped.

“
She has issued to sort out
,” as
per the good doctor again.
Issues!
“
It will take months
,” the
same counsellor had warned Chris.

“Fucking OK by me. She’s well
worth the wait.”

Another item, a sweatshirt (his
at that) landed at his feet. “It’s not going to happen,
Princess.”

“Wanna bet, Big guy?”
Apparently, she was healing fast.

“Nope, Princess. You know I’m
not a betting man.”

“Like heck, you’re not! What
about poker nights with the Brass? Poker nights with the guys?
Poker nights with the A-team?”

“That’s not gambling; I always
win.”

“Damn, you’re arrogant!”

“Self-confident.”

“You’re impossible!”

“Impossibly sexy? So are you,
Princess, hot as fuck.”

Fists on
hips, chin defiantly up and hair provokingly messy, she glared at
him. She might have caught him licking his lips hungrily or noticed
his boner for she stopped packing and did the pulling back and
blushing thing before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door
behind her. She didn’t lock herself in, though; that door had no
locks. She lived living alone in an exclusive (self-designed, and
uniquely so) hotel suite, why would she have put a lock on the only
inner door?
Hell, Pussycat,
you should have forgone the door altogether
.

The door,
the packing, the fucking blushing, everything was OK by him.
Patience. Healing. Fucking worth the
wait
even if it kills
me
. He went back to the couch. He sure
spent a lot of time with his ass on that damn couch these
days.
I’m keeping you
safe
.

Minutes later, he got back up
and poured himself a scotch. Eleven in the morning and he was
already drinking, but the mood she was in, he wasn’t about to go
jogging. She had gone back to walking and might decide to take a
stroll while he was out. And then, who the fuck knew what the hell
could happen? Smoking was also out because the hotel was a
smoke-free environment. He doubted the hotel staff would have said
anything, though; they all thought of her as one of their own and
granted her free passes for just about anything.

She came out of the bathroom an
hour and a second scotch later (a noon scotch to celebrate his
first day off). She looked exactly the same as an hour earlier. Had
she napped in the fucking bathtub?

She eyed him suspiciously
before announcing, “I don’t want to go.”

“I kind of figured that,
Princess.”

A trip to the beach that
included sex, itsy-bitty bikinis, wine, sun, sand, waves, fancy
food, and rest as on their last vacation together, she should have
wanted to go; he for one fucking did. Mostly for the first two
items on the list.

“I’m a fucking great detective,
ain’t I?” That didn’t make her smile. Not good. “No problem, Angel.
I’m easy. What would you rather do?”

“Go fishing with the guys.”

“Go fishing?” Had the woman
ever fished? He didn’t care, having her alone and helpless in a
launch was going to be fun.