Sugar Free (18 page)

She gives me a gamine smile and does as I ask. I lean in slightly, tilting my head, but then my other hand snags the panties I had pulled off her moments ago and I shove them in.

Her eyes flare with surprise and heat before they narrow into a glare. I grin at her and kiss the corner of her mouth. “There…now I can fuck you without hearing your ridiculous words.”

This pisses her off and she shoves at my chest, trying to push me away from her. I merely get hold of her hips again and pump in and out of her a few times. I'm fascinated as I watch the struggle on her face not to show me how good that feels and to keep that malcontent look leveled at me. Her fingers come to my shoulders and she digs her nails down into me, not sure if that's a sign of lust that she's so turned on or a form of punishment, but fuck…it hurts.

So I pull her off the dresser, expecting her to wrap those legs around my hips for leverage, but she starts to scramble off my cock and that just won't do. No way I'm not fucking this pussy now that I'm sunk in deep.

I spin forty-five degrees and push her right into the line of suits I have hung up on a bar that sits high enough that her head clears it easily. I push her into them hard, some of them falling from hangers, and some hangers falling from the bar to rain down around us. I push her all the way back with my suit coats at her back until she's pinned against that side of the closet, and I ram into her hard, holding her in place and grinding against her. She moans, her eyes fluttering in the back of her head, and finally…those beautiful legs come around my waist to hang on.

And she needs to hang on.

I let my anger and frustration and anxiety out on her body. I let my fear and love and uncertainty drive the force of my thrusts into her, letting that delicious wet heat cradle me and soothe me. I fuck my misery out on her, burying my face into her shoulder and closing my eyes. I hear her panting against the lace in her mouth and her moans every time I drive deep.

This right here…never giving this up, and I'm not going to let Sela destroy this.

Pulling my head up, I find her staring at me, her eyes now completely soft, her spirit completely in the moment with me. I reach a hand up, pull the panties out, and place my lips against hers, all while I push in and out with the force of a battering ram. Little bursts of air pump from her mouth into mine every time I slam in, and her arms wrap around me tight as we kiss.

Never fucking giving this up.

It's a quarter till five in the morning when I walk into the Sausalito Police Department. I left Beck sleeping soundly, utterly exhausted. I left him sleeping with the delusion that I'd be by his side when he woke up.

The only way I was going to be assured of slipping out of the condo was if I could get him into a deep and restful sleep. So after he fucked me in the closet, I urged him to take me to our bed where we kissed, and cuddled, and whispered sweet nothings. I let him make love to me, our eyes locked as we just rocked against each other. I let him extract promises that were nothing but lies while he tenderly fucked me.

“Promise me, Sela…you'll give up this idea of turning yourself in.”

“I promise.”

“Swear it for me.”

“I swear it.”

“Swear it on your love for me.”

“I swear it on my love for you.”

We came together and it was so beautiful I almost started crying. Then Beck pulled me into his arms, satisfied that I was put back in my place for the time being, and we fell asleep.

Well, he fell asleep.

I feigned it.

I didn't move a muscle and let him hold me for a few hours, memorizing the feel of his skin, his hair, the pace of his breathing…his scent. I inhaled against him deeply, committing it to my deep memory so I'd never lose it.

He never stirred once when I slipped out of bed and quietly put my clothes on.

By the fact he hasn't called me on my phone means he's still in our bed sleeping…probably with a contented smile on his face.

Chest pain…squeeze of regret.

I turn my phone off, so I won't be tempted to answer it when he calls.

A uniformed cop sits at the curved reception desk and looks at me curiously when I walk in. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I need to talk to Detective Denning or DeLatemer…either one.”

“Well, neither one of them are in yet,” he says with a smile. “They usually roll in around seven. You could come back…there's a twenty-four hour McDonald's about a mile away; you could go get some coffee or something.”

“I need you to call them,” I say firmly. “Tell them that Sela Halstead is here.”

He has no clue who I am and there's no doubt it's crazy that I've walked in here during the dark morning hours demanding he call in a detective.

A flash of irritation across his face. “Miss Halstead…I can't—”

“Call one of them and tell them I'm here to confess to the murder of Jonathon Townsend,” I say softly and with such honesty he immediately turns to the computer in front of him.

He types a few things on the keyboard as he says, “Just a minute…let me look up their cell numbers.”

The cop finds them fast as he picks up the desk phone, and with his eyes pinned to me in disbelief the entire time, he calls Detective Denning. “Um…I've got a Sela Halstead at reception asking for you to come to the station. She said she wants to confess to the Jonathon Townsend murder.”

He listens for several moments and then hangs up the phone. Standing from the desk, he says, “Miss Halstead…follow me. I'm going to seat you in an interview room and Detective Denning is on her way in.”

I nod and follow the cop through a door that's opened with a code he punches in, and then down to a large room with a conference table. He flicks on the light and points to a seat. “Can I get you some coffee?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

“All right,” he says as he pulls a tiny card from his breast pocket and gives me a sheepish look as he nods toward it. “I don't normally do this, but Detective Denning asked me to read your Miranda rights.”

I just nod, my tongue too thick with fear to say anything.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

“You understand, Miss Halstead,” Detective Denning says as she sits across from me with her arms folded over her chest and a pissy I-can't-believe-you-woke-me-up-for-this-shit look, “this sounds like nothing more than an attempt by a desperate girlfriend to save her boyfriend.”

“I can understand that,” I say, wishing that she didn't look so doubtful. “But when you hear my story, you'll believe me.”

“Then let's hear it,” she says with boredom before flicking a hand toward the top corner of the room. I see a camera there with a red light. “And this is being recorded.”

I nod, swallow, and then say, “Ten years ago, Jonathon Townsend raped me.”

That gets her attention, as I knew it would, and she sits up straight in her chair. “Go on.”

“At least I thought he did. I was sixteen, drugged at a party with Rohypnol, and raped by three men. I remember bits and pieces. A semen sample was taken from me but my attackers were never identified.”

She doesn't offer me sympathy, but I expect it's because she either doesn't believe me or she doesn't want to interrupt me.

“Almost a year ago, I was watching TV and I saw Jonathon Townsend on there, and I saw a tattoo he had of a red phoenix on his rib cage. I remember that tattoo…it was the exact one I remembered from my attack.”

“So you identified Mr. Townsend as your alleged rapist?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I was convinced he was one of them. One of the others had the same tattoo on his wrist.”

“What did you do?”

“I planned to murder Mr. Townsend,” I tell her honestly. “It took me six months to get ready for it. I changed my hair color, had to let some facial piercings close up, worked out and lost some weight. Then I joined The Sugar Bowl and my intention was to meet Mr. Townsend, get him alone, and then I was going to shoot him after I induced him to tell me who my other attackers were.”

“So you went to his house and stabbed him instead?” she asks incredulously.

I shake my head. “No, I met Beck North instead, and I eventually told him the truth about JT. He convinced me to give up my murderous plot and to go to the police. We had just decided to do that right before Mr. Townsend was beaten up.”

“You know if it's true, that Mr. Townsend raped you, that adds additional motive for Mr. North,” she points out.

“It does, but Beck never once considered it. In fact, I actually asked him if he'd help me do it and he unequivocally rejected the idea. He's the one who talked me out of giving up that quest. He knew it wasn't the right thing to do.”

“All right,” she says skeptically. “So then why did you kill him?”

“He called me the day it happened. I had just gotten out of school and he left me a voice mail. I called him back and he said he had an idea he wanted to run by me. He asked me to come to his house to go over it.”

“And you want me to believe you were stupid enough to go to the house of a man who raped you?” she asks skeptically.

“You've been right about one thing in this investigation…Beck wanted JT out of the company. We were very much relying on him taking Beck's offer of five million in exchange for ownership of The Sugar Bowl, and JT could get out of his gambling debt. We wanted him out of the business before I went to the police so it made the transition smoother. I went to JT's house because I was hoping I could help him to see reason that this was a good deal. I wanted him to take that deal, give The Sugar Bowl to Beck, who is a good and decent man, and then I wanted to go to the police and put JT in jail.”

“Tell me what happened when you got to his house,” she prods me, and by the fact she's not questioning my story up to this point, I have to take that to mean she believes me to some extent.

I take a deep breath, but before I can answer, there's a knock on the conference room door. The same cop who was at reception pokes his head in. “Detective…Beck North is in the lobby, demanding to see Miss Halstead.”

Detective Denning looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to take a break to talk to him?”

I shake my head. “No. He's here to try to talk me out of it.”

Denning nods and turns back to the cop. “Tell Mr. North that Miss Halstead doesn't want to see him.”

The officer nods, backs out, and closes the door. Denning refocuses on me. “We were talking about what happened at JT's house.”

Another deep breath. “He invited me in and we went into the den. He started—”

“Wait a minute,” Denning interrupts. “He hadn't recognized you the few times you'd been around each other.”

I give a dry laugh. “I hadn't thought so, but apparently he had. He told me that he knew Beck was his brother and he wanted Beck to let him stay in The Sugar Bowl and he'd in turn renounce his rights to the North estate.”

“What did you say?”

“That it wouldn't change Beck's mind,” I tell her.

“Then what?”

“He got angry…called me a cunt…He came at me, so I reached into my purse and pulled out my gun,” I tell her candidly.

She blinks in surprise. “You have a gun?”

“It was my mother's,” I tell her. “It's not registered to me. It's in my car and you can have it.”

She blinks again in surprise, shakes her head as if she can't believe she's hearing this. “Then what happened?”

“JT was crazed with anger. Didn't care that I was pointing a gun at him. Walked right up to me until the gun was pushing against the center of his chest. He actually dared me to shoot him, and I swear to God, Detective Denning, no matter how much I hated him, I couldn't pull the trigger.”

She nods in acceptance of that because she knows JT was in fact not killed with a gun.

“He knocked the gun out of my hand and then forced me back onto his desk. He was choking me with his cast on his broken arm. That's when he admitted that he knew who I was.” I pause a moment and take a small breath, swallowing hard against the rotten memories. “Said I was one of the best fucks he'd ever had and would never forget someone like me.”

Denning doesn't say anything, but she's now leaning over the table, enthralled with my story.

“Anyway…he was choking me,” I tell her, and pull down the edge of my turtleneck so she can see the bruises that remain on my neck over a week after he choked me, although they're mostly faded. “I couldn't breathe…I was dying. I somehow got ahold of the letter opener and I swung at him. It went into his neck and I pulled it out. Then I swung again, I think out of reflex…I'm not sure. I was able to push him off me and he fell to the floor. I watched him die. It didn't take long.”

“Why didn't you call the police?” Denning asks. “If what you say is true, it would have been self-defense.”

“Would you have believed me, given the fact I went to my rapist's house with a gun and then stabbed him in the neck?”

“There's no telling now, is there?” she counters. “There's no evidence left. Blood spray on your clothes, the weapon…the positioning of where the gun landed. None of that for us to see now.”

“I know,” I whisper, looking down at my hands.

“What did you do with the letter opener and your clothes?” she asks.

And this is where I determine the interview is over. I am never telling her what happened to those items. “I'm invoking my right to remain silent.”

“What?” she asks in surprise.

“I've told you what you need to know. I've got my voice mail proving he contacted me and the bruises on my neck. If that won't amount to self-defense along with my story, I'll let the chips fall where they may.”

“Did Beck North dispose of that evidence for you?”

I say nothing but stare at her with stony resolve.

“Did Mr. Townsend ever admit to you that he raped Caroline North?”

Not answering that one either.

“Did Mr. North help you cover up your crime?”

Silence.

“Did you tell Mr. North what you did?”

Crickets
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