Sugar Free (6 page)

Taking a deep breath, I let it out and try to pour out all of my anxiety about the situation with it. It totally doesn't work, as I still feel the telltale cramp of worry deep in my chest. But I smile for Caroline's benefit and nod my head. “Okay. I'll let it ride.”

“Good,” she says with a curt smile, then turns serious. “Now…how is Beck doing?”

How is Beck doing?

You mean after I told him that JT raped you? After he realized that JT was Ally's father? After it became painfully clear he could do nothing about it and has turned his rage and bitterness inward and now I'm really concerned about his mental state of mind?

“He's fine,” I assure her, because I don't want her to worry about her brother. There's nothing she could do anyway because she'd never understand his pain right now. So I take that burden solely on my shoulders, and I go on to tell her lies that Beck seems completely in control right now.

I break out of the forest densely populated with Monterey cypress and coast redwoods and into a small meadow where my car sits about three hundred yards on the other side. I'm holding my sweatshirt, marked with grime and sweat, loosely in my hand. I'd long ago taken it off because the weather was unseasonably mild, in the high fifties, and I've been using it repeatedly over the last few hours to wipe my face.

I had no solid game plan for where to dispose of the letter opener and bloody clothes when I left the condo, as I was absolutely driven to get out of there as fast as I could so I didn't have to look at the pity on Sela's face for me. True…these incriminating items had to be ditched somewhere far away, but I ran from Sela and her brutal truths because I couldn't fucking handle thinking about it.

I looked at Sela, eyes filled with regret for needing to deliver such hurtful words, and all I could imagine was JT leering over her…relishing in telling her that he raped my little sister.

Too much.

Overload.

Had to get out.

And I drove to Uvas Canyon in the Santa Cruz Mountains, stopping once to fill up my car and grab a can of lighter fluid and a pack of matches from the convenience store, all of which I paid cash for. I'd been out to Uvas Canyon Park a few times during my Stanford days. I chose it because it's lushly and densely wooded and there's only six miles of marked hiking trails on almost twelve hundred acres of forest. That means there's a lot of isolated areas where people won't venture and where I could safely hide the murder evidence. My only other implement, other than the backpack that carried the weapon and clothes wrapped in a garbage bag, was my Garmin running watch, which was equipped with GPS. I made sure to put that on versus my Breitling, and I was set to protect Sela as best I could.

I hiked deep into the woods, off the main trail and pushing my way past thick underbrush and fallen, rotted trees. I had intended to bury the letter opener, but immediately realized that wasn't going to work without a shovel or axe to chop my way through roots, so I kept my eyes lifted upward to the trees until I spotted exactly what I wanted: a tree that was half dead, easily climbable, and with a rotted crevice about fifteen feet up in the trunk. It was almost too easy to scale my way up, using a cracked branch hanging at a downward angle, and I was stuffing the letter opener deep into the rotted section that was blackened with shadow because the indentation was so deep. When I got back to the ground, I couldn't see the letter opener from any angle.

I then turned east, went deeper into the woods, and consulting the map periodically, knew I was in an area that would almost guarantee total privacy. Couldn't guarantee there wasn't some other whack job out here trying to hide a body or something, but I knew I had to take a calculated risk to get rid of the last remnants of evidence I possessed. I put Sela's T-shirt and bra soaked with JT's blood and his gray hoodie that had some transferred spots of blood on it in a small clearing I made free of leaves and sticks. I then used my hands to scrape as much damp earth and wet leaves into a small pile to help me extinguish the fire after it had done its job.

I poured a small amount of lighter fluid on the clothes and said a small prayer that I not be caught and that I could get the fire out before anyone smelled the smoke and became curious. I lit a match and tossed it on the pile, and to my dismay, it took a fuck of a long time for the clothes to burn. I had to use more lighter fluid, adding it carefully when the fire would die, until I was confident nothing could be identified. I didn't burn the clothing to pure ash, but I burned most of it away, and what was left was disfigured enough that I knew there'd be no amount of DNA they could ever pull off of it.

At least that's what I hoped.

I easily put out any remaining embers with the dirt and wet leaves and a general stomping of my tennis shoes around, then I gathered the mess that was left and hiked south for several hundred yards where I was able to stuff them beneath a rotted tree that had fallen to the ground. I pulled dead brush to help camouflage the blackened remnants of burned clothing, not much of which was left, but I wasn't too worried about it. Chances of a hiker coming by this area and seeing the clothing was virtually nonexistent to my way of thinking. Even if they did, chances of them even alerting police was even smaller. And if that did happen, I didn't believe there was any way they'd connect that to JT's murder.

I felt I had done all I could.

So with hands completely filthy with dirt and my shirt soaked with sweat, I trudged back through the small meadow, my eyes pinned on my car the entire time. Just waiting perhaps for someone to drive by and see me; placing me in a very strange place at a very strange time in my life. I knew if I could just make it back to the condo unaccosted and get into the shower to wash away the evidence of my crime of concealment, Sela and I could rest easier.

When I get to my car, I take a moment to vigorously scrub my hands on my jean-clad thighs, removing most of the leftover dirt I accumulated to extinguish the fire. I wipe my sweaty face one more time with my sweatshirt before tossing it onto the passenger seat along with the empty backpack. After expelling a deep breath of completion, I get into my car and turn it on, cranking the A/C up so I can cool down.

I take a moment to check my messages and see I have two voice mails.

The first is from my mother and it's short, to the point, and completely offensive to me.

Beck…this is your mother.

No shit.

Just wanted to let you know the Townsends have arranged for JT's funeral to be held on Friday at two
P.M.
They'd like you to give the eulogy and I accepted on your behalf. Oh, and will you talk Caroline into coming? If there's one function she should attend, this is it.

Yeah, Mom…that sure as fuck isn't going to happen. No way is Caroline going to give you even a moment's consideration, and I'm sure as shit not going to let her attend the funeral of her rapist.

But joy…looks like I'll be giving a eulogy for the man who defiled her and Sela. Oh, the things I'd really love to say…

I delete my mom's voice mail and listen to the second, which is from Sela, very brief and just letting me know she decided to drive to Healdsburg to have lunch with Caroline. I'm not surprised. I imagine she's trying to talk through every angle of how we made a poor decision by not coming forward, but I also know Caroline will stay firmly on my side. It's just the way things are between us.

But I also expect it's because she and Caroline now understand they have a deeper bond with each other, forged by circumstances that I cannot truly comprehend. For this, I'm glad that they each now have a true confidante if they need to discuss what happened to them.

Except they now have one difference. Sela has identified her attacker. Caroline never will.

Laying my head back against the cushioned rest, I take a moment to analyze what JT said to Sela. He was clearly telling the truth that he knew about our relation to each other. So he wasn't lying in an effort to get ahead.

I have to assume that fucker wasn't lying when he told Sela about raping Caroline. I suppose there's a small chance he did that just to torture her, but mostly I think he did it because he was a sadistic fuck.

Regardless, I'm pretty sure he was telling the truth.

But the thing I can't get past is the DNA evidence. DNA was collected from Caroline and we were told that there was no match. If JT really raped both women, it should have matched up to the evidence collected from Sela's rape. I suppose the most logical explanation for it not matching up is that perhaps Sela was confused about whose semen was in her hair. She thought it was JT's, but she had two other attackers. Perhaps it was their semen.

But another explanation bothers me and I hadn't thought much about it before, but I do now. When Dennis had gotten a copy of Sela's criminal investigation file, he said the paperwork for the Combined DNA Index System—CODIS—wasn't in the file. He was sure it was an oversight, but it could have slipped through the cracks.

I consider calling Dennis. He flew out to Vegas last night to deliver the money to VanZant for taking the dive, then he's heading to Ireland. After that Panama. The man is on a much-needed vacation and he more than earned some peace from my crazy shit for a few days, even though I'm quite sure he wouldn't be put out to check on that for me.

Still, I hesitate to make the call partly because it truly shouldn't make a difference to me. While the matching DNA would be unequivocal proof that JT raped both the loves of my life, I also have Sela's word, and that's as good as DNA in my opinion.

But mostly I don't call him because if I did, he'd naturally want to know why I'm asking, and I sure as fuck am not going to let one other single soul in on what went down with JT. If I call Dennis, I'll have to tell him JT's dead. If I ask about the DNA matching, he'll connect the dots, and then he'll probably push at me for details. It's too risky, and hence my decision is made not to involve Dennis.

At least not yet.

But if things get dicey later, and I need a man with his particular skill set to help Sela and me out, I'll make the call with no hesitation.

Lifting my head from the cushion, I put the car in drive and pull onto the gravel roadway that will lead back out to the main park road. I need to get home and get cleaned up. I've got some calls to make on behalf of the business. I'd sent an email out late last night to the entire company about JT's death, as I knew it would hit the news and I didn't want anyone to be caught unaware. I also called Linda and asked her to personally call Karla to let her know. I told the staff I'd be in on Wednesday, but that I would need the day off to help make arrangements for JT's funeral.

It was a lie.

I needed today off to do whatever I could to erase Sela's part in JT's death so she wouldn't get caught and she could live her life in peace as she deserved.

Mentally going through a to-do list, I know the next few days are going to be brutal. I'll have to play the grieving partner and friend, prepare a eulogy for a man I despise, deliver it with more acting skill than I needed with the cops, and figure out how to soothe the company employees who will no doubt be traumatized by all of this.

But that could all wait until tomorrow.

For now, I needed to get home.

To Sela.

Despite the nearly hour and a half drive each way to Healdsburg, and the hour we spent having lunch, I still beat Beck back to the condo by almost thirty minutes. I was waiting on pins and needles, not because I was nervous about what he'd just done for me today, but because I wasn't sure how he was processing his pain about what he learned about Caroline's rape.

When the front door opens, I immediately rise from my perch at the dining room table. His eyes slide to mine and he gives me a tired but confident smile.

“Hey,” he says as he shuts the door, locks it, and tosses his keys and wallet on the foyer table. His face is streaked with dried sweat and dirt, and the front of his jeans are filthy. In his other hand, he has his sweatshirt balled up and I can also see it spotted with dirt.

“Who won?” I ask as I walk toward him. “You or the pig?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, brows furrowing inward with confusion, and I know he must be completely exhausted in both mind and body to not get my joke.

“It looks like you just wrestled a pig in mud,” I point out as I circle my fingers around his wrist, pulling the sweatshirt out of his other hand. I drop it to the floor and turn toward our bedroom, pulling Beck behind me. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

He follows me, content to let me lead. He doesn't say a word, but I don't need him to. I don't care or worry about what he did with the letter opener and bloody clothes. I knew from that brief smile he gave me just a moment ago that it was handled in the best way possible.

I lead Beck straight into our master bath, releasing my hold on him to start the shower. It's not lost on me that he was doing the very same thing for me just about twenty-four hours ago. Then he was wanting me to clean away the blood of my crime. Now I want him to clean away the grunge of his.

When I turn around, I find Beck stripping down. This disappoints me slightly, because I had wanted to do that for him. I want to take absolute care of him right now.

Without hesitation, I start taking my clothes off, starting with the awful cheap boots I'm wearing. Beck doesn't act surprised, and even though I know he's depleted, his eyes still wander over my body with a quiet flickering of heat in them. When his pants come off, I can see he's starting to get hard just from watching me disrobe, but that's just going to have to wait.

I reach out and take him by the wrist again, leading him into the shower. While Beck prefers us taking a bath together in his huge garden tub, I'm a fan of his shower. It's huge…at least six by ten feet with three walls of pristine white tile and the fourth side mostly open with just a half wall made of clear glass blocks. There's a wide bench that runs the length of the shower, but my favorite part is the various valves and sprays that offers a huge overhead waterfall, nine individual body sprays set into three of the walls as well as a multifunction hand shower that Beck has used numerous times to get me off. It has three different pulse speeds that are divine.

But that's for another time, because the minute I pull Beck into the body sprays, he lets out an almost pained sigh of relief.

“Feel good?” I murmur as I watch him tilt his head back under the waterfall to wet his hair.

“Mmmmm-hmmmm,” he responds with his eyes closed.

I reach over and grab the bar of soap from a corner tiled ledge, and I rub it into a froth with a washcloth. Then I methodically take my time and go over every inch of Beck's body, starting first with his hands because they are the filthiest. I take great care with them, using a nailbrush to help get the dirt that's caked under his nails. When they're practically sparkling, I reload the washcloth with the bar of soap and start at his neck and work my way down. Over his shoulders and across his upper back, where I gently wash over the tattoo that's half red phoenix and half dragon.

By the time the washcloth hits Beck's abs, he's trying to wash me as well, his hands coming to my body in a natural way that can't be helped. He's never been one to sit back and let me just do things to him. He always wants to be touching me, focusing on my sensations first, his second.

I bat his hands away, telling him to be still and let me finish. He responds with a slight growl, makes an attempt to drop his hands by his sides, but when my washcloth hits his ass, they come back up again. Granted, they merely rest on my shoulders, his thumbs stroking my wet skin, but they don't make any further move so I let them stay.

Because as long as his hands are being good, I can concentrate on my task.

I bring the soapy cloth back around front, across his hip and over his lower abs, pushing upward to get his chest a second time. Only because I love his chest so much. It's a fabulous chest, well defined with a smattering of hair in the center. It's also clean and doesn't need my attention anymore, but I can't help it. I love touching Beck.

Ultimately, my mistake is when I lift my face to take a peek at his. I find him staring down at me with the most intense look I've ever seen. Blue eyes flashing at me like a blinking neon sign that's advertising his emotions.

Love.

Lust.

Protectiveness.

Vulnerability.

Yes…that last one. Him looking vulnerable.

That gets me.

My eyes drop back down to the washcloth and I try to speak, but my voice is raspy with emotion. I cough and try to go for a light, casual tone so he doesn't see just how much a single look from him can move me so deeply. “Thank you for what you did for me today.”

With lightning speed, Beck's hand is under my chin, tilting my face up again. Same flashing signs of emotion in those ocean-blue eyes, but a new urgency there. “There isn't anything I won't do for you, Sela.”

“I know,” I whisper back to him, slowly moving the cloth from his chest down his stomach.

“I'll do anything to ensure you never go down for that—”

“I'll do the same. I'll never let you go down either.”

He smiles at me…a bit amused at my proclamation because it impedes on his white-knight territory. “Neither one of us is going down. How 'bout that?”

“I can live with that,” I breathe out.

“Good,” he says, his eyes now lighting up with a different kind of look. One that makes my knees go weak. “Now how about dropping that washcloth and using your hands on me.”

I arch an eyebrow at him but drop the cloth to the tiled floor, where it lands with a wet splat. I take his semi-hard cock in my hand and give him a squeeze. “Like this?”

His eyes close and he licks his lower lip. “Just like that.”

My other hand cups his balls, rolling them around and then running my finger along the delicate skin behind them. “How about this?”

He groans. “Yeah…that's good too.”

“Bet my mouth would be better,” I observe as I stroke his slick skin until he's fully hard in my hand.

“So much better,” he agrees in a guttural voice.

I release him, bring my hands to his waist, and turn him toward the shower bench. He blinks in surprise but lets me push him down until he's sitting and I step in between his legs.

“But first,” I say with a playful smile as I reach for the shampoo, “let's get your hair washed.”

“You know it's dangerous to tease me like that, Sela,” he warns, and the dark promise in his voice causes a tremor to run up my spine.

I shrug like I don't care, but I do.

I so care that he's beyond turned on by me.

I care so much about this man that I want us to consume each other completely.

Holding the shampoo bottle in one hand and the other going to his shoulder for leverage, I haul myself onto him to straddle his lap. His straining cock bumps between my legs and I let out a quavering breath that simple, inadvertent touch causes.

Beck's hands come to my hips but he doesn't try to push me down onto him. He merely holds me steady while I flip the top open from the shampoo and pour a small amount into my hand. The bottle drops to the bench and then my hands are in Beck's wet hair, my fingers massaging his scalp and working up a lather.

I know it feels good to him because he gives a rumbling sound of appreciation in his chest and his head falls forward until his face is pressed into my neck. I feel his mouth open and suck against me lightly, his fingers digging into the flesh at my hips.

“That feels so good, Sela,” he murmurs as I go a little rougher in my ministrations, hoping to work out some stress and tension for him. But then he pushes down on me slightly and raises his hips; that amazingly large and hard shaft rubs right against my pussy and reminds me of my earlier intention to suck Beck off.

Reaching up, I grab the hand shower, flipping the tiny valve at the base that will let water through.

“Let's get your hair rinsed,” I tell him as I gently wave the shower wand over his head while he tilts it back. As the soap runs free, and then clear, I tell him with brazen promise in my voice, “I'm going to give you a blow job that will make your eyes cross.”

“Uh-uh,” he says with a shake of his head and a wicked gleam in his gaze as he takes the wand from me, lowering it until the hose is stretched fully before releasing it. “That's just not going to work for me.”

I start to ask why not, because hello, I've gotten really good at my blow jobs, but then he's reaching between us and bringing the head of his cock right to my center. My hips involuntarily rotate, dragging him into me slowly.

“That's it,” he encourages me in a low voice, his hands now back to my hips. “I want you to fuck me, Sela. And do it slow, okay?”

“Okay,” I practically wheeze out, because not only is the feeling of him just inside of me—just waiting for me to fully impale myself—incredibly intense, but the way in which he's giving me some control is almost too much to bear.

Beck is always the one driving when we're fucking. Always the one in control. Always the one who determines the pace and the position.

It's something I've never minded because I adore him being in control. It makes me feel immensely cherished and it's a huge turn-on to know that he's so confident in his skills that I would never want to ever give that up.

I slide my hands from his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, and then cup his face. I press my mouth to his and kiss him briefly before pulling back. Placing my forehead against his, I take a breath in, hold it, and then drop my body so I can take him all the way into me.

Inch by delicious inch, I slowly sink onto his cock, feeling the stretch and tiny sting that always comes because of his size but quickly melts away into the most exquisite of pleasures my body has ever felt.

When he's buried as deep as I can take him—that point where the head of his cock presses almost uncomfortably against that magical place inside of me—I give him another quick kiss before I start to move.

While Beck has commanded that I fuck him and do so slowly, he ends up using his hands on my hips to help guide me along. He does indeed let me raise and lower with sweet leisure, but after a few moments, he forces me to go a little faster. I try to push against the deep thrusts he's demanding because that very magical place inside of me is super sensitive to Beck's dick and will have me screaming like a banshee in no time.

And I want us to come together.

It's my favorite thing in the world to do with Beck.

My legs tremble as I try to slow it down a bit and Beck uses his superior strength to push past my stubbornness. He thrusts upward with his hips, slamming me back down so our skin slaps loudly past the hiss of the shower, and my body starts tightening with an impending orgasm.

“Slow down, Beck,” I huff out as he has me practically bouncing up and down on him.

“Pick it up,” he counters wickedly, and then surges up off the bench after slamming upward deeply. He turns, and with sure footing presses me into the wall with three of the imbedded shower sprays, causing water to spray every which way once my back hits them.