“Goodbye, Maryette.”
She didn’t say a word and he felt her eyes on him as he left. He walked as if he was trying to remember how to do it, to remember which foot moved next. How high to lift the knee. Jackson fumbled at the door handle.
By the time he was outside, she was through the door with him. She stood in front of him with her feet apart. The fingers of her left hand drummed nervily on her hip. He had trouble hearing her smoky voice, “Have you been thinking about me, Jack? All of this time?”
His mouth was dry. She pressed a hand against his shirt, over his heart. Her voice was even quieter, but he heard her fine when she said, “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“We met for what, about half a minute, eight years ago.” His voice was hard and hoarse, “And you’ve been thinking about me all this time? I doubt that very much, Maryette. You don’t seem like the type.” He grabbed her wrist.
Her eyes flashed and her teeth shone as her lips widened. “Wanna smack me, Jack? Tell me I’ve been bad?”
He pulled her hand away from his chest, but he jerked it. He saw her wince. “I have, Jackson,” she said, “I’ve been awful bad.”
She stepped closer. Her scent enveloped him. He had to get away while a tiny part of him still wanted to. Trouble was, that tiny part was locked deep inside his brain.
All the parts of him on the outside, the parts that could see her, hear her, the parts that smelled her, the parts that felt the warmth of her rising breasts and her heat too close in front of his pelvis, none of those parts wanted to go anywhere.
They wanted to take her by the wrist, bend her over the hood of a car, press him into her breasts and yank that little skirt up. He wanted to taste her again. Taste more of her. He was off-balance wondering whether she had been thinking about him or if she was just messing with his head?
He felt a rage boiling inside him. Her eyes widened. He still had a hold of her wrist and he realized he was holding way too tight. When he let go a patch of red remained where his fingers had been.
She reached out to put her hand back on his chest.
“Stop it, Maryette.”
“Going to make me, Jack?” The look in her eyes was a challenge, like she wanted him to strike her. Wanted him to or maybe just expected it. His blood pulsed in his veins as he watched her.
Now she was right up against him. Her chest rose against his. Her heart thudded through their clothes and beat a tattoo on his breast. Her hair smelled like fresh strawberries in grass. Her body felt like a cat, stretching along the length of him. She laid her cheek against his chest.
Jackson held his hands away. That wasn’t going to be any good though. Maryette nuzzled against him, kittenish. Her nails scraped slowly down the front of his shirt.
Into his beating chest she said, “Jack?”
He grabbed both of her wrists and pulled them outwards. Her eyes blazed and her lips curled. She purred, “Oh Jackson.”
There it was again. The prospect of force, of violence. While he held her arms out, Maryette pushed her hot, soft breasts against him. Her eyelids fluttered as she ground the front of her skirt up and down against the swelling that he couldn’t deny at the front of his pants.
His breath was thick and his head was full of her scents. Her thighs were right against his. He let go her arms and stepped back a pace. She pouted, but only for a second, then she dropped the act.
She flicked an eyebrow and blinked. “I don’t know what it’s going to take, Jackson, but I know I have it someplace.”
Jackson’s teeth clenched tight as he spoke. “Maryette, you’re involved with my client.”
“How long’s he going to be your client for?”
“Until the case is over.”
“See you after.”
She turned on a heel and clacked away smartly into the night.
Chapter 7
Jackson gripped the handlebars as he rode for home. The lights on the road were a meaningless blur. The garish neon of a bar caught his eye and he swerved into the parking lot.
Low ceiling, low lights and indistinct jukebox could have put the bar on any roadside in the US. The deranged electronic slot machine babble placed it in Nevada.
About half a dozen middle class locals made up the clientele. They were professionals, managerial, mostly lightly disconnected from one another. A pretty redhead looked up as Jackson walked in the door.
Two bourbons didn’t do much to relax him or clear his head. After all this time, through his whole tour of duty and his final studies for the bar, the image of Maryette had glimmered in the back of his mind.
That image was like the pictures other men kept on their phones or in their wallets. It had been a constant companion, like a dark Saint Christopher. Maybe remembering that brief meeting with her was his way of blocking out what that evening had really been about.
He hadn’t spoken to Karl, written to him or heard from him since that night. Not a single word. When he first was back home and in the public records office, he looked up Karl’s prison record and he knew that Karl would be due a parole hearing in about six months.
He didn’t follow up to learn what the chances of an early release would be. He made no attempt to visit. Jackson Jackson tried, whenever thoughts came to him that concerned Karl in any way, to tell himself that it was all something in the past. Settled and done.
For all this time, he felt as though he had kept his image of Maryette as a myth. A fable of some kind. Now she was real. Flesh and blood.
Now she has to show up in the one situation where any kind of a relationship between him and her would be professional poison. One where he couldn’t help but wonder about her motives.
He knew absolutely nothing about her. Nothing save for where it was that he had seen her, and he wanted no part of that. She was part of the life that Jackson didn’t want for himself. Outlaws, renegades and rebel loners--that wasn’t for Jackson.
She had told him explicitly that she wanted to collude with him, with her partner’s attorney, to have her partner sent to jail. Every part of that of that was lethal. Yet he wanted her so bad.
His muscles were knotted and he thought about another bourbon when the redhead slid onto the stool next to him.
“Looks like you’re drinking on a mission.” She was neat, petite and wholesome-looking in a t-shirt and blue jeans. “I can ride shotgun if you like.”
Instinctively he was about to tell her, ‘No,’ but her voice sounded like she could be easy company, and he thought perhaps some easy company could help. He bought the girl a drink.
She had the ghost of a smile and maybe it matched his mood. She raised the vodka tonic. “Thanks. You not having another?”
“Two’s enough while I have the bike. I’m fine.”
Dawn worked as a croupier on the Strip to pay her way through an MBA. She talked about herself, but Jackson could see that it wasn’t empty-headed self-obsession. She wanted to avoid asking him about himself. That way she didn’t trespass on what he was drinking about. He liked her for that.
They talked about the players and tippers downtown versus the strip. Dawn said that she had dealt poker, blackjack and roulette. “Roulette’s better for me. Blackjack you’re concentrating all the time. On a roulette table you get just enough interaction so the tips are good.”
“You don’t like poker?”
“Man, when it’s good it can be a blast. But when it’s bad, when the table’s going stale, ugh. Too intense for me.”
She had a quiet, pretty smile, which she didn’t overuse. It made cute little dimples in her cheeks when she did, though. He asked her, “You go up to men in bars a lot?”
“No,” she pressed his arm in a mocking rebuke. “No, I saw you and I trusted you. Besides, you looked like you could use some cheering up.”
“And now?”
“Now you look better. But you could still use some more cheering up.”
“Well, it’s a kind thought.”
“I’ve got
a bottle at home. Could help solve the bike thing.”
Dawn’s neat little apartment had low enough light and a decent view of the Vegas Strip in the distance. She put on some Stevie Ray Vaughan as she fixed bourbon for them both, in nice, heavy tumblers.
Jackson relaxed with her. Her easy manner and the clean, fresh scent of her cheered him some. She wasn’t too playful either and he liked that. She danced a little and her hips swayed nicely. She put her hands in her hair, but showed him that it was just for fun. Nothing serious.
By about drink number three she said, “You’re tangled, Jackson.” She took a long breath and a sip of her drink. “If you want to rub your knots up against me that’s okay,” as his mouth opened she put a finger on his lip, “but I don’t want to get snagged in a mess of threads.”
Her eyebrow raised as her lips pursed and she looked at his mouth. “I don’t want to be tied up, Jackson.” Her eyes lifted into his, “Not literally and not metaphorically.” Jackson laughed.
Her lips brushed his. “You should sleep. Sleep here.” He searched her eyes. “You can sleep with me if you want, but I mean sleep. You want anything else, ask first. Not that it’s off the cards, I just want to be sure we understand each other.”
“How do you know I’ll play by the rules?”
“Like I said, I trust you. Don’t disappoint me, Jackson.”
Jackson lay next to Dawn in her soft bed, her body warm against his. She curled up around him and her breathing soothed him. Eventually he was able to ignore the other thing and he drifted off to a deep sleep.
In the too-bright morning he made eggs for them both in her little kitchen bar. Jackson had slept better than he had in some time.
Chapter 8
There were no more than half a dozen spectators in the bright, airy courtroom. Kirwen Bishop, the DA, nodded to Jackson as he took his place on the front bench. Bishop liked the dark G-Man suits with his buzz-curt gray hair, a white shirt and a black tie. He always looked like he was dressed for a funeral. Jackson wondered if that was the idea.
It was Jackson’s first appearance with Bishop and he was surprised to see the DA handle this case in person. Bishop was a man on a mission, and he encouraged the whole DA’s office to carry out their civic duties with a crusader’s religious zeal.
He reminded Jackson of an officer in the corps who thought in terms of patriotism and what he saw as, ‘Doing right in the struggle.’ Jackson thought it led to bad judgment.
Being new at the bar, he didn’t share his views.
Jackson looked around but he didn’t see Maryette in the courtroom.
The court rose for Judge Hooper’s entry at ten o’clock precisely and he got the proceedings under way less than three minutes later.
Bishop’s opening remarks echoed in the high-ceilinged room. With few bodies on the hard surfaces, Bishop used the weighty tone of his voice and left long pauses so his words hung in the air.
He called the jury, “Good citizens,” and he evoked, “the scourge of violent men.” Jackson thought he was going over the line and he watched Judge Hooper. The judge’s eyes narrowed at some of Bishop’s extravagances, but he allowed them.
Jackson envied Bishop’s practiced theatrical ease, and he hadn’t prepared his opening defense to sound like a sermon with biblical resonance or appeals to primal vengeance. He gave his outline of the flaws and weaknesses in the prosecution’s case.
When he sat, he felt that he’d come prepared for a school debate and contended with a Roman senator.
After Jackson’s speech, Kirwen Bishop stood to call the investigating officer, a granite-faced young detective called Frank Gracey.
Gracey announced that the complainant, Mr. Treacher, was unwilling to testify. Unprompted, he added that Mr. Sage had outlined a solid defense. Jackson blinked but he saw no advantage in questioning Gracey. The DA glowered at the detective as he left the stand.
Bishop shuffled efficiently through his bundle and then he rose again to announce that the state would offer no other evidence at this time.
A ripple of surprise crossed Judge Hooper’s brow as he dismissed the case and banged his gavel, but he was clearly glad to see the day moving along. On the way out of the courtroom Jackson caught up with Gracey, whom he hardly knew.
“What was that about a ‘solid defense’?” he asked Gracey straight, “You had no reason to say that.”
Gracey’s voice was rich and languid, “Sport, word gets out about that, you’re about to become the go-to defender for bangers, bikers and who knows what other species of pond-life.” Jackson could read no expression on the detective’s face at all as he said, “I made it rain for you, Sport. Be glad.”
Gracey crossed the tiled courthouse lobby and waited by the door. Jackson stopped there with him. McGhee stepped out from the courthouse to greet Frank. As they walked through the door, before the sun had lit the whole of McGhee’s face, Gracey arrested him with a whole list of violent offenses, including arson and trafficking in controlled substances. A marshall appeared at McGhee’s side.
As he was led away, McGhee caught Jackson’s eye. He said, “Well, you won this time. lawyer. And I guess I’m going to be your first repeat customer.”
Frank Gracey turned back to Jackson. “Could your day get any better?”
Chapter 9
The detective and the marshal led his client to the prison wagon, and a dull gray Camaro kicked up dust as it bucked out of the court lot. Jackson made out Maryette’s profile as the car sped away.
Two matte black Harleys followed the Camaro out in a hurry. As the car hit the freeway, it accelerated hard. Jackson was already firing up his own bike when the two scooters were pulling alongside the Camaro, and Maryette gunned the engine. The three vehicles swept out on a curve and out of sight.
Jack's engine roared and he hung on as the handlebars lifted and tugged hard on his arms. He got out onto the winding freeway and, for the first half mile, he couldn't see them. Then he saw the bikes boxing the Camaro, one in front and one behind.
With the throttle wound all the way open, he was hardly gaining on them. They pulled off onto a local road, still moving fast. The wind was cold at that speed and made his suit coat flap. He wished he had his leather jacket as the group ahead wheeled off onto a dirt road.
Jack's back wheel skidded and almost broke loose as he made the turn onto the bumpy dirt track. There was no sign of them ahead. His pulse raced as he slowed to watch either side.
With a rising sense of alarm, he passed untended bushes and scrub, trees dirt, rocks and not much else. Then, off to the side he caught sight of a cabin. Out front were the bikes and the Camaro. He killed his engine, stopped and leaned the bike on its stand.
The wood cabin was small, maybe two rooms, and it was old and rickety. From the scrub surrounding it, it didn't look like it as in regular use. The ground out front was overgrown, so no vehicles parked there regularly.
Hearing his own motor tick, he crouched low as he approached. On the way he spotted an tin can and he picked it up. He watched the cabin. Nothing moved. Back by his bike, Jackson took off his suit coat and tore the arms off his shirt.
He stuffed one arm into the can and packed it with stones and dirt. Reaching in below the bike's fuel tank, he flipped off the gas tap and disconnected the fuel line. With the end of the line in the top of the can, he turned the tap back on to run gas in to soak the shirtsleeve.
Then he soaked the other sleeve and twisted it as tight as he could. He shoved the end of the sleeve in the top of the can, then folded and flattened the open mouth over the sleeve. With no tools to hand, it wasn't a perfect seal, but it was all he had time to make. He hoped it would work.
Keeping as low and as quiet as he could, Jackson circled wide around to the far side of the cabin. He kept low and made a quiet approach until he was near enough to hear the rumble of voices inside. There wasn't much sound.
Jackson dug a shallow trough in the dirt with his hands to bury the can, and pack
ed it tight with dirt and rocks. He trailed the protruding shirtsleeve as long as it would go. It wasn’t long. He’d have to move fast.
With his brass Zippo lighter, he lit the end of the shirtsleeve, scurried around the front of the cabin and crouched by the door. Almost as soon as he was there, a loud, satisfying explosive CRUMP from out back was followed by the sound of showering stones.
The door flew open and a man dashed out. Wiley had on shades and he was carrying an AK47 rifle. Jackson rose as he jerked his fist in a jackhammer up into Wiley’s jaw and he snagged Wiley's leg with his own. As Wiley fell forward and splayed on the deck, Jackson snatched the AK47.
Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) Page 48
