The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  Don’t do this, Caitlyn, use your head.

  But she disregarded the horrid little voice in her head and gave in to the need for human touch, the yearning to be wanted. Her lips parted and his tongue slid into her, caressing the ridges of the roof of her mouth as he held her firmly against him. Her breasts tingled, her skin was on fire and through their clothes, pressed hard against the juncture of her legs, she felt his erection, harder as their kiss deepened. He found the zipper of her dress and she didn’t object, let the fabric part until her bare back was exposed. His fingers moved lightly down her spine, tracing its ridge, sliding between her buttocks.

  She felt her heart kick into double time, sensed the first dusky stirrings deep within, of want that yawned and begged for more.

  “Caitlyn—” he said, his voice low and husky, sweat beading on his forehead. “We shouldn’t.”

  “I know.” But she didn’t believe him, just kissed the side of his mouth.

  “This could be trouble.”

  “Only if we let it,” she whispered, kissing him again, feeling his heat, his need, so much like her own, pulsing in the thick air between them, throbbing in their blood. She moved against him, her long dress bunching, and he seemed to let go.

  “God help me,” he ground out as his hands grabbed the dress’s hem and he pulled it upward, the tips of his fingers grazing her thighs, his need evident. She got lost in the smell and taste of him, kissing his lips, his eyes, his nose as he stripped them both, yanked her dress over her head, unhooked her bra and pulled off his shirt and slacks. There was no more talk of denial, no more worry about propriety. He kissed her as if he never intended to stop, stripping away her bra and panties as her heart pounded and her blood thundered in her ears. He pulled her atop him and lifted his hips, thrusting into her from below, claiming her while she was straddling him, caressing her breasts as she moved.

  His eyes were closed as they kissed long and hard, the air between them dense, the heat palpable. Her pulse raced, lightning quick, moving her to that dark, dangerous beyond.

  Faster and faster they moved and the room spun crazily . . . wildly. Her nipples hardened beneath his touch, and when he curled up to take one in his mouth, she cried out. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her thoughts losing connection. Electricity seemed to crackle around them and she closed her eyes, feeling the need building within her, the great swelling that was as consuming as it was pleasurable. He knew just where to touch her, just how to . . . .

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh, God, Adam!” she cried as the first spasm hit. Jolting her. Catapulting her into another time and space. Her eyes closed and for the moment she was lost. Couldn’t find herself, couldn’t breathe.

  Beneath her, every muscle in his body contracted.

  He cried out, his voice raw, his fingers digging into her buttocks.

  He lost himself in her and she opened her eyes, stared down at this stranger who was still inside her. Shivering, she blinked hard. Then Kelly realized what had happened.

  Caitlyn, the fool, had made love to this man . . . her shrink. God, what a mess, Kelly thought, still straddling him. Oh, he was good enough looking, chiseled male and all. A damned Adonis with his square jaw, intelligent eyes and honed body. Just the kind of physical specimen Kelly liked. Caitlyn sure could pick ’em, that much was certain. She wiggled a bit and he groaned. Oh, she liked that. The ultimate power of sex over a man.

  What a trip.

  “Caitlyn?” he said, and she smiled naughtily.

  If he only knew. Caitlyn was long gone . . . wouldn’t be back for hours. Maybe days. “Ummm.”

  “Come here,” he said, his voice low, as he motioned for her to lie against him, to cuddle in afterglow. Jesus, he was predictable. She hesitated, then lowered herself, tangling her fingers in his chest hair and getting off on the fact that he had no idea that she’d switched, that her personality had taken over wimpy, whining, always-the-victim Caitlyn’s. She cooed against his skin and felt his fingers caressing her shoulders, holding her close, his breath whispering in her hair. So romantic. And so damned foolish. But she could play along and he’d never know.

  She leaned over and kissed his nipple. His eyes flew open as if he was surprised that she could be flirty and aggressive so soon after. But then, he didn’t know her at all. Didn’t realize what kind of fire he was playing with. She stared straight into his eyes as the tip of her tongue rimmed his nipple and he sucked in his breath. “Tell me, Adam,” she suggested throatily. “Was it good for you?”

  Twenty-Nine

  Reed checked his watch. It was after one in the morning, and Caitlyn’s shrink had been inside her house for nearly three hours. Doing what?

  Nothing good. He remembered his old man telling him that nothing good ever happened after midnight. Reed had been sixteen at the time and considered his father an idiot, but now, looking back, he decided the man was right. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and refused to drink one more swig of the coffee he’d picked up an hour ago at an all-night convenience store operated by a pimply-faced kid who looked pale and sick—like a heroin addict—under the flourescent lights. He’d nearly bought a pack of cigarettes from the kid, then thought better of it. Now, as he stared through the night, he would’ve killed for a smoke.

  He’d relieved Morrisette hours ago and almost envied her the need to get back to her children, to her little family. Almost. He’d watched her juggle her duties as an ambitious cop along with her life as a single mother and wondered where she got the energy.

  “Nicotine and caffeine,” she’d replied when he’d asked her about it. “My drugs of choice and all perfectly legal.”

  Right now he could use a shot of both. He stifled a yawn and considered going home; nothing was happening here. The big news of the evening was that Lucille Vasquez had been tracked down at her sister’s home in Florida. She was tired, scared, and had been planning to leave for years, but she wasn’t running away from anything, she’d assured Reed when he’d returned her call and woken her up. In fact, she planned to return for the funeral. She’d just needed a break from all the bad omens, deaths, and hard work she’d put up with for most of her life.

  “I’ll be fine,” she’d assured him, but when he’d asked about her daughter, remembering the call he’d gotten from Detective Montoya in New Orleans, she’d gotten quiet. “She and me, we weren’t that close no more,” Lucille had confided. “She told me she was comin’ home last Christmas, gonna straighten some things out between us, but she never showed up and I figured she’d changed her mind. This isn’t so strange. There was a time when she didn’t speak to me for eighteen months. No birthday card, no call on Mother’s Day, no Christmas present, no nothin’. But that’s the way she is.”

  When he explained Detective Montoya’s concern for Marta, Lucille had sighed. “There just ain’t no tellin’ about that girl. Maybe about no child. I dunno. She’s been problems from the day she was born and I did my best to raise her, but what can you do? Kids these days, they do what they want.” She went on a defensive litany about her skills at motherhood, and eventually Reed had hung up, knowing not a whole lot more about Marta Vasquez than he had before. She was missing, had been headed toward Savannah and hadn’t shown up. Her mother wasn’t concerned; maybe he shouldn’t be either.

  Something moved in the house. The front door opened. Backlit by the foyer lights, the shrink kissed the widow hard and then half jogged to his car. Reed watched and wondered what kind of fireworks they’d cooked up together. He wondered if he should follow Hunt, see what he was up to. Or stay here and watch the house.

  One by one, the house lights were switched off. First downstairs and then up. Apparently Caitlyn Bandeaux had gone to bed. Alone. So if they were lovers, why hadn’t Hunt stayed over?

  Reed checked his watch and waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. He yawned. Thirty minutes into the total darkness, he decided to give it a rest and go home. The department wasn’t paying him for this; only his curiosity and dogged
ness kept him awake and in the street. And he had a long day tomorrow. With one last glance at the darkened windows, he turned on the ignition and pulled away from the curb. As he passed by her house, he imagined he saw a movement of the curtains, but it was probably just his imagination. He drove straight home, walked into the house, and after stripping off his clothes turned on the timer on the bedroom TV and got into bed.

  He was asleep within minutes, never knowing that Caitlyn Bandeaux had watched him from the window, waiting patiently; then, once she was certain he wouldn’t return, had quietly slipped into the night.

  The creeps were lined up at the stage of Pussies In Booties. Sitting at the low bar that surrounded her dance area, some with platters of food in front of them, all swilling drinks, they smoked and joked and drooled as Sugar danced her way through the set. She kicked a leg up high, nearly losing a five-inch heel, then snuggled up to the pole situated in the middle of the stage, sliding against it as if it were a lover, moving up and down, showing off what she knew was a great ass.

  Ross had the bass cranked up on the sound system, and a couple of guys in jeans, work shirts and suspenders were standing behind the first row of patrons and gyrating to the pulsing beat, moving so that she might notice them. Like she’d give them the time of day. Or night. Perverts every one of them.

  She twirled beneath the lights, back to the pole, and recognized some of the regulars. Guys whom she considered her bread and butter, though she never encouraged them, never gave them so much as the hint of a smile. Their money might pay the bills, but she didn’t want to get into a situation where she would encounter someone who might want to get involved with her—or worse yet, become obsessed. She’d heard about dancers with their own private stalkers.

  You drop dead.

  The voice on the phone seemed to shimmy across the rafters of this old dive and echo through her brain. Maybe she had already picked one up . . . one of these sickos who stared at her and fantasized. How about the bald guy who always sat in the corner near the stage curtains? Or the man with the graying beard and mean eyes, who waited until she’d shed her skirt and blouse to put his money on the stage in front of her, all the while ogling her tits as she leaned over to retrieve the cash. One time she’d seen him crease the bills, licking the seam with his long, pointed tongue while his eyes held hers. He was a scary one. Then there was the flat-faced man who’d stood in the shadows one night and had pointed his finger at her, like a gun, taking aim right at her crotch.

  She had to get out of this life and soon. Before it caught up with her.

  She rolled her head around and ran her hands up her thighs.

  The Montgomery money was her ticket to freedom and respectability. She swung around on the pole, letting her long hair billow behind her.

  At that moment she saw him.

  Deep in the shadows, from a corner table away from the bar, far from the stage. His gaze followed her every move. Lusting. Wanting. The man who she willingly let into her bed, though she’d tried vainly to close her heart to him.

  He was respectable.

  He had money.

  A member of Savannah’s elite.

  And yet he yearned for her; she saw it in his eyes and in the tightness near the corners of his mouth. He hated what she did for a living, but was tantalized by it. Teased and turned on. So she’d give him a special show, step out of her routine. Leaning up against the pole, making sure it was firmly against the split in her rump, she grabbed her breasts, teased her nipples, arched and licked her lips.

  A roar of approval rippled through the crowd, but they didn’t know that she was dancing for only one man, that while she’d take the money left on the linoleum at her feet, even wiggle her tits and ass in front of their slobbering faces, she was mentally fucking the big man in the back, the man who wore admiration as easily as his uniform.

  He was married, but that didn’t make her want him less. She flipped over, showing off her buttocks, pinching them tight as she licked the pole. She almost felt him tremble as he leaned against the back of his chair, a shot glass in one hand, the other discreetly hidden in his pocket.

  The music faded and she blew a kiss, aimed directly at him, though every man in the place thought she had the hots for each of them. God, if they only knew how she despised them all. They disgusted her. Nothing would ever change that. Provocatively, she danced her way off the stage and through the curtain where she slipped into a robe and dabbed at her face with a cotton ball.

  He didn’t come here often. And never on the weekend when the crowd was heavier and there was more of a chance that he would be recognized. But the few times he had appeared had become a signal. She knew that within minutes he’d be behind the stage door, a bribe to the bouncer allowing him into the shoddy area loosely known as the dressing room and there, while another girl was on stage thrilling the crowd, he would corner Sugar against the makeup counter, slip his cock out of his trousers and spin her around so that she was forced to look into the mirror as he mounted her from behind.

  Without any pretext, he would shove inside of her. He would be hard, excited from the teasing dance. The act would be quick. Without a hint of romance attached to it. She would see his face, red and grunting, and she would pretend to get off on the same sense of excitement about being caught that he did.

  But she didn’t. How could she? With the makeup trays and the edge of the vanity pressed against her abdomen and the few remaining lit bulbs surrounding the mirror hot and showing off her degrading position, she would feel cheap. Dirty. Used. If anyone lifted the stage curtain, they would be caught; if a dancer waiting for her set came in early, they would be seen; or if the owner of the establishment wandered through, her lover would have to pay big-time hush money, and Sugar herself would become fair game to the owner, a lowlife named Buddy Hughs. In order to keep his mouth shut, Buddy would expect the same treatment she willingly gave her married lover.

  And that thought stuck in her craw.

  Sugar prided herself on being one of the few of “Buddy’s girls” who hadn’t done him. She’d like to keep it that way until she got her hands on some of Grandpa Benedict’s money and could tell Buddy and any other lowlife who came on to her to piss off.

  Over the pulsing throb of music, she heard the back door open and then her lover’s quick tread. His hat brim was pulled low over his eyes as he saw her.

  “I caught your little dance,” he said and reached inside her robe to tweak her breast. A sharp little pain shot through her, and her nipple was instantly hard. He was rough, but not too rough.

  “Did you?”

  “It was just for me.”

  “Was it? How do you know?” she teased, looking up at him.

  “You can be such a tease.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “And a bitch.” Again a tweak.

  “And I can handle you,” she sassed, seeing the flame leap in his eyes. He was a tall man and athletic, strong enough that he could spin her around, lift her over his shoulder or up onto his thick cock, all honed muscle and keen mind.

  “Let’s see,” he said and pulled her robe to the floor, leaving her in the thong and pasties. Spinning her around, he pushed her into the makeup table, bending her over, already unzipping and unbuckling, insistently sliding his moist dick around her thong and grunting as he pushed into her.

  She bucked and he grabbed her tits, tearing at the tassels with his big, meaty hands, rutting hard, as if he’d held it in too long.

  A little shock of pain sizzled through her, but she didn’t dislike it. Not from him. Not even when he slapped her buttocks with his bare hands. “That’s it, baby,” he said, pressing her down hard and grunting in pleasure. She arched up, knowing he loved it when she threw her rump against him.

  “Like that, do you?” With a growl, he leaned forward and placed his teeth over the back of her neck, not enough to pierce the skin, just enough to remind her who was boss. Moaning on cue, she felt his tempo increase, heard the pounding of the mu
sic on the other side of the thin partition, heard him roar loudly above the hoots and hollers of the crowd as he came, gasping, grunting, falling against her. She saw his red, sweat-slickened face in the mirror and felt a moment’s revulsion.

  She was beneath him, holding on to the edges of the table for support, her hair mussed, her face flushed, her eyes hollow. A whore, just as Dickie Ray had always insinuated. Not for the regular crowd, not for her boss, not for anyone except this one man who would never love her. Not because he didn’t like her, but because she wasn’t of his class. She was meant to screw. Not to show off. Never to marry. She was less than a dalliance or a fling, she was someone with whom he could explore his naughty side, someone he could spank or pour champagne on and lick it off. She’d do anything for him and he knew it. It made him feel powerful and that, above the sex, was what he craved. She knew it, but she doubted that he did.

  As he zipped up his pants and straightened his shirt, she felt shame that showed itself in the wash of heat that climbed up the back of her neck, the neck he’d so recently sunk his teeth into.

  She found her robe. Threw it over her shoulders. Didn’t ask the demeaning question, “When will I see you again?”

  “That was nice,” he said with a little smile as he adjusted himself and buckled his belt. “Real nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  He placed a small box on the vanity, a tiny gift that she wouldn’t open until he slipped through the back door and into the night. It wasn’t money, never money, but some little feminine bauble, nothing expensive. Never anything lasting, but it was something. He patted her on her buttocks and left.

  Only later, as she stared down at the silver navel ring, did she realize that he hadn’t kissed her. Not once during their brief interlude. There had been no tenderness. No love. Just pure, raw sex, and while she’d been turned on at first by the knowledge that she was fucking one of the most powerful men in the city, she was now disgusted or at least disillusioned. He could easily have a dozen girlfriends, women who danced for him at the Silk Tassel or The OddS-C, or any of the places his work took him, places away from the prying eyes of his wife. She had no idea what he did with his time when he wasn’t working. All she was really sure about was that he was always rock-hard and cheated on his wife without conscience.