Four Days of Fall

by Beck Jones

  Fuck this. He needed get the hell out of here while he was still a hundred percent. Better if he could throw her body, alive or dead, off that bluff. But how far was the fucking bluff?

  And then suddenly, she was pressed against him. Her mouth against his. Her tongue swirling gently inside his mouth. God, she smelled so good. He hadn’t realized how damn good she smelled. Her hands were everywhere, one hand under his jacket, moving up and down his back, the other rubbing against his pants, as his cock swelled against his zipper.

  You’re my crazy horndog, Amy said. You’re my Rottweiler—no, my cockweiler.

  Her hand on his back moved lower to the piece, but she only murmured, “I’ve always wanted to have sex with a private dick. Especially a dick with a gun.”

  Shit. He might as well fuck her now. He would burn the body with the car.

  But first.

  And then as suddenly she was on him, she was off him, something dark in her hand—fuck, it was the piece. How the hell? And then she was running, and he was right behind her, but he stumbled just as he grabbed for her jacket. Fucking shoes without treads.

  He caught himself with his palm before the ground could hit him in the face, and he was upright in an instant, running again. But she had made a lot of ground in that instant.

  Fuck was she? A mountain goat? How the hell did she move so fast?

  A romance novelist, for fuck’s sake.

  A romance novelist who had somehow managed to lure him into the woods, drug him with God knows what, and now she had his gun.

  Of course, he had a pretend day job, too. Real estate broker.

  Layers on layers.

  He could hear his own breath getting ragged. It was too soon for the molly to kick in. But then how the hell could he know what she put in that damned flask?

  Nothing looked right in the dark. Even the trees seemed slanted, and the bushes tore at him, and he realized he was weaving. The flashlight beam was too far ahead to help him.

  Finally, the path widened out, the grass and underbrush thinned out to nothing, and there she was. Twenty or so yards away. On a rock ledge. Without the overhang of the trees, he could see the moon again, shining off the ledge jutted against the darkness. He couldn’t see the river, but it had to be there below.

  She stood ten feet from the edge maybe. She had taken off her jacket and tied it around her waist, like she’d been waiting for him for fuck-ever, and once again he could see the curve of her breasts under the t-shirt.

  Okay screw carrying out the body. Just a few steps forward and one quick push.

  Except she was aiming the gun at him. His own gun, goddammit.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Until he heard the words he didn’t realize he was even saying them out loud, much less shouting them.

  Scarlett Sharpe, or whoever she was, just laughed.

  “I thought you were the private detective. The private dick. You’re investigating me, remember?”

  He took a breath. “I am a private detective. Not a shrink. So I don’t understand why you’re acting this way.” The rock ledge seemed to be lighting her face from below. It also seemed to be swaying underneath his feet.

  He looked at her and the edge, and wondered if his depth perception had gone haywire.

  She smiled at him. Not her killer smile. A sweet smile. A gentle smile. At least it looked that way in the damned hunter’s moon.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you just came here for work, and I’ve wasted your time. But I will make it worth your while. Honest. Doesn’t that sound nice?” And now she brought out the killer smile again.

  He nodded. Just get her to put down the gun and then he could get it done.

  “I promise you won’t be sorry,” she said, still smiling. “First, I just have to do something.”

  He flinched when her wrist moved, and it was another instant before he realized that she had pivoted toward the water and by then it was too late. The piece was just a small blob, darker than the night air, sailing away. He heard a faint splash below.

  He charged her, but she didn’t flinch at all, not even when he grabbed her by her arms.

  “I’ll buy you another one,” she said. Her expression was calm, and she moved her face closer to his. “Kiss me.”

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Why the hell wasn’t she scared?

  “I know you’re mad. I’ll buy you another gun. But you can kill me if you want. Just kiss me first.”

  She pressed her mouth against his. The heat from her skin—she must have gotten hot running up here, too—amped up her smell. Jesus. Somehow kissing her steadied him, and he let go of her arms and grabbed her around her waist.

  And then the ground seemed to be moving again, and he realized that she was pulling them. Backward off the ledge. No. No. No. He needed to move back toward the edge. He needed to get rid of her. Now.

  Only now he could feel the softer dirt beneath his feet. And she crumpled to the ground, pulling him down on top of her.

  “You’re angry,” she whispered, her voice all low and smoky.

  And he was angry, so angry, but damn his cock was throbbing, about to explode because her mouth was on his again. Fuck. He was going to come all over himself.

  But then she pulled away.

  “You’re angry,” she said again, still with that smoky voice, “because I’ve taken something that’s yours. You want to punish me. But you want me, too. You desire me. Take me.”

  The words—he’d heard those words. Or read them. Did Arial say that right before Northrup—

  Beneath him she tossed off her purse with barely a flick, and the arms of her jacket crumpled apart. But the jeans. Stupid goddam jeans. Buttons all the way down. Fighting against his thick fingers. Stupid goddam fingers. Raking the denim, shaking, getting nothing done. But then her fingers were there with his and the buttons gave up, and then she was helping him peel off the jeans, kicking off her shoes, and then the jeans were completely gone. Her panties a silky line across her belly. And then the panties were gone and she was guiding his fingers. And he didn’t know why he was letting her because fuck he didn’t care how wet her pussy got. Except it was already wet. God, it was wet. And together—they were working together now—they got his pants down, and when his cock sprang out, she made a kind of gasp.

  Because lots of women wanted his cockweiler, goddammit. Lots of women.

  And then, suddenly, a flash of foil. And then her fingers fast and light and the thing was peeled onto his cock, which for an instant, seemed confused, about to fold.

  And then she said, “For your protection. So you won’t leave a trace.”

  Except she wouldn’t have said that. She couldn’t have said that.

  And then it didn’t matter because he was inside her.

  I will fuck her to death.

  Fuck her to death.

  Fuck her

  Fuck her

  Fuck.

  And then somehow

  sometime

  he was done.

  And she was still alive. Easing herself from underneath him. And all he did was slump through the dead air where her live body had just been and hit the ground with a thud. His shirt was pulled up; the grass felt spiky against his bare belly. He managed to turn his head to the side before he landed, so his nose wouldn’t pound the dirt. He pulled the rubber as carefully as he could and slapped it on the ground next to him. She already had on her jeans and was slipping on her shoes. He tugged at his own pants, but they were stubborn. Or maybe it was his legs that wouldn’t move. He tried to roll over so at least his bare ass wasn’t sticking up. But when he rolled over, he just kept rolling or maybe it was the ground rolling.

  He realized he was going to puke just in time to jerk his head up and around so that the puke would hit the ground and not him. But it didn’t matter much anyway. Just some bile. He tossed the rubber on top of it. He was exhausted. So fucking exhausted. He lay on his back.

&nbs
p; “Sorry about the drink,” she said, looking down at him. Chipper, like nothing had happened. Her hair wasn’t even messed up.

  “I should have told you,” she said. “I didn’t realize you would get so upset. Do you have some kind of private eye code about drugs on the job?”

  Okay. Time to get this show on the road.

  Get her done.

  Just do it.

  Then she was kneeling beside him helping him pull up his pants. Actually she was doing the pulling. And then he could smell her and she smelled so good, still, with the sex all over her.

  His sex all over her.

  Fuck Mr. Ph.D. Community College.

  He would burn the body.

  He sat up, and she sat next to him, the puddle of his bile on the other side of him. It did not matter that she was so beautiful she practically scorched his eyes to look at her. His hands lifted from his sides, moving upward toward her neck. She would struggle, but he would push himself on top of her.

  And then her hands were against his, her fingers laced between his in a tight lattice. And Jesus, she was strong.

  Or he was weak.

  “Say you forgive me.” Her tone light, sweet, teasing. It pissed him off how much he liked it.

  “I don’t have to forgive you,” he said. He tried to unlace his fingers, but she held on.

  “You have to forgive me. You just have to. Because I want to do this again. Tomorrow.”

  You won’t be here tomorrow, he wanted to say. Your body will be burned and dumped somewhere.

  The thought of her body not living made him feel sick in a way that was all wrong. He tried not to think of Amy. In pieces. He was afraid he might vomit again.

  She released his fingers suddenly, the lattice fell apart and she was on her feet. He stumbled up after her, but the ground still felt shifty.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Be careful.” She took his arm like he was a little old lady who needed help crossing the street. “Say, Colin, while you were busy chasing me all the way from Jersey down here to the wilds of North Carolina, did you happen to eat anything?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She reached down and scooped up something. His cap. She put it on his head like he was a little kid.

  Okay, so maybe she was large and in charge right now.

  But tomorrow.

  She wanted to come back tomorrow. She would shower tonight. Wash him off her. He could make a better plan. Keep his hands off her, and keep the cockweiler chained behind the zipper.

  He felt too weak to carry out a body anyway.

  He realized he was ridiculously happy not to have to kill her.

  It was just the drugs. Whatever the fuck she had given him.

  RUSS

  Even after two years, Russ still couldn’t have explained exactly why he and Amanda Bayard were lovers. They shouldn’t have fit together. She was a happily married heiress and philanthropist with dark liquid eyes and a regal bearing, and he was a happily married man who was, fame aside, nothing more than a brash reporter, a guy who would have been called a “mug” in one of those forties movies. A guy whose old man had worked thirty years as a security guard at a car parts plant in Collier City.

  And then there was the age difference, which is to say there was none. Amanda was “age appropriate,” and the older Russ had gotten, the younger he had liked his lovers. Even Larson was 15 years younger.

  But fit he and Amanda did, perfectly, like the superb single malt and the splash of imported water that she handed him as he watched the sun make a spectacular display of sinking behind those urban canyons. Violet Hour. Amanda always said it was her favorite time of day.

  Violet Hour. When daylight is arrayed with the finery and camouflage of night, Amanda said.

  In other words, the dying of the light, he thought, then wished he hadn’t.

  “Martin is in Argentina. If you want to stay over.” Amanda’s tone, as usual, was noncommittal. Pressure and guilt were not her style.

  She rested her head against his shoulder, and he twined his arm around her waist, a lean midsection hammered leaner by her personal trainer. Amanda didn’t have the body of a middle aged woman, she had the body of a rich middle aged woman, and Russ could see, smell and touch the money over every pampered inch of her, in every gently perfumed cranny and crevasse. Amanda tasted like money. Rage at the dying of the light? Why rage? With Amanda standing by his side, drinking in this limitless view of the world, he could simply scoff at it.

  He put down his drink and pulled Amanda close. Kissed her slowly, insistently. Moved his hands beneath her robe to caress her. She was already naked. And wet. The knowledge that it was almost surely lubricant didn’t dampen his arousal. Finally, after the day he’d had, he felt himself recharging, his cock surging. He was a man again. No more fear. No more cowering. Yes, he loved females, and yes, they loved him back. And he knew how to please them. There was no shame in that. He grasped Amanda’s toney toned buttocks and pressed her against the wall just next to the abstract that looked like chicken scratching but cost a half a million bucks.

  Amanda laughed and bit his lip. He had always sensed that he was her “bit of rough,” but that suited him down to the ground. Especially tonight.

  Afterwards they ate scrambled eggs with caviar by candlelight, food that finally and for once went down easily, and he told her about the network and Vince Sabine, about Sabine’s ideas, anyway, not the helicopter ride. He liked talking about his work with Amanda. It was something they shared in a way he’d never shared with Liz. He hated talking work with Liz. Her pretense that she was “taking an interest” just annoyed him.

  “Prost, darling,” Amanda said, raising her wine glass. “But tread carefully in these days ahead. Go full bore on the Argofel story while you’re still at the network. It will help them believe you’re the loyal employee. And it’s better to leave on a high note anyway.” She sipped her wine and smiled. “That’s what I’m telling my broker about Argofel stock. Leave it on a high note.”

  “I didn’t realize—“

  “Darling, I own a piece of nearly everything everywhere. Including Vincent Sabine.”

  Russ tried not to look surprised. And he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. And it didn’t mean that Sabine hadn’t chosen him for his proven abilities and his impressive record of work, for God’s sake.

  Amanda’s dark eyes seemed to flicker in the candlelight. “You would have found out sooner or later.”

  “Should I call you boss?” he said, lightly, raising an eyebrow. Suddenly he thought of Northrup Gold, who had surely been modeled on him. Scarlett had used her time with him wisely. So wasn’t turn-about fair play? Why not steal a page from Steeling Gold?

  He took Amanda’s wine glass from her hand, slid her dressing gown off her shoulders so that it puddled around the bottom of the chair. “Or should I show you how the working class really works?” He pushed the dishes aside, picked her up easily and flipped her, easily again, and gently, breast side down, on to the sculptured bronze table that he knew would feel cool against her cheek. He placed his left palm against the small of her back while his right hand explored rudely and ravishingly. And when his cock, his stalwart stallion cock, rose to the occasion for the second time—god, he amazed even himself—he crawled on to the table and hoisted Amanda. A barbarian at her gate, and she loved every second of it.

  Two hours later, his knees were still aching from the cold hard bronze when he came in his own door stealthily. The sound of Liz’ voice coming out of the darkness of the dining room made him flinch.

  “You should at least pretend,” she said.

  He knew that tone of voice. He kept his own neutral; after today, a neutral response was becoming second nature. Or maybe he was just getting numb. “I’m sorry you waited up.” He moved his hand toward the dining room light switch.

  “Oh, don’t turn it on,” she said. “I prefer being in the dark. That’s how I’ve lived for all the years we’ve been married.”

 
; He sank into a chair. Now that his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, he could make out her face well enough. And the look. “Okay. So. What do you want to know? What is it you think I’m not telling you?”

  Liz drew herself up. “What the hell do you think I want to know? I want to know if you’ve been doing what every other man in Manhattan seems to have been doing. Anna Beth says—“

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! You’re listening to Anna Beth? Anna Beth who’s feeling bitter and vindictive because she put all her money down on a losing horse? A jerk who she knew for decades was a horny, grabby bastard?” Russ regarded Liz with cold outrage. “You’re really comparing me to Paul McGann? Seriously, Liz? Talk about being in the dark. I had no idea you had such a low opinion of me. What have I done to deserve that?”

  It was true. He’d never done anything to make her doubt him. He’d been discreet and clear with the women he’d been involved with. He had protected Liz always.

  “Anna Beth doesn’t even have the life insurance because he killed himself. Would you be so selfish?”

  “Why the hell would I kill myself?” Russ felt his anger rising.

  “I’m afraid, Russ.” Liz’s voice broke. “I’m afraid we may lose it all. Who would hire you? My job at the gallery pays pennies. And what about the Allie and Kyle? Just because they’re in college doesn’t mean they’re grown up. This will devastate them.”

  “What do you mean will?” Russ roared, so loudly it made Liz draw back. He knew his fury was unreasonable, but that only made him angrier. He wanted to punish her, for accusing him without evidence, for not believing in him. For making his gut do yet one more wrenching turn.

  He wanted to throw her on the dining room table just as he had Amanda. But now she was sobbing, and he felt his energy dissolving.

  He walked around the table and sat down next to her. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” he said, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. The story down in North Carolina. The network is giving me static about it.”