The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1)

by Jane Leopold Quinn

  He smoothed his lips over hers with the lightest, almost-ticklish touch. Tears fell. When she'd first fallen, then saw her house all askew, she'd been terrified. Marc had been there, had comforted her through the whole thing, had taken control with the officer, and now admitted that Butch was not his friend.

  She wanted more than the light kisses. Suddenly, it was an imperative need. Stretching up and gripping his shoulders, she deepened the kiss.

  Holy hell. Her tongue caressed his lips and slid into his mouth. Her sweet little tongue. Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut. Cradling her head, he held it possessively and took over exploring the depths of her mouth. He hadn't been with a woman in forever, and he wanted her. Damn she tastes good! His dick was so hard he hurt.

  Breaking the kiss, he started with the top button of her blouse, revealing her skin and the ripe mounds of her breasts. The lacy bra under her ruffled blouse was overload to his sex-starved pea brain.

  He shook, partly with fear and partly with lust. It had been so long—he was afraid he'd go too fast, be too aggressive, scare her, hurt her.

  She gripped his biceps. He was sure she meant to push him away, but her gaze tracked up to his. Licking her lips, she blinked once. When her teeth scraped at her lower lip, he was pretty sure she wanted him to continue. Opening each tiny button with big, suddenly clumsy fingers, he spread the edges of the blouse apart and heard her rough intake of breath and her moan. Oh yeah.

  "Phoebe, you're so beautiful." And she was. Sheer white lace cupped her breasts, the nipple ring visible through the material. He felt the rush of cum as his hips flexed. His knees wobbled. He traced a breast, held it in his palm, brushing his thumb around the ring. "Jesus."

  Her panicked, searing, aroused gaze shifted to his.

  He held onto his control as hard as he could, but neither his mind nor his fingers wanted to stop. They tweaked her nipple, tugged on the ring. Her head fell back, her body arching. Her groan almost brought him to his knees. When he twisted the golden piercing, she wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him down for a frenzied kiss.

  Sliding his fingers around her back, he unhooked her bra. He pulled it away and lost his breath at the sight of her lush breasts and peaked nipple. Picking her up, he carried her to the couch, draping her across his lap.

  It would take too much time to push her tight skirt up to her waist so she could straddle him. That was how much he wanted that nipple in his mouth. Closing his lips around the tip, he drew on it, tucking the tip of his tongue through the tiny ring.

  She sobbed her arousal, and her fingers tightened in his hair. His nose landed against the cushion of her breast as she lifted herself to him. He suckled and toyed with her until he had her squirming across his thighs, brushing his cock.

  "Marc, oh God." She rocked against him, her nails digging into his shoulders and neck.

  Tucking his hand beneath her skirt, he pushed it up as best he could, his fingers caressing her warm, firm skin. He suckled the hard nipple while tracing a path up the inside of her thighs until he reached her soft curls. She gave a loud moan and pushed herself against his fingers. God. She was wet, her panties soaked.

  All that heat, that liquid fire. He couldn't wait a second longer. Pushing her down onto the couch, he jerked her skirt up to her waist, pulled her panties completely off. He groaned, spread her with his thumbs and speared the tip of his tongue onto her clit. The stiff bud tasted like sweet heaven.

  "Marc!" Her shrill cry echoed in the room and her hips bucked. She apparently liked what he was doing.

  Delicately circling her clit, he began to suckle in earnest. He massaged her folds with his thumbs, moving ever closer to thrusting one inside her. She reacted wildly, moaning and pumping and pulling at his hair with frenzied fingers.

  "Please…"

  She raised her knees, almost suffocating him as she held his head between her thighs. He would have laughed if he could take his mouth off her, but the last thing he wanted to do was stop.

  The feel of his thumb—thick but not as thick as his cock—in the hot, wet clench of her passage was amazing, especially when he added a finger. He brought her to a shrieking climax with every inch of her lower body pulsing and beating, bumping and grinding.

  Holee… Her responsiveness and enthusiasm blew his mind. Wouldn't she be someone to come home to after six months or more in the god-fucking-awful desert? Now that her screams had died down, all he heard was whimpering. He gave her a final lick and savored the scent and flavor of her sweet essence. She moaned thickly.

  He glanced up. Her face was slack and her eyes closed. She looked like she'd passed out.

  Oh for fuck's sake. She passed out.

  Chapter Ten

  Marc had fully intended to help clean up Phoebe's house in the morning, but she'd come storming out to the living room, jerking him awake at the sound of her voice.

  "I'm so sorry, Marc. You, ah…"

  "Don't worry about it."

  She brushed her hand across her mouth, looking everywhere but at him. "Did I fall asleep on you?"

  He was groggy, but his cock had risen at the sight of her. He needed either her or a cup of coffee in the worst way possible. He cleared his throat. "I think passed out was more like it, but you were under stress." He tried to keep his voice even but wanted to laugh.

  "I don't know what to say. I don't think that's ever happened to me before." Biting her lip, she still wouldn't look him in the eye.

  "I think that's what the man says." Taking pity on her, Marc rose and tipped up her chin to meet his gaze. "It's all right, Phoebe, but I'd like a repeat. I hope you would too."

  Now she did meet his gaze. For long, heart-stopping minutes her green eyes held his like flames with all the heat they were generating. His mouth twitched in amusement.

  She was the one who turned away. "Well, it's probably late. I'd better go home and change. I've got to go to work."

  "Rehearse?"

  "No. The resale shop."

  "Hold on a minute, and I'll go over with you."

  "That's not necessary."

  "Yes it is. I want to make sure no one's there to surprise you." He didn't say Butch's name, but she'd know who he meant. "Just wait. I've got to hit the head." He raced down the hall to the bathroom.

  When he returned to the living room she was gone. "Damn." But she was just outside on the porch waiting for him. He smiled, gestured toward the street and they walked across to her house.

  "Let me check inside first." Leaving her on the porch, he investigated every room then called her in. He pointed to the jimmied back door. "I'll get a new lock and fix that while you're at work."

  "You don't need to do that."

  "Do you have a handyman on call?"

  She rolled her eyes. "No."

  "Well then let me help you."

  "But you've done so much already." Then she blushed.

  "Yeah."

  "I mean—"

  "Listen." He took her hands in his. "I want to fix the door for you. We'll talk about everything else later. Okay?"

  She took a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah. Thank you, Marc, for everything." Her cheeks turned even redder than they'd been.

  Amused but frustrated, he helped her put some of her belongings to rights. He did the heavy work, lifting furniture that had been turned over. They mostly worked in silence, but once in awhile she sniffled and blew her nose.

  "I'll have to replace much of this. I don't have insurance."

  "It's not all ruined."

  "No, but the house is a rental. The furniture isn't mine."

  "I'm sorry, darlin'."

  She turned and stalked into the kitchen.

  This mess infuriated him. If Butch did it, he'd make him suffer.

  "Honey," he yelled into the kitchen where he could hear her banging pots and pans. "Get dressed and go to work. I've got some things I have to do today but I'll get that lock fixed."

  She marched into the living room looking gorgeous even with little sleep a
nd soggy eyes. "I've got to sing tonight."

  "Can you do it? You look pretty ragged."

  "I have to." She waved her hand. "The show must go on, you know."

  "Come back to my house later and take a nap then. I'll get back as soon as I can."

  "Oh, no…" She backed up, shaking her head.

  "Phoebe, please do it. I need to know you're okay." He took her in his arms and cradled her head against his shoulder. "What happened to you last night was for shit."

  She looked up at him, heat filling her eyes. "Not all of it."

  He covered her lips with his but kept it gentle. "I'm trying to keep my sanity, sweetheart. You've been through hell. I can make you forget about it, but that would be taking unfair advantage."

  She slumped against him, nodding.

  "Why don't you call the store and say you can't go in?"

  "No. I'll just come home early."

  "And go to my house?"

  After a moment she finally agreed. "Okay, you win."

  That was good enough for him, so he stalked back to his own house, showered, shaved, and headed out to the coroner's office hoping they'd discovered the whereabouts of the blood test results.

  ***

  "Mr. Rahn, I'm sorry, but they're missing. The log shows the file was checked out to the police department two years ago but never signed back in."

  "Is that usual?" He tried to keep his temper in check.

  "No, but having a signature on file keeps the chain of custody straight."

  "What's the name? Can I see it?" He peered at the handwriting. It looked obviously obscured, just a scrawl, impossible to make out a name. He had his suspicions but certainly wouldn't voice them here. He couldn't be sure of the coroner's loyalties or who his friends were. The Wilcox name stretched all over town, even more now than it had eight years ago.

  After being assured fairly reasonably he'd get no more information here, he decided his next move would be another branch of the city government—the prosecuting attorney's office.

  Much to his surprise when he called, he was transferred to Moira Logan, Phoebe's friend from the nightclub. He asked if they could meet somewhere besides the courthouse, not wanting Butch to have a clue as to what he was up to. Ollie's was the least likely place for Butch to see them, and Moira agreed to meet him there when they opened at noon.

  Having bought new locks for Phoebe and still having some time to kill, he decided to drive out to his old stomping grounds, B Falls High School. Myriad emotions and memories assailed him as he walked through the front doors.

  At the time, he couldn't wait to get out of there. He hadn't expected the tightening of his stomach at first, seeing the empty halls, smelling the unmistakable scents of frying meat for beef-burger day, the stink of well-worn socks and gym shoes.

  His eyes welled up at the memories of fun days before the accident turned his life upside down. He'd hated everything about the town after that. In his grief, he hadn't been able to distinguish between good times and the pain he'd been in.

  He resented every laugh of his friends, every pitying smile of teachers and coaches. He didn't want their sympathy. He wanted his parents and his life back. He'd made a new life for himself now, had run away from B Falls to do it, but he still wanted his parents back.

  The bell rang, as sharp and loud as he'd remembered it. Kids burst from classrooms. He backed to the wall to watch them, and they acted remarkably like he and his classmates had. Jabbering quickly to each other as if they weren't able to impart information or couldn't flirt enough at that moment, all would be lost. His mind went back, and it felt like he'd never left.

  He heard his name called.

  "Rahn?"

  Turning his head, he spotted Mike Banning headed toward him. Another wave of déjà vu. It was almost too much, but he wasn't ready to cry uncle yet.

  "Mike." They shook hands.

  "Checking on your old haunts?"

  "Guess so. It doesn't seem to have changed does it?"

  Mike laughed. "Not much. Why don't you come into my room for a few minutes and meet some of the kids. I can brag that I know the famous Marc Rahn of the winning touchdown of the last game of the season…"

  Marc held up his hand. "Don't build me up like that. They'll never believe it. And how would they know about that game?"

  "Marc, every year the football players are treated to that story."

  "By the coaches?"

  "And by me." Mike clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Raise my standing here."

  "I don't think this'll do it, but I'm game."

  Half an hour later, the awe clear in the boys' eyes, he took his leave. A side trip to the auditorium to see the WPA murals brought back another rush of memories. He'd spent many an hour in assemblies daydreaming over those paintings. He certainly hadn't understood their history and importance at the time.

  Why had he feared returning to B Falls all these years? There was a cathartic aspect to it he hadn't planned on. The last several months of his youth had been the most painful of his life but the many years before had been the best anyone could have asked for.

  ***

  He'd finally accepted the fact that B Falls couldn't hurt him anymore. The one task he hadn't been sure he could do had become doable. Stopping at the florist shop, he picked up a spray of gardenias and headed across the square to the church and the cemetery behind it.

  His heart beat fast as he approached his parents' graves. The white marble stone gleamed in the sunlight. His folks were together in death just as they'd been in life. There was some comfort in that. Crouching, he placed the white flowers at the base of the stone.

  "Mom, you loved gardenias. You told me so many times that you carried them at your wedding. I bet you thought I wasn't listening." His voice lowered, his throat closing. "I was."

  The crack of a twig broke into his thoughts, and he realized someone might be near. This was a private moment. No one else should see it. "I miss you guys so much," he whispered.

  ***

  "Ms. Logan. Thanks for meeting me here." She was a gorgeous redhead, and he could have been interested if he hadn't met Phoebe Barnes first.

  "Call me Moira, Marc." She sat where he indicated at a table near the back corner of the bar.

  Mrs. Banning served them coffee, chatted for a minute, then left them alone.

  "What can I help you with?"

  Marc got right to the point. "Eight years ago my parents were killed in a car accident."

  "I knew that. I'm sorry," Moira murmured.

  "Thanks. The story was that my dad must have been drunk and drove into the river. I've never wanted to believe it, and now I don't. There was no reason for Dad to go off the road. Yeah, it was late, but the streets were dry. We hadn't had snow yet, so the roads weren't slippery. My dad wouldn't have driven drunk, and if he'd been iffy my mom wouldn't have let him. There was damage to the front and right side of the car. It was thought to be caused by hitting the rocks in the river."

  "But you don't think so?"

  "I think they were forced off the road."

  She took a sip of coffee. "But you have no proof?"

  "No. I came back on leave to find out what happened. Butch Wilcox gave me a copy of the police file. The blood test results were missing."

  "The coroner's office?"

  "Missing."

  "Really?" Her eyes narrowed beneath auburn eyebrows, her suspicions obviously aroused.

  "They were checked out to the police department. The signature on the sign-out log is incomprehensible. Supposedly Butch gave me everything the police had…"

  "Minus blood results."

  Marc nodded. "I've talked to a friend of my parents who had a store next door to theirs. He was bought out by Harold Wilcox. An offer was made to my dad right before he was killed."

  "Why was Wilcox buying the stores?"

  "You know his resort?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, that's where our store was located."

 
; "Oh."

  "Right. You see where I'm heading with this?"

  "Do you suspect Mr. Wilcox of having something to do with your parents' deaths? Or of the police covering it up?"

  "Certainly not at the time but now that I've come back to town and found out that Wilcox has all that land now for his resort, combined with the fact that Butch can't find the complete file, I can't help but be suspicious. I have too many questions."

  "What do you know about Butch Wilcox?"

  "I went to high school with him. We were buddies on the football team but not really good friends. He wasn't exactly the nicest guy in school, but this is big-time supposition. I sure don't want to accuse him, but I want to know what happened with my folks."

  "And you're sure your dad couldn't have been impaired?"

  Marc looked down, sighed, and grudgingly admitted, "No. I can't be one-hundred-percent sure, but I knew my parents. Dad was more responsible than that, and if he'd been drunk, my mother would never have let him drive."

  Moira nodded, putting her pen down on her legal pad. "Harold Wilcox is a pretty big guy in this town, but personally I can't say much good about Butch." Then she stood. "Okay. Let me make some calls, ask some questions, and get back to you. I may end up just confirming that the information is missing though."

  Marc stood and reached over the table to shake her hand. "Anything that can help clear this up for me. Thank you, Moira."

  "No problem. And by the way, are you going to Marietty's tonight?" She cocked her head and smiled. "Phoebe is on again."

  "She's good, isn't she?" In every way. He wasn't sure he hid a covert smile. "I'll definitely show up."

  "Good." Moira nodded again. "I'm sure we'll see you there. Davy and I are ardent fans. Oh, and do you remember Cindy Logan? From high school?"

  He thought for a minute. "Short, redhead, cheerleader?"

  "Yup. That's Cindy."

  "Sure, I remember her. She's your sister?"

  "Yes. She's married now with two kids."

  "Really? Someone from town?"

  "No. She met him in college, and they live in Des Moines."

  He laughed. "I'll bet those kids are cute if they're anything like her. Cindy was a nice girl. Tell her I said hi next time you talk to her."