by M. Leighton
“It’s a surprise.” He grins with his answer as he pulls away. Releasing me, he reaches for my hand as he turns, guiding us both out into the hall. “You’ll see.”
I turn the knob and pull the door shut behind me, thinking to myself that I’d follow him into hell itself, if only he’d ask.
Just over an hour later, we’re parked along what feels like a country road, lying on a blanket that’s spread out on the hood of a car Noah rented. Beside me is the man I love, strong and silent. Above me is heaven, full of color and shimmer and beauty. Inside me is a sense of belonging, like of all the places in the world that I could be, this is where I belong—with Noah, under the stars.
He points out the different constellations, my throat swelling with each one. I’m filled to the brim with an overwhelming happiness, but also an overwhelming sadness that I can’t bring myself to understand. I still feel that something isn’t right; I just can’t put my finger on it.
When Noah turns to me and asks, “Are you okay?” it’s all I can do not to burst into irrational tears.
“I don’t know.”
He brings himself up onto his elbow, angling his body toward mine. His handsome face, expression rife with worry, hovers over me, mingling with the brilliant night sky.
“What’s wrong? I thought you’d enjoy this. It’s supposed to be one of the best places near Chicago to stargaze.”
“It’s incredible,” I croak, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes to trail wetly down my cheeks. “It’s not that. I…I don’t know what it is. I just feel so…so…sad for some reason.”
Noah uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from my face, his eyes full of quiet understanding. “Don’t cry. I’m here.”
Gently, he draws me into his arms, pressing my face against his chest, where I spill tear after unreasonable tear. When they begin to slow, I sniff, admitting, “I’ve been having a lot of headaches recently. And I feel tired a lot. I think I’m just a little over emotional tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” he croons, stroking my hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t,” I assure him, pushing back enough that I can look up into his face. “You’re the best part of every day.”
I see the pleasure my words bring him just before Noah dips his head and claims my lips. It’s a simple touch, tentative, innocuous, but it’s a game changer. Every touch, every kiss, every loving look he sends my way pulls me closer and closer to something I can only identify as home. It’s as if I’ve been waiting my whole life for him to come and rescue me, to save me, and now he’s finally here.
As always, my entire being strains toward him. It’s as though I only really feel like me when I’m in his arms, being loved by him. That makes no sense, I know, but he grounds me somehow. Yet he also gives me wings. I feel like I can be anything, do anything as long as this man is at my side.
I press into him, my mouth turning hungry, my hands suddenly seeking. I need to feel him, touching me with his whole body.
I tug at his shirt, I push at his jeans until he’s naked beside me. Only then do I wriggle out from under him, throwing my leg over his to straddle him, not caring about the hard metal of the hood biting into my knees.
I need this.
I need him.
I move on him, gently then frenetically, slowly then wildly, my head thrown back so that I can gaze up at the night sky, feeling closer to who I really am than I ever have.
With his hands under my dress kneading my breasts, I spiral up and up and up, touching the stars, kissing the moon, stroking the silver clouds as my body fragments around Noah’s, melting down over him like a spoonful of cream.
I float hazily, circling around Cassiopeia and resting on Orion’s Belt, until I’m brought sharply out of my liquid state by Noah’s release.
“Carly,” he groans softly, driving his body up into mine.
And I freeze.
25
Noah
I feel the shift without even opening my eyes. The moment my wife’s name left my lips, I cringed, wishing I could call it back. I felt Poppy stiffen and I immediately started forming apologies.
But then she started to move on me again, a languid grinding of her hips on mine, designed to incite. Not that Poppy isn’t incredible in bed, but I can tell the difference in the way she moves, especially when compared to Simone.
“You really need to stop doing that, cowboy. Calling me by another name,” Simone purrs, scraping her fingernails down my chest, sending a jolt of pain rocketing through me. But then I feel her tongue, lapping up what might just be blood from around my nipple, intensifying the pleasure of it. That’s the true dichotomy of these women. One is pleasure, the other pain, and where they meet—a sensual collision—is a mind-altering blend of the two.
I glance up at Simone. She’s stripping the conservative dress over her head, baring herself to the chill wind and the night sky. She massages her own breasts, pinches her own nipples, moaning and sliding over me, and I feel myself grow within her.
“Mmmm , that’s it,” she purrs, reaching behind herself with one hand to cup me.
I don’t think she’s aware that she was Poppy only a few minutes ago. I don’t think she realizes what she was wearing, what clothes she just threw into the grass. I can’t help wondering if her personalities are breaking down, and what that might mean.
“You’re a bad boy, Noah Williamson. I’m surprised you’d bring me here instead of little miss perfect.” I feel her muscles clench around me, sucking at me, pulling blood back into my shaft. I’m still sensitive, which makes the sensation even more heightened.
Simone, drops forward, dragging her nipple across my lips teasingly. “But I’m glad you did.”
Obligingly, I latch on. She’s a temptress, a dark siren calling to the animal in me. She’s sexy, she’s wild. She’s irresistible. And she damn well knows it.
“Don’t you want to bend me over this car before you have to take it back? Don’t you want to make your mark, here under the stars?”
She sits up straight, holding my hands to her breasts, coming up onto her knees further and then slamming back down on my length.
“I’ll mark whatever you want marked,” I grind out, my jaw made of rock, my teeth of granite.
She rolls to the side and slinks her way to the front edge of the hood, spreading her legs wide and looking back up at me, one finger clamped sassily between her teeth, lips curved into a come hither smile. “Why don’t you start here?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
I scoot off the car and come around to her. She turns her back toward me when I do. I enter her from behind. I know this is how she likes it because, when she’s Simone, she doesn’t want to look me in the eye when we make love.
We both lose it at the same time, but I plunge into her relentlessly, exorcising demons, throwing caution to the wind, diving into this, into her, without mercy.
Simone is half crying, half moaning and it’s like an accelerant. Something about her, something about the way she responds to me, makes me want to devour her. To completely consume her. To wipe that smug smile off her face and replace it with a mouth rounded in ecstasy. To empty her expression of anything but amazement in her pleasure-drunk eyes.
Right now I have.
And I’m intoxicated with it.
I can think of nothing but her. Feel nothing but her. Smell nothing but her.
She arches, throwing her head back. I fist my hand in her hair, pulling to the side so I can sink my teeth into the ball of her shoulder. She yelps, but I feel her convulse around me. She likes it. And so do I.
I shudder and strain, every muscle so tight I feel like my bones might snap.
Slowly, I relax, collapsing onto Simone’s back, our heartbeats so strong I can’t tell whose is whose. I don’t pull out. I simply hold her down with my weight until I grow soft inside her.
I hear her breathy voice whispering, “No one but you. N
o one but you.”
I don’t know what it means—no one but me can make her feel this way?—and I don’t ask. My brain is too foggy and right now I don’t care. I only care that I’m the only one who has her now.
Finally, I ease away from her and walk around to get my shirt. Returning to the front, I clean her up, tenderly wiping away all traces of myself from her thighs. When I straighten, she turns toward me. I know within two seconds that Poppy has returned.
There’s no hurt in her eyes from when I called her my wife’s name, a force of habit that was over a decade in the making and can’t be eradicated in a matter of months. I see only awe and the remnants of pleasure, probably a lot like what’s in my eyes.
I rest my hands on her hips and give her a grin. “Damn, woman.”
She grins back. “That’s just what I was about to say. Only you’re not a woman.”
She laughs.
I laugh.
Then she leans forward and loops her arms around my neck, all insults forgiven. That’s when I realize that Simone comes to the rescue when Poppy is hurt. Hurt or afraid or angry, any strong negative emotion.
That means I hurt her. I didn’t meant to, but I did.
“Can I take you home?” I ask, brushing hair away from her damp face.
“Only if you’ll stay.”
“You couldn’t force me away.”
I can’t deny that part of me is hoping that when Poppy dozes off, and if I feign sleep, Simone will resume her strange activities.
So I can catch her.
* * *
It’s been four days since Simone has been out to do anything other than dance. Work. Her “other job” has seen a marked lull, from what I can tell.
I asked Winston to give me the camera footage from whatever he could get nearest the Zanzibar club entrance on that first night that I followed her. Maybe I got a good enough look at the guy she left with to be able to catch him coming in.
And I do.
It’s the tie. I remember it and, as it turns out, it’s a dead giveaway. Winston is able to get me a facial recognition match, and I learn that the guy has a considerable rap sheet including two domestic violence convictions, an aggravated assault conviction, and a rape charge against a child that landed him in prison for six years. He’s on file as a registered sex offender and I make note of his address.
It’s as I’m mapping directions to his place that a new message from Winston pops up.
“Thought you might want to see this, too. In case you missed it.”
He forwards me a file from Simone’s other “business” which provides subjects for those who want to kill and not get caught. I read through the correspondence, then read back through it trying to understand what I’m seeing, trying to put it together in a way that makes sense. When I do, it paints possibly an even more confusing picture.
The men to whom she’s selling prostitutes are also the targets she’s providing to the bloodthirsty people interested in killing. She gives them instructions to await her call, at which time she provides them with the motel information where they’ll find a drugged and restrained victim in the bathtub. She also provides them with a burner setup, including a burner phone and a junker car to get them where they’re going.
From the looks of her operation, she roofies the subject and has the client pick them up in a car that can’t be traced. She gives them the address for one of a couple of industrial buildings she’s either bought or rented. There, they’re provided with plastic sheeting, clothing to be worn for the act as well as a disposal protocol, which includes several pounds of lye and a stainless trough connected to a drain. They are instructed to heat the solution and then dissolve the body, a process that takes several hours, then toss their clothes into an incinerator before they go, all with no one the wiser.
If all her marks are felons, unmarried and off parole, the only people who would miss them are their employers, and evidently most of them aren’t exactly aboveboard, hiring felons to begin with. And if these men are the dregs of society, that would further insure there aren’t many people, if any, who would care enough to report them missing. The plan is actually quite brilliant. Diabolical, but brilliant.
She’s good. I’ll give her that. She’s good and she’s expensive, the prices she’s calling down are more than enough to pay for this extravagant operation. She pays for every aspect of her business to be done with false identification. She buys the various cars from a dealer who issues a registration and fake plates to an alias she’s built. She rents the rooms online using a generic name and credit card that’s completely untraceable. She buys the lye through an underground criminal organization more than happy to provide her with the substance and never ask questions. Ninety percent of the whole setup is contained within the anonymous confines of the dark web, and the rest can only be traced to people who don’t exist.
My mind races as I think about the magnitude of what she’s doing, but I also have to wonder why. How does she choose these marks? Why does she choose these marks? Is it because they’re less likely to be missed? Or because of some commonality between them? Like their crimes. Is that her primary motivation? Are they all violent offenders? Or is this simply a money-making scheme?
I start to dig, dig into any disappearances noted in the last year. Surely one of these men has a trail. Surely she’s left some tiny crumb that I can follow.
Only she hasn’t.
She’s covered her tracks so well, without catching her or asking her, I might never know. At least not in time.
So I only have one option.
I’ll just have to catch her.
* * *
I make myself a constant occupant of Poppy’s apartment, her bed, and her life. Eventually, Simone will make a move and I want to be close at hand. Because I’m going to follow her. I’m going to follow her and I’m going to catch her.
Then I’m going to stop her.
These last days, she’s probably been in the planning stages, luring men in, making her selection, setting up her next transaction. She gets up in the night and works on her laptop, probably finalizing arrangements and maybe checking out cameras she’ll need to shut off, then she crawls back into bed, naked, to wake me up with her lips and her hands.
I never fail to rise to the occasion. Despite what she’s doing, or what I suspect she’s doing, I know the woman on the other side of Simone’s personality. It’s her that I love. It’s for her that I’m doing this.
I’ve noticed that we talk less and less, though. No matter which one I’m with, we are either quietly lost in our own thoughts, in our own world of troubles, or we’re having desperate, biting-scratching-clawing sex, as if time might end tomorrow.
And it just might. At least for us. This can’t go on.
She’s only been out once at night over the last few days. She took a cab to Union Station and found a homeless man there who she paid to collect something from a locker inside. A drop point for her supplier, no doubt. My guess is that there were keys in the envelope, keys and locations for where she can find her cars and make her motel reservations. Probably drugs to incapacitate her victim. Seamless, efficient, anonymous.
I finally get my break when Poppy and I have just made love and she falls asleep on my chest, her silky limbs still entwined with mine. I don’t have to pretend to be falling asleep. I’m exhausted from trying to keep an eye on Simone. I’m afraid to sleep when Poppy does, just in case Simone wakes up.
Like tonight.
Within seconds of my relaxation, Poppy lifts her head. I feel her studying me, hear her careful breathing. I school my own breathing and keep my muscles soft and heavy with sleep, even though every part of me is on high alert, at the ready. After a few minutes, she eases away from me and heads for the other bedroom.
Simone’s bedroom.
It’s quarter to twelve on a Monday.
When she goes to the bathroom, I get up and throw on my clothes, all but my shirt, and I lie back down under the co
vers to wait. She exits the bathroom, walks silently to the bedside and stares down at me. She waits for a few seconds, presumably to make sure I’m asleep and then she grabs the big bag she always takes with her and leaves.
I wait until she’s on the street before I bound down the stairs and start my tail. She’s become quite predictable to me in some ways. I know she’ll walk the first bit and then hail a cab. I know she’ll take her convoluted route through town, making at least one stop to change cabs before she gets to the first motel. I know she’ll collect a car to take on the rest of her journey and I know she’ll take a circuitous route to a club, where she’ll pick up her man. Some things always change. Some things never do.
I wait in my personal car for her to drive out of the alley in her small gray car. We are yet another club tonight, but the process is still the same. She drives out looking like a totally different person than the one who drove in.
I brought a camera with me this time, so I snap some pictures of her companion as they’re pulling out of the alley. I’ll have Winston run his face and see what he can come up with.
I follow her to a motel to change cars. I follow her to her final destination. And tonight, I follow her up to her room after she closes the door behind her and her mark.
Very gently, I try the knob. The door is locked.
I’m not surprised. She’s too careful to leave it open, no matter what she’s doing. She’s also smart enough to do her business on the second floor so there’s no chance of anyone seeing through a bathroom window, which is what I would’ve done next had it been on the ground floor.
But since I can’t do that…for the moment, I’m thwarted. I’ll have to wait for her to come out and then get in and get to her mark before the person who has paid for a kill does.
I can’t let him go, though. He could spread the word about Simone, about the false front of her business, the part where she draws men in with promises of a woman for them to do with what they will. There may be someone out there who has managed to figure out who she is, and if that’s the case, exposing her real operation could get her killed. That leaves me with only one other option, which I’d rather not do, but don’t see that I have much choice.
