“So you lost him?” Blackstone’s tone could not be more condescending.
“Her. And yes, I lost her on the roof.”
“Her?” Three voices parrot.
Inside the room, we find the man she killed lying face-down on the plush, red carpet. He’s completely naked, his back mark-free, his front hidden. His legs are draped over a red settee, indicting that she might’ve pushed him over onto the floor. The only visible wound is the one on the back of his neck—where the black arrowhead blade is shoved into.
A blade I’ll bet my soul has that fucking marking on it.
Lee exhales slowly at the sight of the victim. “You’re serious? It’s a fucking woman?”
I don’t have a chance to answer him when Lieutenant Thayer barrels his way into the room. He gets close enough to make sure only we can hear him before laying into me, “What is this I hear you were actually present at the time of the crime?”
“Yes, sir. I was here looking into Dr. Woodward’s . . . ‘activities’ and became lost on my way out. That’s when I heard this man begging for his life.”
His eyes narrowing is my first hint that I need to tread carefully on this one. Even more carefully than I originally thought. “And you did nothing to intervene?”
“It was one of many sounds coming out of the rooms, sir. It was impossible to tell at first if it was a case of role-playing or not. Then, it happened quickly and the killer exited this room—”
“You actually saw them?”
“He claims it was a woman, sir,” Blackstone just has to add in.
The look the Lieutenant gives me says it all, but instead of inquiring further he turns to Ruby. “Saunders, get out there and question the witness that found the body. Lee, Blackstone, talk to the manager of this place.” He turns to me for confirmation.
“His name is Wilbur Benton. He’s right outside,” I say.
Everyone rushes to do as they were told just as CSI arrives on scene. Lieutenant Thayer’s jerks his head in the direction of the door. “You. Come with me.”
I let him take the lead, discreetly tugging on my blazer as we exit. The panic is ever present, blaring through my nerves, and it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me as the Lieutenant heads down the main hall leading out of this area.
Wilbur Benton’s eyes definitely are.
An issue I’ll have to worry about later. There’s enough going on as it is.
Once we’re away from the main nucleus of the crime scene, my boss huddles closer. “What exactly did you see?”
“A woman, sir. She exited the room, fingers dripping with the victim’s blood.”
“So she might’ve left prints this time?”
I shake my head. “No, sir. Her hands were covered. As were most parts of her.”
He scoffs. “Enough with the short answers, Quinn. Spit it out. What exactly did you see.”
A sexy killer wrapped in black latex with a gorgeous birthmark at the corner of her red lips.
And I can only give him half of that.
I run my hand across my jaw. “Sorry, sir. I’ve just never seen anything like it before.” Understatement of my fucking life. “She was covered head-to-toe in black. Gloved hands. A mask covering her face.”
“But you’re sure it was a female?”
“Yes. It was undeniable. The clothing was tight enough to showcase her figure.”
The space between his brows tightens and I can’t say I blame him for his obvious confusion. Not just because I’m leaving parts out, but fuck. I experienced it and I’m still tripping over it. “What color was her hair? Her eyes?”
“The mask covered everything, sir. Her hair. Even her eyes. Clearly there had to be a way for her to see through it, but only her mouth area was left uncovered.”
“Did you pick up enough detail about it to give a description to the sketch artist?”
I motion toward my jaw. “Yes. She has a—a beauty mark below her lips.” The same lips I fucked like a savage, pumping her mouth full of my cum.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Praying the Lieutenant doesn’t see the sweat starting to gather on my brow, I hold his stare.
“Okay. Okay. That’s good. It’s a start. How did she get away? You mentioned you were in pursuit when you radioed for back up.”
I let her suck my dick. “She made it up to the roof before I could. By the time I got up there, I had lost sight of her. I can only guess she made it onto one of the neighboring roofs. She was quick, sir. Insanely agile. I’ve never seen anyone move as quick as her.”
He snaps his fingers, expression transforming with excitement. “And she must’ve gotten away either through the fire escapes or inside one of the buildings. Either way, we might catch visual on the security cameras.”
Which means there’s a chance they’ll get an actual picture of her—of the details I’m hiding. The fact she was wearing a BDSM-style latex suit.
Add it to the list of shit I’ll have to deal with later.
“Get on it,” the Lieutenant tells me. “The sketch artist needs to be called, but get a group working on acquiring any visuals we can from surrounding buildings. We’ll need—”
“To question anyone in it during this time. I got it, sir. Will get right on it.”
He nods and heads back to the foyer.
I watch him go, stuck between relief and a sick sense of dread that settles deeper into the pit of my stomach.
“Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” - Matthew 26:41
Nearly two hours after Lieutenant Thayer and the rest of my colleagues arrived on scene, we’re finally dismissed for the evening. Wilbur and his staff have been questioned, the body and what little evidence there was have been collected.
Except that security feed, of course, because he’s still adamant on the fact there isn’t any.
“Where you headed now?” Ruby asks as we shuffle out behind Blackstone and Lee.
“Home,” I reply, my tone clipped yet still curt.
It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know what the hell I have planned. To be honest, I don’t even know what I have planned. My head is spinning faster than I can possibly keep up.
“Oh, okay. I was going to suggest going out for a few drinks and discussing what—”
“When will you get it?” I snap, jerking to a stop on the sidewalk. My patience with this woman has reached its end. “Nothing is ever going to unfold between us, Saunders. Nothing. Anything and everything having to do with work can be discussed during office hours, unless we’re forced to pull overtime to meet a deadline. And even then, those hours will be seen through at the precinct. This partnership is strictly professional, and it always will be. Got it?”
Ruby nods, but there’s a hint of sadness and embarrassment in those amber pools that I don’t miss as she cuts her eyes to Nathaniel and Jared. They’ve pivoted toward us slightly in the midst of their own conversation, but I know they heard it all. Not that any of it should surprise them given Ruby’s slobbered all over their dicks, too.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” That’s all I offer my partner before taking my leave, not a glance spared her way in my frustration at her abhorrent, relentless tactics.
I don’t acknowledge Blackstone or Lee either as I step around them and stalk to my car, holding my blazer in place the entire time. Despite how careful I’ve been, I feel like the stains are obvious, like a guilty sign shines brightly over my head for all the world to see.
The thought hijacks the steadiness of my pulse.
My heart rate shoots through the roof, blood roaring in my ears.
I have no idea how the fuck I’m going to get away with this in the long run, especially if the exterior cameras caught even the smallest glimpse of what took place on the rooftop, but I’ll have to worry about that later.
Right now, I need my file, and my file is currently buried beneath mountains of paperwork on my desk. I’m dying to get home and
jump in the shower, to scrub the overwhelming sense of dirtiness and every bit of evidence off my body—including the killer’s saliva—but I have to get that file first.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I slip on my seat belt and stab my key into the ignition with an impatient hand as the victim’s blood all but continues burning my crotch. The engine roars to life with a flick of my wrist, louder still as I pull out onto the empty street and speed away, the tires nearly squealing in my hasty exit.
I gun it all the way to the precinct, watching my rearview mirror every few seconds like a threatened hawk. The last thing I need is for one of these assholes to follow me. They’re suspicious enough as it is considering I was at the scene when the homicide went down.
“Fuck!” I slam a hand down on the steering wheel.
This is bad, really fucking bad. I was deep enough in my own shit after fucking and obsessing over Kiera like a rabid animal, but letting the killer put her hands on me and make a getaway just made everything a million times worse.
I need a drink.
Thankfully, there’s no one working the case at the department when I arrive, which aids me in pushing that dangerous thought to the recesses of my mind. A quick shake of my head and I park haphazardly before the entrance, bolting out of my car and into the building like a bat out of hell. I’m in and out in under five minutes, racing home after the fact to avoid stopping anywhere I shouldn’t—namely the damned liquor store.
Or Kiera’s home.
Her pussy could cure just about every goddamn problem in my life right now . . .
Moaning, out of her mind, she becomes nothing but my puppet, a woman at my mercy, begging me to give her what she needs.
“Like that, baby?” I fuck her faster. “Like that?”
“C-comi—holy fuck, no one’s ever done me like this. Fucking coming for you . . .”
I feel it, her clit twitching, her pussy tightening—
“Maverick!”
I’m at a red light two blocks away from my condo when an impatient honk snaps me back into reality. A reality my dick has absolutely no intention of coming back from, throbbing and straining beneath my blood-stained slacks.
Blood from the killer, who had said dick in her mouth like a lollipop not three hours ago.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
Stepping on the gas, I barrel through the intersection and weave in and out of the few cars actually following the speed limit. Knuckles white, I squeeze the shit out of the steering wheel, jaw gritted as flashback after flashback assaults me in a reel.
A perfectly chronological reel.
From my rookie days and the serial killer obsession that drowned me alive in Jameson to everything that happened back at the club. It’s mind numbing, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if I’m going crazy.
Am I? I sure as fuck feel that way.
Nothing makes sense.
Everything seems to be caught in some dark, hazy cloud of uncertainty.
I’ve not had a single drop of alcohol yet I feel more detached from myself than ever before, so much so that the remainder of the drive home is a blur.
The second I step foot inside my condo and press my back to the cool surface of the door, I deflate like a balloon.
Scrub a tired hand down my face and take a deep cleansing breath.
Willing peace to find me.
But the crucifix around my neck hangs heavy, a silent reminder that peace is only allowed to those who remain on the path of righteousness.
A path I seem to stray further away from with each passing day.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
The eighth commandment rings loud in my mind. I’ve beared more than just false witness tonight.
“Damn it!” Another fit of rage hits me.
Slamming my keys and the file onto the counter top, I stalk to my bedroom with thunderous steps, stripping out of my tainted clothes along the way.
I’m in the shower minutes after that, the water scalding, a cloud of suds forming at my feet from the force of my scrubbing. I nearly scrub myself raw, every goddamn inch of myself.
As if a little water and soap will cleanse the darkness embedded in my soul.
It’s with that depraved realization that I drag my ass out of the shower, dry off, and throw on a pair a sweat pants. My bed calls me, promising a few decent hours of much needed rest, but I don’t even bother crawling beneath the sheets.
I have too much on my mind.
Too much work to do.
I need answers or I’ll likely never sleep again.
Ten minutes later, I’ve brewed a pot of coffee and fired up my laptop. There’s at least six tabs open on Chrome, each one a different piece of this fucked up puzzle; L’Auvent and its backstory, the history of BDSM, the different meanings behind that suit, design history and origin of my crucifix . . .
Mug in hand, I’m three paragraphs in regarding of different celtic cross designs—thankfully, the specific one tied to my family doesn’t seem to be in any database or article—when my brain jumps back to the suit.
You know you want to look.
I’ve yet to read what I found on it. Can’t bring myself to do it knowing what’ll happen. But curiosity finally bests me, and with a simple click to the thumb pad, I find myself scrolling through various styles and colors of that damned latex fetish piece. The more I see, the more excitement hurdles through my veins.
Through my fucking dick.
My hips continue moving of their own accord. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until I’m holding onto her head once more, face-fucking her into what feels like another dimension. The sounds of her gagging around me eggs me on. Compels me to push both of our limits.
She has to be suffocating, growing light-headed from the loss of air filtering through her lungs, but even that doesn’t stop me.
She doesn’t stop me, taking every last bit of my brutality as though she’s living for it.
And apparently, she is. Moan after strangled moan bubbles in her throat, reverberating against me harder and more intensely with each wave.
“Such a bad girl.” I still and hold her on my dick.
Three seconds.
Five.
Ten.
Relishing the way her throat contracts, how she struggles to breathe—like some sick fuck, a sadist discovering the dark depths of his depravity.
A light slap to her shielded face and I’m jackhammering in her mouth again.
“Such a bad-fucking-girl. You killed him, didn’t you? You killed him before putting this dick in your mouth?”
I nearly choke from the vast amount of air I suck into my lungs.
What in the actual fuck is wrong with me?
First I’m hung up on Kiera and now I’m fantasizing about a psychotic serial killer in a fucking latex suit. Both women set me on fire, both women unleash this fiendish, barbaric beast within me. Both women drag me further into the shadows.
All traces of excitement have left me, revulsion and trepidation fixed firmly in its place. My entire body shakes, gut churning as the gravity of it all settles deep within me.
And I mean finally settles in.
Goosebumps prickle my skin from head to toe, an overwhelming glacial chill wrapping itself around me.
I’m nearly numb, but not numb enough.
I need a drink.
The second the thought crosses my mind, I’m reaching into my desk drawer for my chip—the one granted to me when I successfully completed my time in AA. I hold it firmly in my palm, feeling its grooves and indentations as I pray to our Lord for strength.
For guidance.
For help.
I need fucking help.
No, you need a drink.
“No, I don’t,” I mumble to myself, squeezing my eyes shut, dropping my elbows to my knees as I pray harder, begging God to fucking help me.
I already slipped once after the Boston Slasher returned.
&n
bsp; But if I so much as smell a drop of alcohol right now, I’ll slide down the ominous slope before anyone can pull me back.
There’s far too much at risk. I need my head on straight if I have any hope of saving my own ass and doing my goddamn job right.
And yet, even with that knowledge in mind, I somehow end up in my car, driving a good twenty-minutes to the only liquor store open this late.
Once again, I’m in and out.
There’s no thought process behind my actions.
I pluck the biggest bottle of Jameson off the shelf, pay for it with a blind, careless eye, and stalk right back to my car.
What’s even more careless is the fact I break the seal and toss back several fingers worth right there in the parking lot.
I know better than this shit, but right then, I don’t fucking care.
All I care about is the welcome, familiar burn sliding down my throat.
“Nothing is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.” - Luke 12:2
The noise in here is unbearable today, much more than I can handle. Everyone seems to be abuzz, chattering at a thousand-miles-per-hour.
Or it could just be that my brain is that fucked up.
The pounding migraine is one thing. The haze that continues to cover my vision is also one thing.
“You look like shit.”
Now that? That’s a whole other level of shit I don’t want to deal with. I bite back a groan and the urge to rub my temples. “Drop it, Saunders. I mean it.”
Clearly, it doesn’t matter how rude or nasty I am to her, she’s incapable of learning her lesson. I’d say she’s unable to read social cues, but she wouldn’t be good at her job if that were true.
Wheeling her chair closer, she all but gets up in my face, hazel eyes narrowed. “Seriously. I’ve seen you look bad, but you look like you’re dying.”
I am.
And if I’m not careful, she’s going to realize why.
More than three-quarters of a bottle of Jameson in a single night will do that to a guy.
In all honesty, I don’t even know how I’m here at this moment. “Back away before you catch what I have, Saunders. Trust me, you don’t want this.” Wish she understood I mean that on many, many levels.
Corrupted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Two Page 2
