Like I said, this is going to be a disaster.
I can already taste the Jameson on my tongue.
Spinning in place, I meet her curious stare and hold it like a vise. “Why are these still up?” I snap.
My mother sighs deeply and strolls past me into the pristinely decorated living room of golds and creams with her head held high. “Because they always will be, as I explained to you the last time we had this discussion. He might not be here with us anymore, but he’s still your father, and his memory is to be honored.”
“Why the hell would you want to honor that man? He was a—”
“Watch your language. I don’t care how old you are—you’re in my home and you know I don’t tolerate cussing of any kind,” she hisses, eyes narrowed in offense.
The swell of anger that rushes through my being forces me to clamp my eyes shut and take a deep breath; for her sake, not mine. My mom isn’t a stupid woman, never by any means, but the fact that she refuses to leave any trace of my father in the dust—where he belongs—is infuriating.
Why?
Standing beside her, he was the ultimate sinner, arising hell on Earth at every turn. They fought to no end, weren’t even in love by the time he finally got thrown in prison, and yet here she is, keeping his memory alive on some deranged, imaginary pedestal.
I can never wrap my head around it, and quite honestly, I don’t want to. I just want her to listen to me and finally understand how fucked up it is.
“Honor thy father and thy mother,” she continues, snapping my eyes back open.
“I do honor you,” I counter. “I maintain you, look after you.”
“And you need to honor him, too.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Ma . . . that’s not going to happen. He was—”
“Everything you are, Maverick. He had a temper, enjoyed his alcohol.” That last bit slides off her tongue in a condescending sneer.
One that proverbially slaps me across the face, hard. I know damn well what I put my mom through when I spiraled all those years ago, but she never once compared me to him. She was always so supportive and understanding despite what demons my addiction resurfaced.
So what changed?
You. You and your sick obsessions.
They all hit me in flashes. First Kiera, then the case, the Jameson, the latex.
My head nearly pops off as I suck in a deep breath. The creamy damask-papered walls seem to close in on me as I glance around the room in panic, small beads of sweat accumulating at my temples. Every photo my father is in seems to stick out among the rest; him alone, him and I, them as a couple. Nevermind the fact that I do indeed resemble him, what shakes me to my core is the lack of stability I see in his brown eyes.
Is that what I look like?
Manic? Unstable?
Not yet, but you will if you continue on this route.
That harsh realization, coupled with all the crucifixes, the saint sculptures, and the mini-altar she has situated near the bay window—complete with Virgin Mary and all—throws me into hysteria.
Repent, Maverick. Repent, they all whisper. Repent to the Lord before it’s too late.
I jerk my head in an effort to dispel the voices. I’m seriously going fucking crazy and this is proof.
“Maverick?”
My mother’s questioning tone brings me back around to her.
“Seriously, Ma. Enough with the shrine. I understand what the church says about honoring my father, but my father wasn’t a man to be honored—”
“Maverick Quinn—”
“And,” I continue, speaking right over her. “As for us being the same, I might share his weaknesses but let me remind you that that man right there”—I jam a finger in the direction of one of the larger picture frames—“was a criminal. Me? I’m the opposite. I put the criminals away!”
“Without him there would be no you, therefore you need to show some gratitude.”
Alright. That’s it.
I place a quick kiss on her cheek and rush around her.
“Maverick! Where are you—”
I whirl on her as I open the front door. “Maybe next time I come, you’ll have the consideration to take at least some of those down. I work hard to care for you and I don’t need you flaunting the image of the man that abused you and damaged me all over the walls.”
The door slams closed before she can utter a reply.
Good. I’m done with this. It happens every time I drop by and it’s gotten old already. Ma brings up my shared drinking addiction with my father as if that somehow exonerates him in my eyes.
It doesn’t.
I might be an alchie like Da was, but aside from that we’re nothing alike. He was a woman-beater. A child-beater. A thief and vagabond.
How dare she constantly compare us? Okay, yes, I resemble him physically. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Facial structure. Insane drinking habit. But that’s as far as it fucking goes.
Shit.
Running a hand through my hair, I stand on Ma’s porch, staring out into the sun lit street. Speaking of a fucking drink, I need one now.
Of course, I shouldn’t, but fuck this. I’m so done with everything at this moment.
Snatching my keys out of my pocket, I head back for my car, already mapping out where I’m heading in the back of my head.
“And the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire and sulphur where the beast and the false prophet were, and they will be tormented day and night forever and ever.” - Revelation 20:10
“Hey, buddy, I think you’re done for the night.”
Great. Far from both my present neighborhood and my old one, and still getting cut off by the bartender who doesn’t know me at all. “Yeah. Yeah.” I drag my wallet out and throw another round of bills on the shiny bar. The reflecting lights trigger a series of those all-so-familiar spins.
Thankfully, I’m becoming a pro at dealing with them again.
Nodding at the bartender, I mumble a quick “thanks” and head out to the street. Even as shit-faced as I am, I’m very aware that getting behind my the wheel in this condition will end one of two ways:
With me dead, or pulled over and my job on the line.
Thank God I parked it in an overnight lot. Think I knew in the back of my head that the night would end like this.
How could it not? My arguments with my mother about my father always end horribly. No idea how I resisted the urge to drink all those years I was sober and we fought about him each and every time I went over.
Then again, those were the years where the killer was dormant. The cases went cold. Only whispers of the obsession had remained to taunt me.
Said obsessions blares in my veins, snapshots of memory that trigger me.
Latex.
Curves.
Red-lips.
That beauty mark beneath them.
The way her head looked bobbing up and down my cock.
On the heels of that comes a tidal wave of guilt. Why? Because something even more consuming happened in that hotel bathroom. It went beyond lust, straight to the damaged core of me.
And it featured the off-limits, gray-eyed vixen I bumped into in front of my church. The same one that looks just as delicious in pink as she does in fucking gold.
Fucking hell. The liquor must be messing with my stomach. Rubbing my sternum, I scowl at the weird ache there and begin heading down the block. As I make it to the corner of Farragut Road and East 1st Street, I lift my head, about to take the left turn to head away from the pier—
It’s a quick flash, almost too fast to be perceived, yet only one thing can explain away how utterly fixated I suddenly am.
My aforementioned obsession.
I see what looks like light sliding over a black, oily surface, and I’m spinning in a manic frenzy to face Conley Terminal, one of the container piers in South Boston. In the distance, visible through the city lights, I see nothing but shipping containers, stacked on top of each other.
<
br /> Some lined up in neat rows.
I’m squinting into the night, the Jameson throbbing through my head. Just as I’m about to convince myself I imagined it, I see it again—
That fucking latex-clad form, running behind a row of the containers with that defying speed.
My first instinct is to shout for her to stop.
As drunk as I am, I know it’s pointless. Attention-grabbing. If I were sober, yes, I’d want everyone and their mother on the scene to help me catch her, but self-preservation, although sometimes faulty for me, is one hell of an urge.
You’re going to be drunk when you catch her and call it in, anyway.
Fuck this.
Dress shoes pounding into the pavement, I head in the direction I saw her in. The closer I get, the more I pick up on the faint sound of her running.
That now familiar click-clack of her heels.
Or is it my imagination? Did I really see her?
My questions are answered in mere seconds when her figure darts from behind a row of containers and cuts across to the next one.
Seeing her head, enfolded in that reflective, dark material makes me trip over my own feet.
Groaning under my breath, I slide one hand along the smooth surface of the top of her head, around it.
Another mental trip.
Shit. This latex suit is seriously fucking hot.
FUCK!
Righting my footing, I shake my head, torn between the reality and the memory of her on her knees, letting me fill her throat with my cum.
Enraged at myself, I shout to her back as she disappears behind a dark red container. “Stop! Stop right the fuck now!”
Her response? That soft whisper/laugh trailing through the air, followed by a speeding up of her heels.
She’s running faster.
Farther down the dock.
There’s nothing but water up ahead, yet on either side of us is those rows of containers.
Security cameras sitting at the top of the white poles spaced throughout.
I strain my eyesight, tormented by déjà vu, my mind ricocheting back to that rooftop. I’m convinced I’ve lost her, her steps gone silent. Doesn’t stop me from running.
From searching.
I dart in front of an open section between another two rows—
She’s there.
Another trip, this one almost sending me face-first into the concrete beneath me.
At the other end of the “passageway”, she’s standing perfectly still, hands at her sides, heeled feet braced apart just enough to highlight those hips. That lithe form.
Choking on my breaths and fighting down the swirling liquor in my gut, I face-off with her. My mind tells me to rush her, but I know she’ll be gone before I’m even halfway to where she is.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I yell, my voice echoing.
Slowly, menacingly, her head tilts to one side. Then, even though the light of the dock is dim between these two rows of containers, I see her red lips part into that brilliant smile.
Growling in my throat, I take a step forward.
Smiling wider, she takes a step back.
Toying with me.
“Why?” I shout even louder.
I can make out enough of her features to see her lips move as she silently mouths, “You know.”
Then she’s gone again, darting to her right.
I’m left with only the sound of her heels to guide me. Racing straight to where she was would be a waste of time, so I dart to my left. I can hear her on the other side and my mind spins, trying to think of a way I can cut across and reach her in time without losing her.
It occurs to me that we’re almost at the edge of the pier, where the water ends—
Her quick about-face isn’t lost on me. How could it be, when suddenly I hear those heels moving in the opposite direction from me?
Barking out a curse, I spin to follow her, a lost puppet on her string. A toy she’s exploiting, one that’s helpless but to bend to her commands. I push as hard as I can, hoping my much longer legs and her heels give me the needed advantage to catch up.
Maybe if I wasn’t so fucking drunk. Maybe then I’d have some sort of upper hand.
The background zooms past the edges of my vision as I approach the other side of the terminal, the main entry point where I came in.
The only entry point.
Need to catch here there. Unless she’s planning on running around circles in this entire place all night, it’s the only feasible place to intercept her.
I chase the sounds of those heels like a dying man clinging to his last hope. The problem is, the closer we get to that entryway, the fainter they seem to become, and I still see no glimpse of her again . . .
Common sense jerks me to a halt at the end of the driveway leading back out to the street.
My heart roars in my ears, too loud for me to filter noise properly. The sudden stop brings all that alcohol rushing to my head in a dizzying wave. Unsteady, I jerk to face the pier again, searching her out.
Needing to find her.
Where the fuck did she go?
Like that first night at the church, when she first made herself known to me and I believed it to be a drunken hallucination, I’m left turning in circles, confused.
Frozen deep to my core.
“Where are you?” I holler like a maniac, forgetting that I’m a cop.
That I can’t be found like this.
That I didn’t call for backup at the first sight of her, like a professional, sane officer would.
There’s no response forthcoming. No sound of her. Nothing.
I want to run back the way I came. The furious beat of my heart tells me she’s probably still out there, hidden behind one of those rows of shipping boxes. That I should rush through each one until I fucking find her.
She has to be out there. This is the only way out. Where else could she have gone?
Past the drunken stupor and haze of adrenaline, my cop instincts tell me she’s gone. That, somehow, she managed to get off the pier before I could.
Before I could fucking see her.
And that this can only mean one thing: she was here tonight, in this exact spot, waiting for me.
Because she knew I was close by.
She knew where I was.
She knew what I was up to.
The killer scouting this city for male victims to murder is definitely stalking me. Much worse than I even anticipated.
A cold sweat gathers along my brow, even as the crucifix around my neck seems to burn against my chest.
“Wild waves of the sea, casting up the foam of their own shame; wandering stars, for whom the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved forever.” - Jude 1:13
Fuck, fuck!
I tug on my hair for the millionth time today, glancing between the Cap’s office and the entryway for Homicide. I’m on high-alert, have been since Santos and Carter got sent out to the container yard early this morning. Porter hasn’t come out of his office, leaving me to wonder if he’s already been notified of my drunken charade. Is he waiting until 5:00pm to call my ass in and report me to IA?
My eyes drift to the clock on my desktop.
4:50pm.
Shit!
He probably is. And after he fires me, they’ll arrest me for keeping my mouth shut. For obstructing an investigation with my silence.
What if they find out what really happened on that rooftop? That the symbol carved into the blades used on the last two vics is the crucifix handed down in my family and I knew that all along?
I drop my head into my hands, fisting the roots of my dark mane yet again. I’m fucked, my life is over . . .
You did this to yourself, that little voice prods. Just had to have a drink, didn’t you?
“Cap!” I hear Santos holler just as I’m about to answer myself.
My head jerks up in time to see him and Carter storm into command. Porter’s throwing open the door before they even make
it half way.
“I’m taking you have good news?”
“Partially,” Santos answers. “There’s nothing, we have nothing. The security feeds for the whole day were wiped clean, but nothing was taken or otherwise damaged.”
“What?” Cap barks.
Seriously, what?
I’m stunned, barely holding my jaw from tumbling to the floor. I shouldn’t be, because I already knew this woman was intelligent, yet I am. Of course she’d think to erase any evidence of her presence.
But did she know she was saving my ass in the process?
“Security checked every record they have at their disposal,” Carter pipes up, running a hand through his blond hair. “They have footage of every day, except yesterday.”
The Cap’s eyes widen, lips thinning in a grim, straight line. His fists ball at his sides as his stare bounces between the two detectives.
“Fuck!” he hisses, causing both men to flinch. “This is bullshit!”
Santos nods and adjusts his tie as he clears his throat. “It is, sir, but the good news is that this probably isn’t connected to the Slasher. No body, not a drop of blood.”
“Then why are the feeds wiped?”
“We don’t know, but I can assure you we searched every nook and cranny of that yard and there was nothing.”
Porter’s face darkens all the more, clearly unappeased by such turn of events. He steps aside and motions for my colleagues to enter. “Inside, both of you.”
The door slams behind them, leaving everyone in command immobilized for a split-second.
“Back to work!” Blackstone barks, like the presumptuous ass licker he is.
At the sound of his voice, a flurry of movement erupts and everything returns to normalcy. Minus me, of course. I’m still sitting there, heart jackhammering, my stare trained on the closed door.
“Okay, I’ve kept my mouth shut all day, but I can’t anymore. What the hell is going on with you?” Ruby blurts beside me.
Just the sound of her voice irritates me.
Corrupted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Two Page 7
