by Amy Faye
I can feel the rush of energy almost immediately, though. Like the heat of the coffee is running straight through my veins.
A pattern…
Three names come up. Over and over and over. Michael Carabello, Shane Rosen, Antonio Dupree.
Rosen will have been the big son of a bitch that Beauchamp saw. Without a doubt. Nobody would look at Carabello without noticing the tattoos, without pointing them out.
Nobody in the world would describe Antonio Dupree as a big guy. He's five-eight and couldn't weigh more than a buck fifty. Just about every photo, one of those three. Sometimes more.
Rarely all four in the same picture, but that's just smart, I figure. It means that there's no chance in hell that all of them get taken out at once. It makes my life more complicated, though.
I need to get them all, and I need to get them all at once. Otherwise, the ones left just make up for the lost headcount. It won't take long, and while it will cripple them for a little while, it won't stick. Not well enough to say I did any goddamn thing at all.
I take my list. We just need to find these four. It shouldn't be hard. We have a small staff on hand, but it's enough to do what needs to be done.
I step into Danny's office, the one right beside mine. He sets the phone in the cradle a second after I come in, the conversation already over before I got there.
"Danny. We gotta go."
"I just got off the phone with Donaldsen," Danny answers. He's standing up, pulling his jacket on. Getting ready to go.
He might not know what I have going on, but he knows that I'm in charge, and he listens. I like that. No questions.
"Yeah?"
"Where are we going?"
"We have a list of suspects."
I can't make out what, but I hear a hard plastic 'click' and I turn. Danny's got the gun out of his holster. It's hanging there at his side, but his hand's wrapped around the handle and there's no question that he'll use it if he has to.
"We already had a suspect, boss. You let him go. Twice!"
I swallow. The tiredness is starting to hit me again, rolling on in waves. I need to sleep. I needed to sleep eight hours ago.
"Did Donaldsen put you up to this?"
"You need to pick him up, Sara."
"Don't fucking call me that," I growl. The anger cuts nicely through the exhaustion, reminds me of what I'm doing. Reminds me who I am, where I am, and how I got here.
"You're right. I'm sorry. Maguire. You need to listen to me, okay? We're friends."
"Put the gun away, Danny."
"I can't do that, boss. I'm sorry."
I bolt for the door. I hear Danny shout to stop me, but by then I'm already past the only two people left in the place, this late at night.
We've got a list of suspects. Real heavies. People who can make or break the drug trade through this state. And Donaldsen is trying to get me to bring in only one of the three brothers running a smaller operation.
I hit the door hard with my shoulder and it swings open. I'm in the car before the next body comes out through the door, the door is locked and the ignition is on by the time they hit the car, trying to open it up and get me out.
They're too late. I'm already gone. Already in the wind. I drive, swerve to avoid Danny, who's decided the best way to stop me is to get himself run over. He's not quick enough. Never was.
I speed off into the distance. The next step is an obvious one. They're going to pick up Ryan now. I can't afford to let this get out of my fingers, and that means I have to get to him first.
Chapter Thirty
RYAN
For the second time tonight I'm hearing the noise of someone outside. I can't sleep any more. I keep thinking about what it might mean, what's going on. About the idea that any minute, I could get the call from Logan.
A call that I know will end with a bang, and probably not the ones that I want to hear. But I know he'll call me. I can trust that much, at least, and before the first words come out of his mouth I'll be out the door.
Well, I think, I guess they decided to start with me and work their way back down to meet in the middle. Or maybe I was only small fish to them all along, and the order was never important. It doesn't matter much. I work the slide on my pistol and make it over to the peep-hole.
My pistol slips back into my jacket pocket before I open the door.
"Maguire."
She doesn't smile when she sees me. "How long would it take you to get out of here?"
I shrug and take an experimental step outside. "Not long at all, it seems."
She gives me a look of frustration that warms my heart entirely.
"Good to see that you haven't lost your sense of humor, Beauchamp."
I give her a wide smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm serious this time, Ryan. You need to get out of here, and you need to stay out of here. At least until we've figured this shit out with Scheck and the Crazy Horses."
"Until you arrest me, you mean?"
"If you're not careful, I'll arrest you now. I could do it, and I wouldn't even feel bad."
I rock back like the words were a punch in the gut. "Oh, Maguire! I thought you cared."
"You're lucky I need you," she growls. I've learned to see through the thick layers of armor she puts up around herself, though, and she only halfway means it.
"Okay, well, what do you suggest?"
"Come with me. Leave the bike."
My jaw tightens. I've spent more time on that bike than—hell, maybe more time than I've spent on the gang. I'm not going to just leave it.
"The bike comes."
"No chance in hell. It's an identifying feature if there ever was one."
"Then I'll hide it."
"No, Beauchamp. It stays here. You can come back and get it later."
I don't trust her. Something in the way she says it sounds wrong. But it's just a feeling. I don't have any way to confirm it.
"Fine."
I follow her to the car and slip into the passenger side. She takes the driver's seat. There's a look of smug satisfaction on her face that I want to wipe off. But it's nice to see her happy, smug or not. I'll let her have her victory.
The car kicks to life. It's not exciting, not pleasant. It just happens. I suddenly understand all of the 'I'd rather be riding my Harley' bumper stickers. Or, more accurate, I'm reminded why.
We pull out. Driving like this—never mind being a passenger—feels numb. I don't like it, never liked it. Give me back my Indian any day of the week. She drives around a little, but after three blocks she pulls into a motel I've seen before but never had a reason to stay in.
Some part of me thinks it's got a reputation for being the kind of place that women sell their wares. It's not a business I'm involved in, though, and not one I want to become involved in.
Perhaps my first clue is the sign outside that reads 'hourly rates on rooms.' Maguire doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable with the place, which is a surprise.
Such a straight-laced person in a seedy neighborhood. The way she slumps her shoulders a bit, leans, she won't stick out to anyone but me. But for me, she's like a spot of red in a black-and-white photo. She doesn't belong here, and as much as I can't escape being a criminal, I don't belong here either.
She walks right up to the register. There's a sign on the wall proclaiming the rates. A sign that says it's $65 a night, or $10 an hour. She unfolds five crisp $20 bills from her wallet and slides them across the counter.
"One night, single bed."
The guy slides one of the twenties back and starts making change. Maguire slides it back over again. "My boyfriend forgot his I.D."
The guy looks at it and shrugs. "Fine, I get it. You got names?"
"Do we need them?"
The guy shrugs again, turns, and grabs a key off the wall. "Whatever strikes your fancy, lady."
She smiles at him but doesn't thank him. We turn around and start counting off the room numbers until we get to the
one she's just got me a night in.
She turns and hands the key over to me. A real key, not a magnetic card. It's the real mark of a place that hasn't spent any money renovating in fifteen years. The kind of place that just keeps on making money, never spends it.
Granted that it probably makes less and less as the years go by, that never seems to stop them.
I fit it into the lock and turn it a quarter-turn. The handle turns real easy, then. I open it up, not sure what to expect. It's not as bad as I imagined it would be.
The place looks like nobody's changed the design since the mid-70s. At the very least, though, it wasn't a gaudy choice in the 70s. It doesn't stand out from dozens of diners that I have been inside, for work and pleasure.
"Are you going to join me?" I say it as a joke, but she steps inside.
"We need to talk, Beauchamp."
I close the door behind her and pull her body in close to mine.
"Let's talk."
She puts her hands up, halfway defensive. When I press my lips into hers, the hands go back down. Her resistance, however little, falls away after a moment and she kisses me back.
I smile into the kiss and pull her tighter in, enjoying the feeling of closeness. She seems to enjoy it, too, her arms wrapping around my midsection.
My hungry lips start to wander, exploring the flesh of her throat, first testing her softness with my lips, tasting her taste with my tongue, and finally pushing her sensitivity with my teeth.
Maguire lets out a gasp as I bite into the thin, sensitive flesh of her throat. Her arms tighten around me, but she doesn't tell me to stop. I move a little bit lower, into the crook of her neck. Another kiss, another bite. She clutches me tighter still.
I let my lips and my teeth explore her throat more completely. The different responses I get when I tease the lines of the veins coming down, compared to the thick, muscly sides.
Each one gives me a little bit different reaction, and each reaction is stronger than the last, her arousal building up until she can't deny it any longer. Her fingers are clutching at my clothes, now, trying unconsciously to pull my shirt open from the back.
Finally she regains her senses enough to pull my head away from the crook of her neck. She pulls it back just long enough to redirect it into a kiss. Our lips press together, hard.
This isn't a kiss that's testing or probing. This is a kiss that happens right before you have sex—all teeth and tongues and hot arousal that isn't going away any time soon. Her hands are exploring even before mine are, tracing the lines of my body, and I'm not about to stop her doing it.
Her hands find the place where my shirt holds itself together, and she starts working the buttons as soon as her fingers cross over one. She gets one open just before she moves onto another.
She's in a hurry, and I have to admit that I like it. I stop her anyways. No need to hurry just yet.
Chapter Thirty-One
MAGUIRE
Ryan takes my hands in his and pulls them away from his shirt. Part of me worries, as if this is going to be some kind of rejection. A rejection I've known all too well, more times than I would like to recall.
Then his arms bunch up and push and I lose my balance when my legs hit the bed. I fall back and find myself looking up at him. His fingers work the buttons on his shirt, and it falls back behind him. The undershirt goes after a moment later.
I can see the lines of his body, as if they'd been traced there by God himself. He's like a statue in motion, and then he reaches down and stops my hands, idly undoing my own shirt-buttons, and does it himself. His hands work simply, directly, and quickly.
He doesn't waste any motions. No faster than a comfortable pace, yet he doesn't take even a second longer than he needs to, and then my shirt is open. My bra barely contains my breasts, threatening to fall out the top from the way I fell.
I sit forward just enough to reach around behind and undo it, and I take my clothes. The first time we came together, he took so much care to make sure that I had everything I could want.
A little voice inside me, a voice I know is more competitive than it should be, tells me that I have to return the favor. If I don't, it says, he'll lose interest. I can't let it go without proving that I'm able to do what I want—and sometimes, that what I want is for him to feel good.
I work the buckle on his belt for a second. It comes apart easily, and the weight pulls his pants down over his narrow hips so easily that my hands are doing little more than helping guide them.
Even through the fabric of his boxers, I can see the outline of his hardness, standing out and proud. It looks uncomfortable, there. I pull them away from his body a little bit, giving his cock room to breathe.
After a moment I pull it down a little, enough to reveal the head. I press a kiss onto it, experimentally. He lets out a soft breath, one that goes right to my head.
I give it another experimental kiss, pull his boxers down a little more. Now it's standing out and hard. Hard for me. I kiss it a third time, wrapping my fingers around it. The feeling in my hand is good, like it's shaped just for me.
This time I taste the length with my tongue, swirling at the last moment around the head. Another soft hitch in his breath. I like the sound of it, like the way that he tries to hide it from me.
Finally, though, the moment of truth. I open my mouth and take the head of his cock inside. He lets out a long, low breath, and his cock twitches inside my mouth. I take it deeper, feeling the fullness in my mouth.
I start bobbing my head softly. His hands find my hair, not unlike I did his. He forces himself to hold back, even though I know he wants to guide me, and I don't know that I want him not to.
I take it deeper still, the head dangerously close to the back of my throat. Ryan groans above me, his hips moving subtly to press in deeper still, trying to get every ounce of pleasure out of me. I pull back, enjoying the way that he tries to hide his disappointment.
His cock comes out of my mouth with a soft slurp, and I smile up at him.
"Do you like that?"
He closes his eyes slowly. "Fuck yes."
My smile widens and I take it back in my mouth. I go slow. Slow enough to taunt him. It doesn't take him long to figure out the message, and I can feel his hand pressing me, forcing me deeper, faster. I don't fight him now that he's finally taking control.
I can feel him getting close, can feel the increased urgency of his movements. I know what comes next, and I'm ready for it. Instead, he pulls me back, off his cock.
I'm breathing as hard as he is, now, arousal surging through me that I can't begin to explain.
He doesn't offer me any explanation for why he stopped me, either. He just puts his hand on my chest and pushes. I fall back, not resisting. He undoes my belt, pulls my pants down and off. They're discarded on the floor beside the rest of our clothes.
He grabs me by my legs and pulls me down the bed. I can already feel where he's lining himself up with one hand. The other presses a palm into my breast and squeezes softly. His voice is low, and I can see his teeth when he says, like an animal's growl.
"You're mine." A shudder runs through my body. "And I'm going to make you mine."
The thrust that takes me makes my eyes shoot wide, all on their own. One hard, long motion and then he's inside me to the hilt. I don't have time to cry out until after.
By the time my body catches up with itself, it's already built to a fever pitch and comes out louder than I want it to. Loud enough that I'm worried the guy in the office could have heard it.
He pulls out and slams back home again. Another moan bubbles out of my throat, forcing its way out in ways that I can't stop, and wouldn't if I could.
His hand goes around my throat and I want it there. I try to take a breath, but only a tiny bit of air comes through. Enough to tell me I'm choking.
The haze of oxygen deprivation begins almost immediately, swirls in my head with the feeling of another powerful thrust into my pussy. I don't know if
that's me moaning or not, any more, but it sounds like my voice.
I can feel myself tightening around him, the pleasure too much to stand any more, and yet I can't stop myself, either. I can feel him speeding up his thrusts, taking the pleasure that I'm desperate to give.
His hand tightens for one last thrust, cutting off what little air I was able to pull in before—and then he pulls off and I take a sweet, deep, oxygen-filled breath.
My head immediately goes blank, my vision goes dark. In my hazy, pleasure-filled mind, I can feel his cock moving inside me, my pussy milking him as best it can.
My vision starts to come through again, dim and blurry. I don't need it. My eyes close as another orgasm takes me, my hands looking for any purchase it can find, and finding the bed-sheets beneath me. My hands ball up into tight fists and I try to pull myself closer to him however I can.
Another thrust, hard and deep, and I hear Ryan let out a roar above me and he leans down to take one of my nipples in his mouth, not pulling back out this time. The tell-tale warmth of his seed starts to spread through my belly.
We lay there a little while longer, breath coming in hard and hot and ragged. When he pulls out, I almost feel a little bit disappointed, through the glow of pleasure. But we've got time. Plenty of time for a second go, and if it's half as good as the first, I'm sure I'll get over it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
RYAN
I lay back beside Maguire, gasping for breath. She's got her eyes closed, breathing almost as hard as I am. I let my own eyes close for a minute.
"Okay, we can talk now," I say.
Maguire doesn't respond right away. I push myself up, watching her breasts heave as she gulps down breaths. I could watch her like this forever, I think. But I don't have forever.
I have an hour or two before the sun comes up, and then we've got until nightfall to clean up this mess. I see the smile worming its way onto her face, and I see the way that she forces the corners of her lips down to hide it.
