TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  “Only the patch is distributed by prescription. The liquid is administered by injection in hospitals.”

  “Oh, so I guess I ransacked the hospital’s drug department, stole the fenton—“

  “Fentanyl.”

  “Whatever. Then I poured it in my customer’s product to kill him.” She tilted her head and glared squarely into his eyes. “Did you lift my prints off the bottle?” That was impossible because she never ever removed bottles from the outer boxes.

  “No.”

  “So, I used caution when I added the drug to the oil, yet I left my prints all over the knife,” she said sarcastically. “How clumsy of me, detective, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ms. Stoler,” he said, standing upright, shaking his head. “I’m expecting DNA results from the crime scenes any day now. If they confirm my suspicions, I’ll be knocking on your door. Be prepared.” He turned and walked away.

  What an arrogant, egotistical man. In his mind he’d already convicted her. And he hadn’t had the decency to say goodbye, wave, flip her off, nothing. That visit was a wasted trip. Well, not completely—she felt a little better having released some anger. It had probably assisted in tightening her noose though. As it seemed, he didn’t care for her much.

  Grumbling under her breath, she buckled herself in the driver’s seat and drove home. The instant she entered her apartment, she dragged her supply case out of the closet, across the living room to the dining room, sat down on the floor and opened the lid. Piece by piece she removed the products, adding them to a mental list she’d prepared. Hopefully, it would help identify the contents left in the other case. So far, she could attest to the folder missing which contained copies of orders, along with a list of customer names. But it wasn’t surprising. How else would the detective and officer Wilson have known her name and where she lived?

  The next step…she’d ask Brock who specifically had packed the cases on that dreadful night.

  Why bother? That would lead her down a path to nowhere. Rather than focus on the last person who had them, she needed to figure out who broke into her apartment. Yeah, that made things easier. And who in the hell was that?

  If it was Mr. Woodenhaven as she’d originally thought, who broke in and stole the knife?

  She sat up on her hunches and stared at the door for at least two minutes. It was the only entrance into her apartment. Something should’ve been broken or cracked if they’d busted in. But nothing was, and Brock had unlocked the door that night with the key. Why would an intruder bother to lock it on their way out?

  Rising from the floor, she walked to the door and pulled it open. It was eerily quiet out in the hall. Usually kids were laughing, televisions blared, something. Oh yeah, she’d arrived home early because she’d lost her job, and they were still in school.

  She squatted, holding the door open with her back and examined the doorframe carefully. No nicks in the wood, not even so much as a scratch on the door plate. If someone had pried it open, there’d be some type of scuff marks. Maybe she ought to consider herself lucky Wilson and Gowen hadn’t inspected it for damage. Along with looking like a lying fool—not that she hadn’t already—she would’ve dug herself deeper. Certainly someone could’ve picked the lock. Probably anyone who was desperate enough to commit murder could’ve easily gained access to the apartment. Unfortunately, they’d left no evidence behind.

  And so she ended up back at square one.

  She nuked herself a cup of tea, sat down at the table, and began writing the trail of events starting with that weekend on the back of an unopened piece of junk mail.

  Friday night, party; Saturday, woke up in Bobby’s house, drove to Brock’s house to drop off money; Sunday, cleaned the apartment. Monday, nothing; Tuesday, nothing; Wednesday, Troy came over and helped bag party orders; Thursday, nothing; Friday, dropped orders off at Brock’s, had sex, came home to get clothes, Mr. Woodenhaven was murdered, found Troy’s dirty dishes on table, spent the night at Brock’s, had sex all night; Saturday, had sex all morning, came home to find Troy on couch, Wilson and Gowen named me a person of interest; Sunday, cried all day, Brock came over but I sent him home, cried until Monday morning…

  She continued writing every miniscule thing that had happened during the past six weeks, including the moment she sat down to concoct the list.

  She read it then reread it twice more, looking for…she had no clue. The only thing she’d deciphered for sure was that she had a lot of great sex.

  Compliments of Brock.

  Sexually, she could do anything to his body, and vice versa. She loved the freedom of unleashing her inhibitions with him. What a bore she must’ve been with the others. Same-ole, same-ole performance. She doubted she owned a toy Brock wouldn’t use, and bet if she tried hard enough, she’d even convince him to experiment with the penis-noose.

  Tonight, she just wanted to hold him, though. He had a way of battling her demons and lifting her spirits.

  Smiling subtly to herself, she dug the phone from her purse and punched in his number. It rang four times before transferring to voicemail, but he called her back immediately. “Hi,” she said into the receiver.

  “Hello, darlin’.”

  Usually, his voice lit up her insides, but this time it brought her to tears. How silly.

  “Not working today?”

  “I did earlier.” Those details could wait until later. “Are you busy?”

  “Just saddling Drago for a ride.”

  “Can you come over when you get back?”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I need to see you.” It was a downright lie. She needed to touch him and hold him, and bawl like a baby in his arms. If had felt right the day she’d blubbered all over his chest at the shelter. He hadn’t frowned upon her or accused her of harboring a weak soul. In fact, it contradicted the beliefs instilled by her mother. “Brock?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Can you make it?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Don’t cancel—” she blurted, but he’d already hung up the phone. “Your plans,” she whispered into the dead receiver. She didn’t want to portray herself as a needy woman expecting him to drop plans to accommodate her. She could wait. Regardless how hard, she could. He had his life, she had hers, and she preferred they made time for each other somewhere in the middle. Although, contrary to that preference, she’d rather spend every moment in his arms.

  She flipped the phone shut and glanced at the envelope, analyzing it with a fresh perspective. In lieu of the sex, Troy was the second common factor. He was the only person who had access to her apartment. At times, he may have forgotten to lock the door when he left, which would explain no signs of a break-in. Yet he’d vowed she’d pay on the night he stormed out.

  She leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms and rested her head against the wall.

  Where, exactly, was she going with this? So what, he’d issued a verbal threat. Brothers and sisters argued all the time. It didn’t suggest he’d run out and murder someone then pin it on her. That type of vicious behavior didn’t exist in his blood. As a matter of fact, when she’d told him she wanted to move to Austin, he found the apartment, paid the down payment and the first month’s rent. A heartless person would not do that. Besides, he was a loving man who nursed people back to health with a compassionate hand. Though, when it came to their mother…

  She needed to stop. Management also had a key. And from what she’d heard, Mr. Woodenhaven complained about her quite often. Maybe they wanted rid of Tiffany too, but had no legal reason to evict her. Other than the maintenance man having a perverse reputation, she knew nothing about those people.

  The entire situation gave her a headache.

  She glanced at the digital microwave clock then stood up to dig through the freezer for something to auto-defrost for dinner. Single serving TV dinners were the only sources of food stacked on the shelves, limiting her choices to ordering in or dining out.

&n
bsp; To release tension from the day’s events, she filled the bathtub and sat herself in hot, sudsy water. She lay back with a content sigh, situating the shower pillow behind her neck. The moist heat cocooned her from mid-chest to toes. She draped an arm over the side of the tub, bent her legs, and closed her eyes, listening to the bubbles fizzle away. For over an hour she soaked, moving only to add more hot water.

  Today’s developments had taken a toll on her, and they reestablished themselves via a maddening stroll through her mind’s eye. As she started to doze, they deepened…to her mother, the beatings, shivering in darkness.

  She opened her eyes to clear, still water, and a rapid heartbeat. Why had an invigorating soak always provoked memories of her horrific past?

  She scrubbed quickly then climbed out of the tub. Albeit feeling less stressed physically, her temples throbbed. Her toes and fingers were pruned, and steam drifted from her skin, evaporating in the cool air.

  Just as she removed a robe from the towel rack and slipped her arms into the sleeves, she heard a faint knock on the apartment door. She tied the belt around her waist, exited the bathroom, and sauntered down the hall. Even though she’d expected Brock, she took a precautionary glance through the peephole. He stood with a hand propped on the doorframe, head tilted down, hat brim shadowing his features. His denim shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and those tight jeans… If he wasn’t the sexiest man alive… She unlocked and opened the door.

  He tipped the Stetson. “Hello, darlin’.”

  “Hi.” She took him by the hand and led him inside. When the door clicked shut, she locked her hands behind his neck and kissed him. It started as a subtle peck that transformed into a deep, passionate, tongue-on-tongue expression of emotion. He tasted like butterscotch candy, felt like a rock, and smelled like musk mixed with pine. While squeezing the back of his neck, she pressed her body against his, expelling every bit of tension.

  He tightened the seam between their bodies, digging his erection into her tummy. Separating their lips an inch, he inhaled deeply. “Mmm, mmm. Damn, woman, I’ve missed you too.” He untied her belt and starting sliding the robe off her shoulders.

  She grabbed his hands, shaking her head, and rested her forehead against his chest. “I need to tell you something before you hear it from another source.”

  “I hope you didn’t call me all the way over here to hand me walking papers.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, clasping his hands on the table, clearly waiting. She sat to his left and began nervously picking at her cuticles. “Detective Gowen came to the shelter today.” She glanced at the floor then crossed her legs. “I lost my job,” she said, adjusting the robe to cover her knees. “Well, actually, I’ve been suspended until I’m no longer a murder suspect.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He offered his hand, laying the back on the table, palm facing the ceiling. She took hold of it and squeezed his fingers.

  “I don’t know how soon I can pay you back for the lawyer.”

  “I told you before, I’m not worried about the money.”

  “That’s not all.” She stood and walked to the sink. “I’m now a person of interest in Trevor and Ginny’s murders.”

  The chair scraped against the floor, and in seconds, his large hands cupped her shoulders. He spun her around. ”How in the hell—”

  “The massage oil he’d ordered at the party was tainted with a drug. According to Gowen, it’s what killed them.” She fisted the face of his shirt. “I don’t know how it got in there. It’s a hospital drug—it can’t be bought. I don’t stand a chance, Brock.”

  He forced her chin up. “I imagine you don’t, not with that attitude.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You give up, you’re done. We need to figure who the hell’s behind this. You have many enemies?”

  “No. Well…” She paused to swallow. “None besides my mother. I hate her, which according to Troy, is one-sided.”

  “Hate’s an awful strong word.” He rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand.

  “Not when you’ve gone through what I have. I can’t despise her for the horror she put me through. That’s too nice of a term…like I’m willing to forgive her or something. And I will never forgive her, ever.”

  “I don’t recall asking you to. Calm down.”

  “Calm down?” She stepped around him and sat at the table. She rested her foot on the seat and ran fingers through her bangs. “I spent my childhood in a cellar fighting for survival, and now that I’m a grown woman, I’m still fighting. I may go to prison. I’ll lose my life.” Not that it was much, but it was hers. “How’s this fair, Brock? Huh?”

  “Darlin’, I—”

  “I loathe physical abuse, yet I’m being accused of murder. I don’t understand. I’ve surrounded myself with children so I can help them. I sell sex toys, for Christ’s sake, so women can expand their pleasure. It’s for the money too, but educating women, helping them understand their own bodies for pleasure, is a big part of it.”

  “Not everything—”

  “I’m innocent, but I could go to prison for life. My mother was guilty and sentenced to only ten years. How could she get only ten years? Part of me died in that cellar. Isn’t that the same as murder?” She jumped up and paced the kitchen. “How could she get away with beating me, and starving me, and locking me up while she prostituted herself?” She stopped directly in front of him, rolled up her sleeves and held out her arms. “See these scars? They may be superficial to you, but they’re deep, and they still cause pain. And you think the word hate is too strong?”

  “I—”

  “Have you ever been beaten with a belt or burned with a cigarette as a lesson on how not to cry? Have you ever been deprived of food for days? Have you ever asked for something to eat, but received a whipping instead?”

  “Tiff—”

  “No, Brock, you don’t get it. I never did anything right in her eyes.” She stopped at the sink and grabbed onto the counter. “She basically forgot about me until it was time to unleash her frustrations.”

  “I don’t disagree. I’m—”

  “She yanked me out of school when I was ten years old to home-school me. And it was all a cover-up for her sadistic antics. I was a little girl. I didn’t understand why she took me away from my friends, or what was happening. I spent the next four years in the cellar reading books by flashlight. She refused to give me paper and pencils, so I practiced writing in the clay ground with tiny stones or my fingernails.” She paused as tears blurred her vision. “I knew if I ever broke free, I’d be placed in foster care. But it didn’t matter. Jumping from house to house was better than the life I had.”

  “I imagine—”

  “The day she sent that monster down to rape me…” She swallowed the lump that’d crept up the back of her throat. “To prepare me for the streets. She didn’t know it, but she’d done me a favor. It’s the day I claimed my freedom. It’s the day I started my life.”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her close. “I reckon hate is the proper word.”

  She latched tightly onto his arms. “Now people are dying and I may be locked up again. I didn’t hurt them, Brock. I swear.”

  “I know, darlin’.” He gave her a gentle squeeze, placing his chin on the top of her head. “I know. We’ll figure this out.”

  “How? I don’t know what else to do. I wrote down everything that’s happened since Mr. Woodenhaven’s murder, but nothing stands out. My door should be gauged or cracked from someone breaking in, but there’s not a mark on it.”

  “Whoever is setting you up is being cautious. Leaving evidence defeats their purpose.”

  “This started a week after Bobby’s party. Could it be retaliation for my actions?”

  “Those men are not vindictive, Tiff.”

  “What about their wives or girlfriends? Trevor had pictures of me on his phone.
”

  “I imagine most of them snapped photos, but it isn’t reason enough for their women to kill and set you up for the crime. Why not just kill you?”

  He was right. If they wanted revenge, it would’ve made sense to enact it on her. But seriously, nothing made sense anymore. She took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to accuse your friends. I’m sorry for even suggesting it.” She released his arms and stepped out of the embrace. “I think better on a full stomach. Why don’t we go get something to eat?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “I’m going to change clothes. If you’re thirsty, there’s fruit punch and milk in the fridge. Help yourself.” She ambled down the hallway to her bedroom and rustled through drawers for panties and a shirt.

  “What’s your brother do for a living?"

  She jumped. Brock stood in the doorway dangling her envelope between his thumb and index finger.

  “He’s a…surgical…nurse,” she said slowly, her mind stumbling over that fact. Fentanyl? Pre-op anesthetic? No! It couldn’t be. But where else would the drug have come from?

  Troy loved her.

  He wouldn’t do something like this. At times he seemed controlling and overbearing, he even flew into a rage over simple things sometimes, but to honestly hurt someone… No way. He was not a monster.

  “Does he have a key to your place?”

  “Yes.”

  “I reckon that’s the reason your door wasn’t tampered with. According to your notes he was here that day.”

  “I know.”

  “So?” His brows arched. “You don’t think that’s significant?”

  “No, well, yes. I do now.” She reached for the bed and sat down. “Maybe he’d forgotten to lock it when he left.”

  “Maybe so, but it was locked when you and I arrived.”

  Yes, she remembered it was.

  “When he helped bag the party orders, did you leave him alone much?”

  “Well…yes, I…I kept going into the kitchen to flip burgers.”

  “And he works for a hospital? I reckon we just found the cause of your troubles.”

  This did not look good. And the further Brock pressed, the more convinced she became of Troy’s involvement. But coincidences also influenced Detective Gowen in determining she was guilty of the crimes, when in fact, she was totally innocent. “But he always helps me. He gets a kick out of the novelties.” She stood. “He loves me. Why would he do something like this?”