Everywhere She Turns

by Debra Webb

  “You don’t want to do this,” he murmured.

  A blast of fury ignited in her belly. “You don’t know a damned thing about what I want.” She tugged his polo up and off. Just looking at all that bare skin and toned muscles made her want to taste him. To lick him all over just to prove she was every bit the woman her sister had been.

  She had needs, too. Plunging her fingers into his hair, she pulled his face close to hers. “Now fuck me, Braddock. Maybe I’ll find out why my sister thought you were so goddamned amazing.”

  The words prodded the reaction she’d wanted.

  He threw her down on the sofa, tore open her slacks, and stripped them from her legs. Looming above her, he stared at her panties a long moment, clearly surprised by the frilly, sexy underwear beneath all those conservative clothes she wore.

  What the hell had he expected? She was a woman, too. Just because she didn’t screw every man she met, like her sister, didn’t make her less of a woman.

  Then he ripped those lacy panties from her body. Anticipation roared inside her.

  He kneed his way between her thighs. Wrenched open his trousers . . . and hesitated. “Changed your mind yet?”

  “Shut up and do it.” She shoved his trousers and boxers down his hips. Her pulse skipped as his fully aroused penis nudged her belly.

  He grabbed her hips, lifted her, then pushed fully inside with one determined thrust.

  She cried out with the pleasure of it. Forgot all else as she wrapped her legs around his and instinctively ground her pelvis against his. She’d waited so long for this . . .

  He moved, the slightest retreat before plunging in again. Her muscles clamped around him. He growled. She took that as her cue and began that rhythmic flexing that was as primal and instinctive as breathing.

  Felt good.

  She traced his muscled chest with her hungry fingers. Smoothed her hands over his back while he thrust over and over . . . stretching her . . . filling her . . . and driving her closer and closer to the edge.

  That spiraling sensation started, sweeping her up into a whirlwind of pure pleasure. She dug her nails into his back, screamed with the ecstasy of her first orgasm in so damned long. So, so damned long.

  He stopped, his penis deep inside her as every inch of her body pulsed with the remnants of the bliss coursing through her.

  She moaned as the fight drained out of her along with the sensations . . . fading . . . fading . . .

  His hand slid between their bodies. She tensed. He touched her. A gasp escaped her lips. The pad of his thumb pressed hard against her clitoris. Her eyes flew open and she braced to push him away.

  “Not yet,” he muttered thickly. “You haven’t seen amazing yet.”

  His cock throbbed inside her, but it was his fingers that were driving her out of her mind. Slow, steady circles, right there on that place where millions of nerve endings were concentrated. Then he started to move again. Slowly at first, then faster. His hands moved beneath her hips, lifted her into him so he could drive move deeply.

  Her muscles clenched with the beginnings of another climax.

  He thrust harder, faster.

  She curled her knees forward, wanting more of him . . . wanting all he had to give. This time she didn’t close her eyes. She wanted to see his face, the face that had haunted her dreams so many times.

  And then she started to come again. Her eyes drifted shut as her body reacted to the building climax. The sensations burst inside her, the waves stronger this time, washing over her entire body. Again and again.

  He came, too.

  Three . . . four final, deep thrusts. His lips found hers. The kiss went on and on.

  When he stopped, he lifted his mouth from hers to look into her eyes.

  She saw the regret in his and everything inside her went cold.

  Reality crashed around her.

  What the hell had she done?

  He pulled out, righted his trousers, and stumbled off the sofa.

  She snatched up her slacks, jerked them on. Tried to pull her blouse back together to cover herself. Dear God. What have I done?

  His gaze collided with hers and she recognized that she’d said the words aloud.

  She turned away, couldn’t look at him. Her face burned with embarrassment.

  And she had no one to blame but herself.

  “What . . .” He cleared his throat. “What had you running down the stairs?”

  That he could back away and move on to business as if they hadn’t just done it sent renewed fury firing through her veins.

  The blood . . . the words . . . Shelley’s things . . .

  Oh, God. CJ grappled for her composure. “Upstairs. There . . .” Pull it together, think rationally. “Someone broke in. Left a message on the bedroom wall.”

  “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

  While he was upstairs, she grabbed her ripped panties from the floor. Half the buttons were missing from her blouse. She had to be losing her mind.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  She hadn’t. That was the point. Months ago, when she’d thought he was so charming and trustworthy, she’d been certain that they would begin a real relationship. The idea of making love with him had teased her dreams, made her yearn for that moment. She’d been drawn to him on every level—ones she hadn’t even known existed before being kissed by him. Then she’d discovered that he was no different from all the rest. She’d tried to forget him completely, but Shelley just kept bringing him up.

  Even now, with Shelley dead, Braddock was still an integral part of what was left.

  Maybe that was the reason CJ had lost total control tonight. She’d needed a mindless outlet, but mostly she’d needed him. He’d just happened to walk through the door before she regained her senses.

  CJ’s fingers stilled in their efforts to tidy her hair. She hadn’t heard him knock; she’d just rushed down the stairs and found him in her living room.

  She walked over to the door, turned the knob. Unlocked. His car was parked on the street.

  Had she left it unlocked when she came in?

  Did he have a habit of just walking in uninvited?

  Maybe Shelley allowed him that privilege, but CJ—

  The sound of him coming down the stairs had her turning to face him.

  “What’re you doing here?” she demanded, her body still hot and quivery from the sex. Ensuring the panties were wadded in her first, she folded her arms over her chest to hide the missing buttons.

  He looked uncharacteristically tousled and too damned good-looking. She hated, hated, hated that she couldn’t not notice that about him.

  “I was on my way home and I wanted to check on the house. I figured you would be at Abbott’s.” He gestured to the door. “When I stepped up onto the porch”—he shrugged those incredibly broad shoulders—“I heard you scream. I tried the door and it was unlocked, so I came in. You plowed into me.”

  This was all too overwhelming. “What about the . . . ?” She pointed upstairs. “Is that blood? I didn’t get close enough to inspect it.”

  “Definitely blood. I called for a forensics tech. He’s on the way.”

  She worked at not looking at the sofa. Or at him.

  “How long had you been home when you noticed the vandalism?”

  “I just got here. The intruder was still inside.” Good grief. She’d gone upstairs without calling the police. Like a crazy woman. The thought of someone touching her sister’s things had pushed her over the edge.

  Where was her brain?

  “Did you get a look at the intruder?”

  Somehow Braddock was closer and she hadn’t realized he’d moved. “What?”

  “Did you get a look at the intruder?”

  She shook her head. “It was dark upstairs. He knocked me down trying to escape. By the time I got back down here and outside, he was long gone. I barely got a glimpse of a dark figure running into the alley.”

  “Jesus.” Braddock pul
led out his cell and entered a number. “I’m putting surveillance on your house for the night. You shouldn’t be here alone. And you damned sure shouldn’t be chasing intruders around.” He sent a frustrated glare at her. “Did you even consider calling the police?”

  The cold hard facts of what she’d just done—barging up the stairs after an intruder, sex on that sofa, the words she’d said to Braddock in the throes of her temporary insanity—lined up in a taunting row in her head.

  She couldn’t be in this room with him.

  “I . . . I have to take a bath.” Even as she said the words, she felt his semen slipping down her thighs. “I can’t do this.”

  She rushed up the stairs and closed herself in the bathroom. Sagged against the door.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  How had she gone so incredibly stupid in a matter of minutes? Unprotected sex! She had to be out of her mind.

  Her sister was dead. Murdered.

  Of course she was out of her mind.

  She pushed away from the door, knelt by the tub, and turned the hot water to full blast. She reached up and snagged a clean towel. Her hands shook. She cursed herself over and over until the tub had filled with steaming water.

  Stripping off her clothes, she vowed to burn them.

  Then she sank into the hot water and let it wash away his touch . . . his scent.

  But the images . . . the sensations he’d invoked would not be banished so easily.

  Another regret she would have to learn to live with.

  If Shelley were here, she would laugh and say that the good girl had finally fallen off her high-and-mighty pedestal.

  CJ closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want any of this to be real.

  The sound of Braddock’s voice downstairs reminded her that it was real, all right.

  Shelley was dead.

  And CJ had totally lost control.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  2204 Clopton Street

  Monday, August 2, 12:01 AM

  Ricky sat stone still.

  Satan raised his head. Listened. Then looked to his master.

  He smelled it, too.

  Someone was here.

  Ricky didn’t have to wonder who it was; he knew.

  He’d been expecting this visit all evening.

  His aunt had gone to her niece’s house in Scottsboro. She would stay there until this was over. It was best. Things were going to get ugly around here. No place for an old woman.

  This was his trouble. He would deal with it.

  He was prepared. Satan was at his feet and his Glock .40 cal lay on the table next to him.

  Let the motherfucker come.

  The knob on the front door turned with a creak. Ricky sat back in his aunt’s ragged old rocker and waited.

  No fear. That was the way to handle this shit.

  If the son of a bitch smelled fear, it would all be over.

  The door flew open, banged against the wall.

  The King stormed in, his bodyguards right behind him like a trio of shadows, falling into place around him as he stopped in the middle of the room. The King never went anywhere without his unholy trinity—his three most trusted men.

  Ricky knew better than to stand or even move. “What’s up, Ty?” Satan trembled with the tension of holding back his primal instincts. “Still,” Ricky cautioned. He had a series of one-word commands for Satan. The animal obeyed him faithfully. He knew if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be eating for a day or two. That was the key with these beasts. Keep them half starved and they did whatever you wanted.

  Tyrone sent a disgusted look at the dog, then rammed Ricky with a piercing glare. “You skating on thin ice, Ricky boy. I am not playing with you no more.”

  “I didn’t start this, Tyrone.” Ricky’s fingers itched to reach for the gun, but that would be a bad mistake. If he showed the slightest indication of aggression, even twitched, he was a dead man.

  “That’s the truth.” Tyrone stepped closer, settled his tall frame into a chair. “But you going to end it.”

  Tyrone Nash was three years older than Ricky’s twenty-eight. He’d started out running drugs for anyone who needed a fast pair of legs. He’d cheated and killed his way to the top. One dead nigger at a time.

  He called himself the King. Dressed like a rap star, with all the bling to prove either claim. He’d earned or stolen the respect or fear of every single human being living in the village. Most of the cops in the west precinct were scared shitless of him. He ran all the prostitutes this side of the parkway, owned some portion of the drug business in the whole city. And nobody, nobody dared to cross him.

  Old Tyrone was slick as shit and as hard and cold as pure ice. He didn’t care about nobody but himself. He’d just as soon kill you as to look at you.

  And he was looking at Ricky right now.

  “Whatever you say, Ty. I got no beef with you. I know my place, man.”

  Tyrone smiled, his teeth a brilliant white contrast to that black-as-night skin. “But Ricky, my man, I got a beef with you. I got a dead bitch in my territory and another smart-ass bitch digging around in my business. I can’t get it right in my head why you let this shit happen.”

  Fuck. Ricky swallowed back the fear clawing its way up the back of his throat. “I tried to keep that crazy bitch under control, but Braddock was putting ideas in her head.” Ricky laughed, the sound as pathetic as a scared little girl’s. “I’m pretty sure she thought she was gonna help take you down or something.”

  Ricky didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe for the next few seconds. Old Ty stared long and hard at him. Like he was trying to see the lie. Ricky wasn’t stupid. No way was he gonna lie to the guy . . . not to his face, anyway.

  “That’s why she’s dead,” Ty said at last.

  Ricky nodded. “That’s why she’s dead.” Shelley should’ve known better than to fuck with the King.

  “What did you tell Braddock?”

  Ricky had been prepared for Ty to demand a full report. The King had moles all up in HPD, but none who could get close to Braddock. Tyrone hated Braddock. That dude was living on borrowed time.

  “I told him I went over there that night,” Ricky admitted. “That me and Shelley had a big-ass fight and then I left. That’s all there was to tell.” Ricky shrugged. “That’s what he got.”

  Tyrone propped his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers like he was going to pray or something. “What did you tell him about me?”

  Shit.

  “Why would I tell him anything about you?”

  Tyrone shot to his feet.

  Satan growled.

  Pistols leveled around the room.

  Ricky froze . . . didn’t even breathe.

  “You fucking with me, boy?”

  Ricky shook his head. “No way, Ty.”

  Hearing his master’s distress, Satan issued another low warning growl.

  “That fat mother fucker growls at me again I’ll put one right between his fucking bug eyes.”

  Ricky pulled back on Satan’s leash, drawing the animal closer to his leg. “Silence.” The animal instantly went quiet.

  One of Ty’s bodyguards racked his pistol.

  A twinge of fear sliced through Ricky. “He asked me about you, of course. But I didn’t tell him shit. I just kept saying I didn’t know nothing about no King.”

  Sweat beaded on Ricky’s forehead. If he’d been a praying man, this would’ve been the time to do it. The silver crucifix he wore burned his skin as if reminding him that it was never too late to start a convo with his Maker.

  “Braddock didn’t believe you. He forced the issue, didn’t he?” Ty braced one hand on his wiry hip; with the other he reached up and stroked the long thin scar on his cheek. No one knew where the scar had come from. No one had the balls to ask.

  “I . . .” Ricky held on to that I-dunno expression. “He didn’t exactly say he didn’t believe me.”

  Tyrone narrowed his gaze at Ricky.
“But he asked you specific questions, didn’t he?”

  What the fuck? Did the guy have someone on Braddock now? Or maybe Ty had finally gotten to that tight-ass partner of Braddock’s.

  “Sure.” Ricky nodded like a fucking bobblehead doll. “He asked all kinds of questions. What was the deal between you and Shelley? Did you order a hit on her? Had I ever witnessed you ordering a murder or conducting any other business?”

  He couldn’t tell him about the other question. Definitely not that one. If Tyrone found out Braddock had offered Ricky immunity to give up what he knew, he was fucked. Tyrone wouldn’t care about the answer Ricky had given; he’d kill him on principle just to cover his ass.

  “And what, pray tell, did you say to all those prying questions?”

  “I told him I didn’t know jack shit about you or what you do. I told him I got my own business to take care of.”

  Tyrone moved his head side to side. “You think Braddock’s a fool?”

  Sweat slid down Ricky’s jaw. Every answer, right or wrong, dug the hole a little deeper. “No. I . . . I mean, yeah. He’s a fool if he thinks he can come over here messing with the King.”

  Please let that be the answer Ty wants to hear.

  “Braddock,” Tyrone said, his jaw throbbing with tension, “has a reason for getting in my business.”

  Ricky nodded, though he didn’t have a fucking clue where this was headed.

  “It’s personal. Between me and him. But it don’t matter. He’s been trying to get in my shit for three years and he don’t seem to get the message I’m sending him. Now you gonna make sure he gets the message. Loud and clear.”

  Holy fuck.

  “How . . .” Ricky cleared his throat. Felt his balls draw up into his belly. “How do you want me to do that?”

  “You play his game until I tell you different.”

  “But . . .” What the hell was he talking about? He couldn’t know Braddock wanted him to roll over. “What game?”

  “That, Ricky boy, is for you to find out. And, while you’re at it, you’ll keep that doctor bitch off my ass. Make sure she gets the message I’m sending her way.”