by Devon Scott
He can’t wait. The excitement makes his brain spin.
But now he’s in desperate need of a drink. His scotch on the rocks arrives; the man reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out the Tylenol, pops the top, spreads six or seven Rapid Release gels in his palm, and downs them with two swigs of his drink.
His head is pounding.
The calm that had embraced him early in the week has gone, replaced with this incessant throbbing that threatens to drive him insane.
Or kill him.
His remedy?
Stay heavily medicated, and drink plenty of fluids.
Hence, the scotch on the rocks.
He orders another, shaking his head when the bartender asks if he’d like to see a dinner menu.
The liquor goes down hard, but the pain is fleeting. He can feel the Rapid Release gels spreading like spilled molasses. Soon, now, the pain will dissipate to a dull throb. The man is wired, on edge. He’s close, he can taste it, and this has his adrenaline spiking. He’s thinking about them—the couple he’s come to see—and all he has in store for them. It’s a mix of ravenous excitement and anxiety, as if he were having sex with someone in public. The idea of getting caught with one’s pants down, literally—thrilling and yet terrifying at the very same time.
A well-dressed woman sashays up to the bar and takes a seat two stools down from him. She glances his way and smiles. And why shouldn’t she? He’s tall, over six feet two, good looking, in great shape, neatly dressed in jeans, a gray tight-fitting shirt, and a black microsuede sport coat. His bald head is freshly shaved and gleaming. But what will get her, he knows, is his killer smile.
A smile to die for.
He flashes it for her now. And she beams in return.
The bartender is in front of her, asking what she’d like to drink. She is indecisive, so the man clears his throat and leans in, politely asking, “Will you permit me to order for you? If you don’t like it, you can send it back, no questions asked.”
Flash the smile.
“All right. Thank you!”
He looks at the bartender. “French martini for the lady. Grey Goose, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
The woman puts her purse on the stool between them. He observes her: middle-aged, blond, suit jacket and matching skirt, no nylons, very nice long legs. Her drink arrives; she sips it tentatively, then turns to him and grins, toasting him.
“Delicious, thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replies.
She takes another sip, puts the glass down, and leans toward him. “So, do you come here often?” she asks with a smile. “I’m sorry, that sounded so clichéd.”
He gets off his bar stool and moves until there is only one seat separating them. Signaling the bartender for another scotch, he answers, “First time for me. You?”
She waves her arm in the air in a dismissive way.
“Oh, no, I’m a frequent visitor here.” She smiles again.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Sales.”
She stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Wow, you’re good. How did you know?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve got that look—no, I mean that in a positive way. Speak well, very attractive, on your game. Yeah, definitely sales.”
“Well, thank you. What else can you tell me about me?”
He smiles. “Let me see. We’re here in Crystal City, so I’d say your clients are most likely federal government, and if I had to bet, I’d say you sell software, or some kind of technology.”
She stares at him for a moment.
“Okay,” she says. “This is scary.”
He grins. “How’d I do?”
“Umm, dead on. I do technical sales for a software-development firm.”
“Damn, I’m good!”
“I’ll say. So, how about you? Business or pleasure?”
“Hopefully a bit of both. I’m Damian, by the way.” He reaches out his hand. She takes it in hers, leaving it a millisecond longer than necessary.
“Lorie. And the pleasure’s all mine. . . .”
Chapter 28
Damian opens his eyes.
He hasn’t been sleeping, just resting after that intense workout.
His room is dim, the curtains drawn, the overhead lights off. Only the alcove light burns bright.
He glances around.
She is gone. He checks his watch. A little past eleven-thirty PM.
It didn’t take long.
Lorie, the slut from the bar.
Some lighthearted conversation, another French martini, and it was she who suggested they go somewhere else. His head was a dull throb from the scotch, the Tylenol, and her laughter. But his dick was on high alert. He could use some relief; he needed to come hard and rid himself of this tension that he carried around like an ulcer.
She had shown up at the bar at exactly the right time.
They went back to his room after settling the tab. Once inside, she sat on his bed and crossed her nice long legs while he fetched two beers from the minibar. Lorie eyed the bulge in his jeans, and before long, she was sucking on him instead of her brew as he tweaked her nipples between his fingers. She had commented on how big he was. He just smiled and thrust himself deeper into her hungry mouth. Lorie was one of those middle-aged chicks that Damian just loved—a soccer mom who was dying to prove she still knew how to please a man. She sucked expertly on his cock, even made slurping sounds, and cupped his balls lightly as she kept the pressure around his shaft using her other hand. Damian was impressed. He actually had to stop himself, pull back and direct the slut to get undressed, lest he shoot himself all over her pretty little face. Once nude, he marveled at her body. It was quite nice—tight in all the right places, decent boob job, and a cute white-girl ass that he slapped with his hand, turning her flesh a bright red. He kept her on the edge of the bed, slid between her legs, spreading her thighs as he stuffed himself back inside her hot mouth, thrusting hard as he glanced down at the landing strip between her legs. He could see the lips peeking out from beneath the golden brown hair, and it turned him on to think that he was going to wear out that pussy very soon. Moments later, as Lorie glanced up doe-eyed at him, Damian unleashed into the back of her throat. It caught him off guard, to tell the truth, those few seconds, when out of nowhere he felt the pressure in the base of his balls rise, and suddenly he was on his toes, eyes scrunched shut and moaning as he flooded her mouth with his semen. Lorie was, for an instant, stunned, as if she hadn’t expected him to come just yet, but then she began to suck like there was no tomorrow, jerking his cock as she swallowed his seed down in several large gulps.
What a good girl!
Damian was beside himself with glee. This slut deserved a prize.
So he laid her back on the bed and proceeded to lick her pussy. Lorie loved it, grasping at his bald head as he fed upon her, licking her this way and that, thrashing his head about until she raised her ass off the bed, breath raging as she practically screamed out his name. He tasted her juice as she beat and flogged his face with her dripping sex, squeezing his head between her thighs, nearly suffocating him with the intensity of her orgasm.
But that just made him hard again.
So he slid on a condom, flipped her over, and fucked her doggie style, grabbing her fake blond hair in his fist and yanking her head back as he pummeled her hard with long, full strokes of his cock in her pussy, full of pride as he slammed into her from behind, watching his dark meat glide effortlessly between her white butt-folds. The disparity between their hues fascinated him. He loved the contrast.
Then something inside of him soured.
It was as if the air had fouled.
His mind skipped to them.
Butterscotch atop Mocha.
Images that were permanently tattooed on his brain.
Labia peeking out from between her legs.
Mocha and Butterscotch’s stares captured by the camera. Their dual smiles radiating outw
ard, sickening him with their fucking glee.
The rage was a river. He could feel it taking over. Building . . . expanding into a turbulent vortex. The thump in his head was like house music. Only one thing could stop it.
He shook his head violently, attempting to free himself of the pain. He tried to focus on the here and now, this cunt beneath him, legs splayed like the bitch she was, a dog in heat. He grabbed her ass as he rushed inside, then pulled out furiously.
He told himself to focus on the fuck. But it did no good.
Click.
Dude comes into view.
Atop Butterscotch, sinewy brown back muscles shine. Dude reaching for her ankles. The tat on her ankle, the spot of red ink visible between fingers—the spider, clearly seen.
Black widow.
Ass to the camera, he can’t tell if he’s inside her yet. Mocha kissing Butterscotch’s nipples while rubbing her own clit. Next shot leaves no doubt.
Dude’s buried to the hilt. He’s entombed. Their eyes are locked, and her expression says it all—this is rapture.
Fucking bitches . . .
He uttered these words as a low growl. Lorie turned, in the throes of frenetic lovemaking, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
And it brought him back.
He blinked.
And just like that, the images disappeared.
It was just him and the blond bitch getting it on.
They were a machine of sexual activity, the intensity of her groans increasing until there was no doubt what came next. She exploded again, and Damian followed her moments later.
As he struggled to catch his breath, he had to admit the sex was sweet. She gave him exactly what he had needed. He kissed her hard on the mouth afterward, a move that surprised even him. But the feeling of euphoria didn’t last long. She asked to use his shower and he grudgingly agreed. Thankfully, she was quick and was dressed and gone before long.
Now Damian glances over at the nightstand by the window. Lorie’s business card is there where she left it. She had scribbled her cell number on the card before she amscrayed. Damian promised to call.
And who knows, he just might.
Another helping of dessert.
Something tasty, something sweet.
Something to keep the pain at bay. . . .
Chapter 29
Kennedy exits the townhouse just after eleven-thirty AM.
She has lunch plans.
Not Kennedy’s idea, but Robin, her best friend, insisted.
So she relented.
They are to meet around noon. Mark and Orlando’s on P Street, right off Dupont Circle.
She would drive, but parking would more than make up for the taxi fare. Instead, she has decided to walk to the corner and hail a cab.
The weather is cooperating today. She wears a pair of faded jeans, boots, and a light sweater over a thin leather jacket.
She’s just gotten off the phone with Daniel. He’s funneling stuff to her, and she’s grateful to be working again. Her office mates are, according to Daniel, keeping their mouths shut regarding the e-mail incident. All praise to Jackson Blair.
Kennedy turns her attention to her lunch date.
She’s anxious about seeing Robin. She’s not sure what she’ll say to her best friend. She knows she can’t tell her the truth. Can’t even contemplate her friends, even close ones, knowing the details of her lifestyle. Robin is good people—but she’s conservative to a fault. She’d never understand Kennedy’s insatiable want for another woman. So she’ll keep those details to herself.
She’ll be fine.
Besides, she needs to get out of the house. Even though she’s back to working, albeit from home, she still feels restless. She misses the office. Misses the phone calls, the back-and-forth exchanges between her and Blair, her and Daniel. She’s on the phone with him several times a day. Blair also. But it’s not the same.
At least Joe Goodman has begun his investigation. She feels better about that. Michael’s not too thrilled, but the alternative is worse. So, in the overall scheme of things, Kennedy can’t really complain.
She reaches the bottom step of her stoop. Glances to the right down the street at the row of parked cars before heading left toward the corner and a cab.
Today is going to be a good day, she tells herself.
Now all she has to do is truly believe.
He watches her go.
Damian, head down for a moment, pretending to be reading from a clipboard or something.
He is in a white cargo van, courtesy of Enterprise. Parked on Taylor Street in the District, opposite side and down from Michael and Kennedy’s home. Maybe three, four hundred yards away. Not too close. Doesn’t want her or the neighbors becoming overly suspicious.
Back to the van.
Three 12 x 24–inch magnetic signs, vinyl lettering—signs he’s purchased off the Internet. Signs that cover the Enterprise lettering.
Signs that say:
RANDALL & SONS, INC.
ELECTRICIANS
301-555-6453 1-800-843-6453
Company name made up. But the phone number underneath is valid—actually goes to a real electrician, should someone see the van and decide to place a call.
The signs are perfect—easy to roll up and carry in medium-sized luggage, and cheap enough to throw away when the need arises.
He’s dressed appropriately today.
Jeans and Dickies work shirt. Randall & Sons, Inc. insignia on the left breast pocket. Shirt and patch Internet purchased. Navy blue baseball cap helping to conceal his facial features.
He picks up a cell from the passenger seat. It’s a Virgin Mobile phone, pay as you go, purchased from a Best Buy back home. Paid cash for the phone, as well as the Top-Up card that he picked up from a 7-Eleven. Area code 678. Atlanta.
Not that he’s from there.
He dials *67 to block Caller ID, then their number from memory. Waits until the answering machine picks up.
Satisfied, he hangs up. Glances around.
Nobody in sight, so he grabs his tools and exits the van.
Damian is whistling as he prepares to go to work.
Robin is sitting at a table by the window when Kennedy arrives at five minutes after twelve. They embrace and order a round of sweetened ice teas.
“Girl, it’s good to finally see you!” Robin says once their waiter has retreated.
“I know, right?” Kennedy says, placing her leather jacket on the back of her chair and her BlackBerry Pearl on the table where she can get to it quickly.
“Miss I’m-too-busy-for-anybody.”
“You know it’s not like that.”
Robin hmphs. “Whatever you say, Counselor.”
“Anyways, how are you? It’s been like forever, right? What’s new?” Kennedy says, trying to steer the conversation away from her own misfortunes.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Robin exclaims. “You need to spill it. What is up? You didn’t say much on the phone—other than you’re off from work for two weeks. What is up with that? You? Off from work? Hell, naw!”
Kennedy sighs. Luckily, their waiter reappears, and Kennedy is rewarded with a momentary reprieve.
They order. Kennedy selects the poached salmon served with asparagus salad, mâche, and lemon oil. For Robin it’s the Maryland crab cakes with avocado and tomato.
“I’m waiting,” Robin says once the waiter has gone.
Kennedy has been dreading this moment all morning. In the cab coming here she played various scenarios over in her mind, not coming to any conclusion. She stares at her best friend now, noting that there is sincere concern on her face. Kennedy sighs again.
“I’m in a bit of trouble,” she begins. Robin waits patiently for her to continue. “Someone, we’re not sure who, is harassing us.”
“Are you serious?” Robin asks.
“Unfortunately. We’ve gotten threatening e-mails and one went to my job.”
“Shit!”
“My boss felt it
would be best for me to stay away for a while.”
“What did it say?”
Kennedy takes a sip of her ice tea. Her mouth has suddenly become very dry.
“I don’t recall the details. Just disparaging remarks about me.”
“My God. Who would send something like that?” Robin asks.
Kennedy shakes her head.
“I don’t know. That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”
“Lord. What does Michael make of all of this?” Robin asks.
“He’s as frustrated as I am,” Kennedy answers.
“Has anything gone to his job?”
“No. Fortunately not.”
Robin considers this. She stares at her friend across the table.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Robin takes a sip from her glass and stares around the restaurant.
“What?” Kennedy asks again, a note of frustration in her voice.
“It’s just. I don’t know. Seems interesting that you’re getting these e-mails and he’s not. Makes me wonder, that’s all.”
“Makes you wonder what, Robin?” Kennedy inquires.
Robin’s eyebrows rise as if that’s all she needs to say.
“Say what’s on your mind.”
Robin wipes the hair from her eyes.
“I’m wondering what Michael’s up to?” Robin says and stares at Kennedy.
“My husband’s not up to anything, Robin.” Kennedy sits back in her chair, getting pissed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Robin, I’m sure. Not everyone is like your husband. I mean, ex-husband.”
Robin nods her head slowly.
“Nice. I see this is going nowhere. Forget I said it.”
“No, what do you want me to say? I know Michael. He’s not cheating on me, if that’s what you’re thinking. We have a great marriage—we trust each other. Michael wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Then how do you explain the e-mails to your job? Seems fishy to me,” Robin says.
“See, this is why I didn’t want to do lunch. Because I knew this was going to be the outcome.”
