If she’d had a gun, she’d have shot him in the ass.
“Shut the door.”
She did.
“Lock it.”
She did that, too.
He stood in the middle of the room, just in front of his desk, legs spread, paunch resting on the top of his belt buckle. His pants wrinkled at the crotch.
“Get over here.”
Three steps. They stood nose to chin. Her eyes dropped to his erection.
“Get on your knees.”
She took a deep breath.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
His penis jerked in his pants, jumping like a snake. Her mouth watered in shameful anticipation of the salty taste. The earlier moist rush increased. She’d done it so many times before, there was no question she would do it again, keep on doing it. Forever. Until the day she died. Unless...
“What are you waiting for?”
She pictured herself a gray-haired old woman down on creaking knees sucking a decrepit cock that no longer even got hard. She’d have lockjaw, her lips forever curled into a perfect round O to receive whatever man demanded sex from her. And she would still be masturbating quietly in shame in her lonely bed, a victim of her own unreleased desires.
Deep inside, someone howled. A death knell. Her own. “No.” At first a whisper. “No.” Stronger. Fuller.
“What?” Shock. It vibrated on his vocal chords.
“I said no. I won’t do it.” Power streaked through her extremities. The very power she’d always sought when she was down on her knees in front of them. The power she’d only had to stand up to find.
She would choose the cocks she sucked. No one else.
Remy reached out, fisted his hands in her hair, and forced her down on her knees. He pulled her head back by the roots, his gaze on her mouth. He didn’t even bother to look into her eyes, as if she was less than human. “Unzip my pants.”
“No.” A shiver ran through her, leaving a strange sense of control in its wake.
His mustache twitched like a rat’s whiskers.
“If you put it in my mouth, Remy, I’ll bite it off.”
He wrenched her hair, her scalp screamed. “Don’t ever say no to me.”
She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t shout. The word was all the more powerful for the softness of her tone. “No.”
He hauled her up, pain shot through her scalp to her ears, her neck and her shoulders. When he had her on her feet, he yanked her head back so that she had to look at him. “You’ll pay for this in a million excruciating ways.” He truly believed he could do it.
“You’re a dickhead, Remy. Call Marvin yourself. I quit.” Then she spat in his face.
* * * * *
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Max was still huddled on the floor, Remy towering over her. The vision seemed to have gone on forever, but she knew in reality it had lasted less than a minute.
Nevertheless, Remy had cursed at her. Her trance had unnerved him.
That gave Max all the insight she needed. He’d lost control when Wendy spat in his face. He’d had only one choice left. If you can’t control ’em, kill ’em. A new Remy motto.
“Why didn’t you tell anybody Wendy quit her job that last day?”
His mouth dropped open. He swallowed hard, took one step back. “You couldn’t possibly know that.”
She tipped her head to one side. “That’s why you killed her, isn’t it? Because she said no to you.” Finally. Irrevocably. Courageously.
Max felt pride. Wendy had said no.
He’d forced sex on her. Definitely something a boss would want to hide. But why hide the fact that she’d quit? “Were you afraid Detective Long would figure out everything if he knew Wendy had quit on you?” She tapped her lip. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why you searched my office the other day. You were afraid she might have written her resignation in her notes.”
Remy was too much of a control freak to stay down for long. He didn’t confirm her supposition, he didn’t have to. And he knew it. He straightened his shoulders, closed his lips. Recovered, he shook his head. “You are becoming troublesome.”
He didn’t state the obvious. If Witt knew Wendy had quit, he’d start asking why. Remy would have to lie. He wasn’t good at lying. Instead, he’d omitted the fact. With that one action, he’d branded the word “killer” into his chest.
Max was on her knees at Remy’s feet, halfway under the desk. Definitely not a one-up position, but that had never stopped her before. It certainly didn’t now. “Can’t answer the question? Afraid you’ll have to tell a lie?”
If she could keep him talking, she would find a way out.
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a length of nylon cord. “You know, you could learn a lesson from Wendy.”
“And what’s that, Remy?”
“Stay on your knees and keep your mouth full.”
“Fuck you, Remy.”
He wagged a finger. “Max, you know my rule about swearing.”
“And fuck your rules, too.”
Her heart stuttered as he coiled the rope around his fist. “That’s why she died, Max, because she thumbed her nose at my rules.”
“Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that her job description including sucking your cock every afternoon.”
She pushed with the language. Pushed with the sarcasm. Pushed him to the edge. Max figured when he made his move, cramped under the desk as she was, his maneuverability would be severely hampered, too. Then she’d turn the tables on him.
Remy only laughed and shook his head. “I know you must have been a friend of hers, but you really didn’t know her at all.”
“Yeah, I was a friend, and I know she hated your guts.”
Still smiling. “She needed me. I made her feel special.”
It was Max’s turn to laugh even as she braced her hands on the floor, waiting, watching for an opportunity to spring. “That’s the most pathetic bullshit I’ve ever heard.” She deepened her voice, mimicked him. “She wanted me to sexually harass her.”
“You had no idea what made her tick. Making me want her was power, and Wendy craved power.” He wound the other end of the cord around his left palm and pulled it taut.
Never let them see you sweat. “Did you do all this psychoanalysis before or after you forced her to have sex with you?” None of what he said fit the vision Wendy had given her.
Did it? Stronger than Wendy’s futility, a rush of the dead woman’s adrenaline high throbbed in Max’s veins. She shivered.
“She could have left any time, but she kept on doing it.”
“Right,” Max scoffed, but his words made her wince. She injected every ounce of venom into her voice. “So that’s why you killed her when she finally told you to go fuck yourself and called you a dickhead.”
“I killed her because—” He stopped, as if suddenly realizing the enormity of his admission. No matter the nylon in his hands. But once out, he just had to explain. Isn’t that what killers always did? “She shouldn’t have betrayed me with Nick. She shouldn’t have chosen him over me.”
“Guess that’s why you framed him by writing his name in her date book.”
Dropping one end of the rope, Remy lunged. The move took Max by surprise. She’d dropped her guard, listening to his lies about Wendy. Fingers digging into her arms, he dragged her upright, her head whacking the desk. Jerking free, Max stumbled, spots of light flashing. She fell against the filing cabinet, catching herself with both hands.
She’d be damned if she’d go down on her knees for him again.
She rested, head spinning, his voice close behind her. “She knew it was a game. She went to him. And when she was done, she came to me. I think she even knew I’d watched them.”
“You’re a fucking liar.” Her breath stuck in her throat.
Remy didn’t know how to lie. Panic flashed across her skin and raised goose bumps. She
leaned her cheek against the cool metal, then rolled on her shoulder to look at him. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”
He curled his lip. “Nick?”
“Bud Traynor.”
“What the hell does Wendy’s father have to do with it?”
“He goaded you into killing her, didn’t he?”
“It was my idea,” he shouted, as if it was a great achievement someone might steal from him. Then he calmed just as abruptly. “You’re trying to sidetrack me. It won’t work. Your Royal Canadian Mountie isn’t going to rescue you.”
“Witt?” She choked back a laugh, the sound almost frantic. Witt didn’t have a clue where she was. She faced the cabinet again, pulled herself upright as if she were doing chin-ups.
Stalks of Wendy’s spider plant caressed her face, the earthy scent of moist soil cleared her head. She felt Remy at her back, heard the snap of the nylon between his hands. “You can’t kill me here. They’ll know it was you,” she told him.
“I’ll clean everything up.”
“They’ve got that stuff that detects blood even after it’s washed away.”
“I’m going to strangle you. There won’t be any blood.”
She held her arm out to show him the scratch he’d left along her flesh, then rubbed the blood across the top of the file. “The mini-mart across the street is open all night. Someone’ll see you carry my body out to your car.” She smeared blood on the wall beside the file cabinet, too.
His swallow was audible. The smell of his acrid sweat reached her nostrils. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” His voice quavered. She felt him back off, one step, a scuff on the carpet, then another step.
She held her arms aloft, chanced a glance behind. He stood to her right, his hands busy with the rope, twisting, untwisting. “What are you going to do when they start asking you questions, Remy? Direct questions? They won’t let you get away with those ambiguous answers.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking.”
“You’ll have to lie. No two ways about it.”
“Shut up,” he shouted. Agitation was good. Very good.
Max judged the distance between her hands, Wendy’s plant pot, and Remy’s head.
She saw him move, a flicker at the corner of her eye.
One second. Two.
She grabbed the pot, aimed, and met his lunge halfway.
The crack against his skull reverberated up her arms. The ceramic fell apart in her hands. Remy crumpled at her feet.
Like a horror movie monster, he could easily rise again. Max didn’t waste another second getting out of there.
She never made it to the front door. The lobby glass shattered with a great boom, something smashed against the front counter, and Max fell to the floor of her office, her arms over her head.
Oh God, Remy’d rigged the place to blow up.
Shouts. Someone called her name. No smoke. No flames. Just Witt. Hands on her, testing her arms, her ribcage, her face, then she was hauled against his hard body and the breath squeezed out of her.
“You all right?” he whispered, and she could have sworn there was a slight hitch in his voice.
“Hmm.” God, he felt good. Safe, solid. And warm.
She put a hand to his chest experimentally. He wore the teal shirt again. Freshly laundered. She closed her lids, burrowed into him. The man smelled good, too. She could have stayed in his arms forever. “You broke the door down?”
“Threw a potted plant into it.”
“Oh.” It was only natural to feel a trace of tenderness toward the first person encountered after almost getting killed. “Plant pots make great weapons,” she mused. Then her eyes flew open. She jerked back. “Remy.”
Witt looked down at her with brilliant blue eyes, but didn’t relinquish his hold on her. “Not moving. Did you kill him?”
“I cracked his skull.”
He rolled his eyes. “Who needs a gun when they’ve got you around? Never occurred to you to let someone be your knight in shining armor, did it?”
“Only if that someone wanted to be a pall bearer, too. If I’d waited for you, I’d be dead.” She gestured in Remy’s general direction. “Shouldn’t you check his pulse or something?”
“After I make sure you’re okay.” Witt ran his hands up and down her torso.
Oh boy, this was way too good. She wanted more. Max wriggled out of his grip. “We oughta call an ambulance. I don’t want anyone to bring me up on manslaughter charges.”
He stared at her a moment longer, those blue eyes of his unreadable—not that Max really tried anyway—then stood and held his hand out to her.
He made her skin tingle. She didn’t like it. Rephrase, she liked it too much. And that was dangerous.
“I won’t bite.”
She might like it if he did. She took the challenge and the hand he offered.
She looked down to Remy sprawled on the floor. “He’s a liar and a killer. We oughta cuff him, and then call the ambulance.”
Witt dropped her hand, turned all cop-like on her, reaching beneath his jacket to pull out a pair of handcuffs. Kneeling beside Remy, he checked his pulse, then rolled him over and snapped the cuffs on.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Witt glanced at her. “Backup. Called when I found both your cars parked outside, and the front door locked.”
“Does this mean he’s not dead?”
“Alive. And soon to be kicking when he wakes up.”
“Good. I want him to live in a tiny jail cell where he’ll learn how to bend over and get real used to being called ‘boy.’”
Witt chuckled. “Still too much TV, Max.”
Lying on his side, Remy’s face was covered with dirt and broken bits of crockery. His knees were close to his chest, fetal-style, his feet rammed up against the filing cabinet, the rope he’d intended to kill her with still coiled around his hands.
She thought of his hands curled around Wendy’s throat.
“He’ll soon learn the true meaning of the penal code.” She dusted her hands off, set them on her hips. “What about Nick?”
Witt’s features turned to granite. “What about Drake?”
“This means he’s free.”
“It means I can’t hold him for murder. There’s a load of other stuff—”
“Hey.” She stopped listening to Witt as another, more immediate thought took over. “How’d you know it was Remy?”
He rose, knees creaking. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
Amazingly, a flush of red swept across his face. “I—” He stopped, clamped his lips shut.
“You what?”
Remy moaned. They both ignored him.
The sirens screeched, then cut. Within seconds, the cramped office was filled with paramedics, uniforms, noise, bright lights.
Witt looked immensely relieved.
“You’re not off the hook, buster,” she whispered to no one in particular.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Max hadn’t cleaned house in months, at least nothing beyond pouring disinfectant into the toilet and doing laundry. The former she did simply because keeping a clean toilet was one of the basic tenets of life, the latter because she didn’t own enough clothes to last more than a week.
The day after Remy Hackett was carted off to jail for killing Wendy Gregory, Max celebrated by scrubbing the bathroom tiles, sweeping the dust bunnies out from under the bed, and giving Buzzard a flea dip in the bathtub.
Remy’s words resonated inside her head. Repeat, stop, rewind. Making me want her was power, and Wendy craved power. Repeat, stop, rewind.
The young Wendy had been powerless. Broken. Terrified. Sex would never have been her weapon of choice. The ensuing fifteen years couldn’t have wrought such changes.
So Remy had lied. His life depended on that lie.
Not true, Max, she had to admit. The only life in the balance at that moment had been her own.
Answers were scarce, questions endless.
Arms filled with a grocery bag of garbage, Max hipped the side garage door open to dump the load. The wooden structure, built in the days of one-car families, was no longer usable for anything but storage. It was dark, damp, and cold. She shivered, thinking of Wendy’s closet.
With an elbow, she flicked the lid off the big plastic can. Someone had forgotten to roll the trash out last week, and the rancid odor burned her nostrils.
Gravel crunched beneath tires outside. A car door slammed. Footsteps approached the small garage, then stopped. Max shuddered. The walls closed in on her with the intensity of a nightmare. The closet wasn’t the only place Wendy used to hide.
Thirteen-year-old Wendy was still alive and well inside Max.
“I did what you wanted,” Max whispered. “I found out who murdered you. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
There’s more you have to do. Echoes of Cameron. God, she was demented, talking to herself the way her dead husband used to.
She yanked the garage door open.
Nick Drake stood outside in the bright morning, shades covered his eyes. The sun glinted off the windshield of a dusty, dented, red pickup behind him. He’d left the engine running.
Max didn’t know what to say. Wendy wanted to throw herself in his arms. Max moved to the left to go around him.
He stepped with her, blocked her, just as Wendy wanted him to. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, waved her hand in dismissal. “Look, it was just sex. No big deal.” Reminded of that final fight with Cameron, Max winced.
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
“For what then?”
“For leaving you alone when you needed me.”
“You should be saying that to Wendy.”
He had enough sensitivity to flush slightly. God, she’d wanted nothing more than to tell him to take a flying leap, but there were so many questions she still had about Wendy.
And why hadn’t she sought him out to get them?
Simple enough. Wendy had wanted him to come to her.
You know, if you’re living inside me, why can’t you just tell me it all at once instead of giving me this piece-meal crap?
Dead to the Max (Max Starr Series, Book 1, a paranormal romance/mystery) Page 25
