Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “This is you, I’m guessing.”

  “It was me. Living the American dream, on my way to two-point-five kids and a thirty-year fixed mortgage.”

  “So what happened? One day you just decided a life of crime was sexier?”

  His eyes went somewhere else. “I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Told I had eight months to live. Maria—Maria Kilborn, my bride to be—she and I were…right. Like we were supposed to be together. You know? When someone is just perfect for you?”

  I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “I know.”

  Phin focused, smiled sadly. “But she wasn’t strong, Jack. She was strong in some ways. But not emotionally. She cared about people. A lot. Maybe too much. I remember driving home from the doctor’s office, thinking about how I was going to tell her, seeing it in my head. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hurt her like that. Not only the telling her, but thinking about her watching me die…”

  Phin cleared his throat, then scratched the back of his neck.

  “So I didn’t go home. I rented a hotel room, called an escort ser vice, and fucked my brains out while Maria was going crazy wondering where I was. She tracked down our credit card usage, came to my room, saw me with the whore. There was screaming, crying. She told me she never wanted to see me again. And she kept the promise.”

  I made a face. “Do you think that was noble, what you did? Breaking up with her instead of being honest?”

  His gaze was intense. “You tell me, Jack. Is it easier to hate someone, or to miss them after they die?”

  I thought about Alan, who left me, and Latham, who left me in a different way.

  Phin was right. Losing Latham hurt more.

  So was he a coward, or was he being strong?

  When I met Phin, on the Job, I’d immediately liked him. He’d been involved in a gang fight, three against one. They were armed. Phin wasn’t. All three wound up in the hospital.

  During the arrest Phin was compliant, polite, even jovial. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. I bumped into him accidentally sometime later, at a local pool hall, and we began playing eight ball on a somewhat regular basis. He was attractive, sure, but I think the thing that drew me to him was his attitude. He seemed free. Even bald from the chemo, taking breaks between games to go throw up, he seemed more at ease with himself than anyone I’d ever met.

  I wondered what it would be like to live in the moment like that. To not worry about anything other than the now. Was it liberating? Or empty? Brave or weak?

  “This was a few years ago.” Phin turned on his side, propping his head up on his hand. “I had surgery. Had treatments. Still kept getting worse. Nine to five didn’t really seem that important anymore, so I quit. Eventually I ran out of money, lost my insurance. Lived on the street, day by day, getting by. But something funny happened. I didn’t die.”

  “Remission.”

  He shook his head. “Not really. Cancer’s still there. Pain is still there. I’m going to die from it. But it isn’t killing me as fast as the doctors have hoped. I thought I’d rob a few gangbangers, hustle a little pool, spend a few weeks partying like a rock star and then die in a gutter somewhere. But here I am. Still alive. Here. With you.”

  He touched my back again, and this time I didn’t flinch. But since I’m cursed with the burden of overanalyzing everything, I ruined what could have been a romantic moment by asking, “Why are you here, Phin? Why are you helping me? This isn’t your fight. Am I a diversion? Any port in the storm? A way to kill some time so you don’t have to think about your life?”

  Damn my big mouth. If he walked out the door right then, I couldn’t have blamed him.

  But he didn’t walk out. He just stared at me. Not angry. But patient. Understanding. And I filled in the blanks. He wasn’t with me because he wanted a little action, or because I helped him take his mind off his death sentence. He actually cared about me. I saw it in his face. Here was a guy who divorced himself from life, packing his feelings away like winter clothes in the summertime. He worked to keep people out.

  And he let me in.

  And the least I could do in return was live in the now.

  In one quick motion I billowed up the sheets and cast them off the bed, exposing Phin in his red boxer briefs. His body was long and lean and cut, and I wasn’t sure where I wanted to touch him first. I chose his abs, running my hand along his six-pack while sliding alongside him and hooking my leg up over his thigh.

  The kiss could have been morning breath bad, but all I tasted was heat. Heat and passion and possibilities that I promised myself would be explored.

  His arms encircled me, fingers of one hand running through my hair and tingling my scalp, the other wandering over the back of my sports bra.

  I smiled while his tongue probed mine, then pulled slightly away.

  “Sports bra,” I said, “no clasps.”

  I dug under the elastic, stretched it up over my arms, and he helped me pull the bra over my head and arms. I paused, letting him look at me, drinking in how much he seemed to like the view. Then I grabbed his wrists and put his hands on my breasts.

  He rubbed the flat of his palm over my nipples, rolled one between his fingers, tugging on it gently, making it stiffen. Then his arm was around the small of my back and he tugged me next to him, urgent, his mouth on mine.

  His lips trailed down past my jaw to my neck, and I locked my legs around the side of his thigh and ground against it, feeling my first jolt of full-on arousal, building inside me like a wave.

  Right then I was ready to go at it. I wanted him in me. Wanted to wrap my legs around his hips and ride him until I made him moan.

  Phin had other ideas.

  He kissed his way along my neck, sliding his body down next to mine, breaking my leg-lock on him. His arms encircled my hips, hands grasping my ass, and his mouth found my nipples. He caught one in his teeth, held it between them while bathing it with his tongue. I tried to open my legs but he held them together, which drove me a little crazy as he switched from one breast to the other. He was too low for me to touch anything other than his head and back, so I locked my fingers in his blond hair and held on.

  His head moved lower, licking my rib cage, my navel, and then slowly, maddeningly, to the top of my red pan ties. He rested his mouth there, letting me feel his hot breath through the fabric, and then began to kiss.

  I moved my arms down, trying to help him tug my pan ties off, but he held my wrists and wouldn’t let me, continuing to move his mouth and jaw over my pubic mound, up and down and in small circles until it felt ready to catch fire.

  I tried to fight him, wanted to end the foreplay and flip him over and straddle his face and let him devour me. I pressed up against his mouth, but he moved his face away each time I did.

  Even though the pan ties stayed on, even though he deliberately avoided hitting the right spots, I felt the orgasm welling up. And then I understood what he was doing, other than teasing me.

  It was okay to not be in control.

  I moaned, turned my head to the side, took a corner of the pillow in my mouth, and let him have his way.

  His way was torture. He licked my thighs, all around my panty line, his tongue slow and lazy, his hands cupping my bottom and raising me up to meet his mouth. Then, like it was tissue paper, he tore my underwear off, his warm wet lips directly on me.

  Again I tried to open my legs. Again he held them together.

  “Please,” I said.

  But there was only more teasing, to the point where I couldn’t endure it anymore, and I was going to come even without any direct stimulation. My hips began to pump, moving without my control, and my hands clutched the mattress and a scream welled up in my throat and then…oh my God…then he finally opened my legs and his tongue found me and the tiny orgasm became a monster, plea sure so intense it almost hurt, building up and multiplying until I was nothing but pure sensation. I grabbed his head and ground against him as my whole body shook, captured an
d helpless in his beautiful mouth.

  But it didn’t end with one. After the first, his fingers came into play, and he coaxed another orgasm out of me, and by that time I was pleading with him to enter me, promising him nonsensical things, begging to the point where I was near hysterical, and then he did.

  Holy Mary mother of God.

  Half an hour later, arms and legs tangled up, sweaty and glowing and wonderfully sore, I realized I could get really used to living in the now. For a guy dying of cancer, Phin’s refractory period was impressive. We’d done it twice, and might have gone for thirds when my cell phone rang.

  Harry.

  “I should get this,” I told Phin, pulling away.

  His hand stayed on my ass, his finger making lazy circles. I slapped it away. I didn’t want to talk to Harry McGlade while in any stage of arousal.

  “Morning, Jackie. I found the first phone. Guess where it was? Go on. Guess.”

  “I have no idea, Harry. A supermarket.” Postcoital glow left me a little scattershot.

  “A supermarket? Why would she hide the phone in a supermarket?”

  “You said guess, I guessed.”

  “You sound funny. Did you just get laid?”

  “Where was the goddamn phone, McGlade?”

  “It was a supermarket. She plugged it into one of the outlets behind the fresh produce. According to the SIM, the second phone is in Gurnee. I’m on my way now.”

  “We should meet you,” I said. “We still need the rifles.”

  While fleeing from the Feebies, we’d left our long guns in the RV.

  “I should be there in about an hour. And I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

  There was a screech in the background.

  “What was that?”

  “That’s who I’m talking about. I’ve recruited some extra help on the case.”

  Another screech. It sounded like a parrot.

  “Did you buy a parrot? You had that Baretta fetish when we were partners.”

  “That was Columbo, not Baretta. I liked him for his trenchcoat. And Slappy is not a parrot.”

  “Slappy?”

  “You’ll meet him soon. I’ll call when I’m close. And make sure Phin wears a rubber.”

  He hung up. I turned to Phin, wondering if I could make him beg like he had made me, but he was unfortunately putting on his jeans.

  “Starving. I’ll pick up some food. You want coffee and donuts?”

  “I’m a cop. Of course I want coffee and donuts. There’s money in my purse.”

  I trusted him, I reminded myself. As he fished out a wad of bills, I reminded myself of it again.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” I grinned.

  He left, and my grin became a crushing feeling of despair. What was up with that?

  I didn’t regret the sex. The sex was great. I needed it. Phin was a fun partner, and lived up to the fantasies about him I’d never admitted to myself I had.

  Latham? Of course I still missed Latham. Of course I still blamed myself for his death. But I wasn’t being disloyal, wasn’t cheating.

  Alex wasn’t on my mind at that exact moment—we couldn’t do anything until she contacted us again anyway—so she wasn’t the cause of my emotional pain.

  It was the pregnancy test. That’s why I wanted to weep.

  I touched my belly, letting the tears come, feeling so interminably alone.

  CHAPTER 32

  ALAN ISN’T A BAD-LOOKING GUY. Not as muscular as Lance, but wiry and well proportioned, and easier to lift onto the bed. He’s dirty blond, and has a few days’ growth of beard that is salted with gray. Alex let him keep his underwear on for the time being; she has some questions to ask before they get to the fun stuff.

  “Stay still and keep quiet, or I’ll juice you again,” she warns. “Just one more leg to secure.”

  Alan stays still. He seems more dazed than scared. A combination of stun gun zaps and slaps to the side of the head make for a pretty disorienting cocktail. She tapes his ankle to the last foot of the bed, then gives the bottom of his foot a little tickle.

  In the bathroom, she pours half a glass of water. On the marble sink top she crushes one of the egg-shaped tadalafil tablets she took from the coffee shop Lothario under her thumb, then scoops the powder into the water and stirs with her finger until it mostly dissolves. She brings the water back to Alan and holds up his head while he drinks.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Alan swallows. He has a large Adam’s apple, which Alex finds sexy.

  “You’re Alexandra Kork. You’re a serial killer. You escaped from a maximum security prison.”

  “So Jack has mentioned me.”

  Alan shakes his head. “Heard about you on CNN. Jack and I don’t talk.”

  Alex runs her hand across his chest, squeezing his pecs.

  “You must talk sometimes. Because here you are, hiding out in a hotel. Hiding from me.”

  Alan’s face creases, what Alex takes to be his serious look.

  “Jack and I are over. We’re divorced. We’re not even friends. Hurting me won’t hurt her.”

  Half a smile forms on her face. “Oh, I think it will. But we have time for that later. First I want to show you something.”

  Alex collects the AED from the floor. She brought it in from the Hyundai. It’s the size of a laptop computer, in a rugged plastic clamshell case, bright yellow with a red and white medical cross on it. Alex places the device on the bed, opens it up.

  “Originally, I was going to do something creative to you with plastic explosives. But I’m going to use this instead. It’s an automatic external defibrillator. Just like on all those TV doctor shows. I put the pads on your chest like this—”

  Alex places one high up to the right of his sternum, and one low down on his left side.

  “—and press this big red button, and it delivers a nice thousand-volt shock across your heart, resetting its normal electrical rhythm. But if I stick the pads here—”

  She removes the protective backings, exposing the adhesive, and places both pads on the left side of his heart.

  “—then it will induce a fatal arrhythmia, or stop the heart altogether, or fry your organs. Or it might just hurt like hell. I’ve never done this before, so it’s all theory.”

  Alex fingers the button, stroking it sensually while Alan’s eyes get wide.

  “What do you want?” Alan finally asks.

  “Tell me about your first time. With Jack.”

  “You want to know about the first time we had sex?”

  Alex nods.

  “That’s sick.”

  “I’m a psychopath, remember? If you don’t want to talk about it, we can play press the button instead.”

  She gives the AED a soft caress. Alan’s mouth becomes a tight, thin line.

  “It was in a bar. In the men’s bathroom.”

  “How many dates?”

  “Second date.”

  “Second date? Jack moves pretty fast. So what made her drag you into the bathroom? Were you kissing first? Having some chicken wings, feeling each other up under the table?”

  “We were standing at the bar, drinking beer, and she dared me to go into the bathroom with her.”

  Alex unbuttons her uniform shirt. The bra underneath is black, lacy, tight. True to male form, Alan stares at her tits.

  “What did she do to you in the bathroom, Alan?”

  “We kissed, then she put my hands up her shirt.”

  “Like this?”

  Alex brings her hand up her stomach, fingers going up under the underwire of the bra. Alan still looks ner vous, but the initial repulsion on his face is replaced by fascination, perhaps even interest. Her other hand unbuttons her pants and unzips the fly, letting the pants fall around her ankles.

  “Keep going, Alan. What happened next?”

  “We got into a stall. She…she put her hand on me.”

  Alex steps out of the slacks and sits
on the bed next to him. She traces a lazy finger down Alan’s chest, slipping it under the waistband of his underwear. It’s too early for the tadalafil to be working, but it doesn’t look like Alan needed it after all.

  “Jack sounds aggressive. You like aggressive women, don’t you Alan?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Alex pumps her hand up and down.

  “What happened next, Alan?”

  “We had…we had sex.”

  Alan closes his eyes, and Alex feels his hips rise. She leans toward his ear and whispers, “Would you like to have sex with me, Alan?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You can keep your eyes closed, pretend I’m Jack.”

  Alan softly answers, “No. You’re a killer.”

  She grips him hard, digging her nails in. Alan yelps, his face contorting with pain and fear.

  “Good,” Alex breathes. “Sex is so much more fun when it isn’t consensual.”

  She slaps him across the face, then grabs the duct tape to make a gag.

  Things are about to get loud.

  CHAPTER 33

  HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE to get donuts?

  My watch read a quarter to twelve. Phin had been gone for over an hour. I’m naturally paranoid, something my chosen profession compounds, so I was conjuring up scenarios to explain why he was so late, like being grabbed by Alex, or hit by a bus, or caught by the Feds, or killed by Milwaukee cops, or the most frightening of all: ditching me because he thought the sex was a mistake.

  I tried the walkie-talkie, but he either wasn’t answering or he had it turned off. I counted and recounted the cash left in my purse, and calculated he either took twenty dollars or a thousand and twenty dollars—I couldn’t remember how much I’d taken from the bank, and couldn’t find the withdrawal slip.

  While waiting I spent a good half an hour wondering about Alex, and how we were going to find her. I wound up coming to the obvious conclusion: We couldn’t. Not unless she let us, or she made a mistake, and she hadn’t done either yet.

  So I spent the next half an hour wondering if I should put on makeup or not. Just because I’d gone to bed with Phin didn’t mean our relationship had really changed, and the last few times I’d seen him I hadn’t worried if I was wearing makeup. Putting on makeup now would mean I cared about how I looked, which meant his opinion of me mattered, which meant our relationship actually had changed. I didn’t know if I wanted to acknowledge that, or if he wanted to acknowledge that, or how he would act if I acknowledged it and he didn’t, and vice versa.