by Meg Jackson
“Fuck me, yes, baby, oh fuck me,” Honey moaned, wanting the girl to never stop, feeling her pleasure rising and rising inside her like a ship on a tremendous wave. The girl began to fuck her harder, faster, her fingers darting in and out while her tongue lapped and sucked at her clit. Honey kneaded her own breasts, tweaking the nipples violently, her muscles straining to the point of snapping as pleasure engulfed her.
The wave crested, broke, and Honey felt herself trembling as her legs snapped shut around the girl’s head, her silky hair against Honey’s thighs like a cool compress to her skin as she bucked and came underneath the girl’s tongue and around her probing fingers. Honey felt her orgasm shaking her body to its core as she peaked and then slowly fading, leaving her buzzing and humming with pleasure. Releasing her thighs, she sighed happily and let her head roll back further against the pillow.
“Oh, girl, you’re a natural,” she said. Georgia giggled and wiped her mouth as she pulled away and crawled up to join Honey in the bed. Honey extended her arm, inviting the girl to nuzzle into her. She did, and Honey let the sweet smell of Georgia’s hair fill her nostrils. She liked this girl quite a bit. She hoped she’d stick around. If she did, Honey would take good care of her, make sure none of the men roughed up her heart. If they did, she’d always be welcome to come heal in Honey’s bed.
As she drifted off once more, listening to the gentle breathing beside her, the sunlight streaming in over them, illuminating their soft curves as they lay in the bed, Honey’s mind lagged once more, tripping over that unsettling feeling that had plagued her upon waking.
With a sudden start that shook Honey’s whole body, her eyes popped open. Somehow, it didn’t disturb the sleeping figure beside her. She remembered now what she’d see the night before. A stranger, though not a stranger, really. He’d been in the bar for a few days…she hadn’t noticed anything odd about him at first but…but last night…
Yes, last night. He’d done something odd. She’d noticed him first staring at Reign and the little thing he was trying to help, then again, when she was outside after Reign had rode away. She’d seen the man slinking off towards the motel. But he wasn’t a guest. There were only three people even staying at the motel, and he wasn’t one of them. And he’d been headed straight for room 7.
Honey’s stomach flipped. She cursed herself now for having drank too much, for being too wasted to notice just how suspicious all that was. She could sense trouble a mile away, but it had been sitting right in her own damn bar and she hadn’t done a thing about it. There was definitely something up with that stranger, and it definitely had something to do with that Gabriella girl.
I told Reign she’d be trouble, Honey thought, her contentment draining away as she tried to put all the pieces together in her mind. The duffel bag, the bruise, the girl, the stranger, Reign…
She’d need coffee if she was going to start working on whatever this was. Loathe to leave the comfort of her bed, not to mention Georgia’s pleasurably soft flesh, she groaned and sat up.
Some day off, she thought sourly, but her irritation was just a façade concealing a pit of worry that was growing in her belly. This wasn’t good. Not at all. Not at all…
17
He was very pleased with himself. He wasn’t the sort of man who generally liked patting himself on the back, but this time he’d really outdone himself. Of course, he wasn’t too proud to tip his hat to luck, which had set him up real pretty this time.
It was lucky that the girl had found her way straight into Reign’s arms. It was lucky that she was running from a situation that he could use to his advantage. He was lucky that her husband seemed a lot more concerned with finding his wife than figuring out how she’d gotten the balls to get away. He was lucky that the cops, the rest of the cops, were only curious about her possible involvement in the hotel murder – they hadn’t yet gotten to the point of putting out a warrant or asking too many questions.
He was lucky in all sorts of ways. And he was a man who knew how to get the most out of his luck.
He sat outside the small, wood-sided house. Cute digs, he thought, noting the happy “welcome” sign hanging on the front door. He also noted the garden, which looked like someone had recently cared for it, but not for a few days. The guy inside that house definitely wasn’t the gardening sort, nor did he seem like the “welcome” sign sort. He seemed like the sort who’d throw a punch as soon as he found a good reason – and that reason could be any reason at all.
He didn’t think that the fact that this Jeremy guy was a cop would impede his mission. This guy wasn’t the sort of cop who did it for noble reasons, protecting and serving and all that. No, Jeremy was just a good old-fashioned bully, and a police uniform gave him the authority to bully people on behalf of the great state of Colorado.
He wouldn’t find it part of his duty to report the man to his buddies on the force. He’d probably be happy as a pig in shit that the man had found him and was offering his very particular services. A one way ticket to Find-Your-Wife-ville. If the guy wasn’t pissed off enough about the girl running off in the first place, he was sure to blow his top once the man told him about her little romance with Reign.
The man opened his car door slowly, in no hurry. He was re-calculating how much he stood to make off this whole fiasco. His payment from the Immortal Soulz, what he could take from the girl’s safe, what he could weasel out of her husband as a finder’s fee. He’d make enough off this one gig to coast him through a few good years in Costa Rica.
And if anyone had a problem with him after it was all said and done, be it the police or the club or the husband, good luck finding him. The man could go ghost better than the best of them. He’d done enough of his own research to know that the Immortal Soulz were savvy, but nowhere near his level of savvy. If they were, they wouldn’t have hired him in the first place, would they?
Climbing the brick steps leading to the front door, the man noticed the curtains shifting slightly. On the lookout, he thought with a grin. Yeah, the guy inside was probably pretty desperate to get his hands around his no-good, shit-for-brains, unappreciative wife. Specifically, her neck.
Before the man could even knock, the door creaked open. A strong, pale, masculine face appeared in the crack. It looked drawn, as though he hadn’t slept in days, fueled by coffee, but still strong and determined.
Almost psychotically determined.
“What do you want?” growled the man in the door. His eyes shot from side to side, as though trying to see if there were other people on his tiny stoop.
“Are you Jeremy Tunnock?” the man asked, unfazed by the crazy look in his subject’s eyes. After a long pause, the face in the door nodded, and the eyes settled on the man, examining him up and down. The man tipped his hat, trying to hide a sardonic smile. Guys like Jeremy were suckers for signs of respect.
“My name is Silas, and I know where your wife is,” the man said simply, flatly. The face in the door shifted; the eyes grew wide, the chin trembled a bit before setting in a firm grimace, the sunken-looking cheeks puffed out slightly, turned reddish.
“Where is she?” Jeremy demanded, his voice rough as sandpaper.
“I rather think we have some things to discuss,” Silas said, taking a step closer. Jeremy, in turn, stepped back slightly, but made quick work of opening the door all the way. He stepped to the side to let Silas pass and stuck his head out, looking both ways, before closing the door once more.
The living area was as cute as the outside, but seemed dark and dim. None of the lights were on, and the curtains were drawn. Throw pillows, tea cozies, framed photographs. Evidence of a happy wife, happy home. Trust not too much appearances, Silas thought.
“How do you know where my wife is? Who are you?” Jeremy demanded, arms crossed, boring holes into the back of Silas’ head as he turned around in the living room, taking note of all the little details. When he was satisfied about committing the important things in the room to memory, he finally met Je
remy’s gaze, the benign smile on his lips a stark contrast to Jeremy’s deadly scowl.
“I’m a man who finds things, does things, for other people, when they can’t do it themselves. And I happened upon your lovely little Gabriella on a job. I thought you might be interested in her whereabouts, and what exactly she’s been up to there,” Silas said patiently. “Shall we discuss this over a drink? Like gentlemen?”
“Just tell me where she is,” Jeremy demanded, his voice so cop-like it almost made Silas laugh. Authority hadn’t scared Silas since he was still eating cereal with a Kermit the Frog spoon. As he’d expected, Jeremy was the type to throw all his punches at the first bell. If Silas didn’t manage to get this guy to understand exactly who was in charge of the situation, he’d likely pull out his Colorado PD-issued gun, and then Silas would have to wrestle it from him and shoot the poor sap. Silas didn’t want anything as messy as all that.
“Well now, I don’t blame you for being impatient, but I really think we ought to try and discuss this in a civilized manner. I’m willing to tell you everything I know – for a small sum, which we can work out over a nice cold beer,” Silas said, clasping his hands around his back and standing up tall and straight. He felt a thrill as Jeremy automatically mimicked his actions, straightening his spine and dropping his arms, clasping them in front of his waist. But Jeremy didn’t verbally respond to the offer, and after a long pause Silas decided he would need to crank the engine a bit.
“I can’t say I pegged you as a teetotaler, but no matter. It doesn’t have to be a beer. A nice cold lemonade would…”
“Shut up,” Jeremy snapped, losing the cool he was trying very hard to maintain. Men with quick tempers hated nothing more than when their anger was met with placidity. It made them feel foolish. “I don’t negotiate with…with…with whatever you are.”
“There’s a first time for everything, my good man. But, if you want, I’ll leave right now and leave you to your own devices. Best of luck to you, friend, in finding your precious wife,” Silas said, unclasping his hands and heading to the door.
“Wait,” Jeremy said, his voice cutting through the room quickly, as though the idea of Silas leaving without giving up the goods incited panic in his heart. Or, more likely, his dignity, Silas thought, smiling as he paused with his hand on the doorknob.
“Whiskey,” Jeremy said, sounding deflated, which was exactly how Silas wanted him to sound. “On the rocks or neat?”
“Neat, if you would be so kind,” Silas said, turning back to face his newest client.
Part III
18
Silas looked over. Pale, red-haired, lanky Jeremy sat white-knuckling the door handle with one hand, his other hand clenched in a fist. He’d been sitting just like that since they’d left Summit County. He looked ready to do some serious business: a total overhaul of his wife’s pretty face.
Silas smiled. He felt a sort of wicked pity for men like Jeremy, middle-school bullies who grew up to be twenty-something bullies, who would just turn into middle-aged bullies, until their train came into the station at a nursing home, all alone, bullying the nurses who had the unfortunate job of giving them sponge baths and wiping the shit from their asses.
Jeremy would experience a few blissful minutes of blind rage while he was unloading onto his wife, then he’d feel as empty and angry and unsatisfied and small as always. Guys like him were a dime a dozen; Silas had come across many an incarnation of Jeremy in his line of work. A few women, too. People who needed Silas’ skills to find their favorite punching bag, or who wanted to be tough but were too damn stupid and weak to get the job done themselves.
After Silas had managed to calm Jeremy down over two glasses of whiskey, the cop had started in with the bullish questions. Silas had answered them as vaguely as he could, which was very vague, indeed.
Who was he? Just a man with a knack for finding people.
What was he doing at Jeremy’s house? Well, they’d already gone over that, hadn’t they?
How did Silas know about Gabriella? He’d come across her on a separate job and wanted to save Jeremy the trouble of finding her himself.
How had he found out where Jeremy lived? A knack for finding people meant finding any people. Even cops. Even people who didn’t know they were being looked for.
When it finally came down to talk business, Jeremy had been cagey, suspicious. Hell, he was still cagey and suspicious. But who cared? At the end of the day, he’d taken the deal Silas had laid on the table. A hefty sum, for sure, just to track down a wife who’d had some good reasons for leaving in the first place.
What had really sealed the deal, though, when Jeremy had been on the fence, his face wavering from pure desire to find Gabriella and frustration at needing Silas’ help in the first place, was Silas’ admission that Gabriella wasn’t just hiding from Jeremy; she was recruiting for his replacement. A hint at what she’d been up to in the few days she’d been gone had been enough to push humpty-dumpty off the wall.
And all the king’s men wouldn’t keep Jeremy from emptying his bank account to get his hands on the man who’d been plowing his wife. Making her smile. Putting some life into those sad, dead eyes of hers. Kissing away all the cuts and scrapes Jeremy had left on her little heart. Doing for her what Jeremy could never do in a million years, even if he’d wanted to. Which, maybe, he did.
Silas had a lot of time to think on the ride, since Jeremy wasn’t much for talking. He was thinking about what made the cop tick. Maybe, just maybe, the poor kid was in such sorry shape because he wanted Gabriella to love him – but didn’t know how to make her. That almost – emphasis on the almost – made him sorry for the sack of shit. Whatever.
Silas didn’t feel bad for Jeremy, not really. Just like he didn’t feel bad for the girl they were on the road to catch. He didn’t feel bad for anyone, except for himself when things weren’t going his way. Which, fortunately, was a rare happening. For example, the way he was playing it now, he was going to be able to get whatever he wanted for a few years to come.
His thoughts drifted away from Jeremy and returned to his new favorite hobby: counting up the amount of money he’d be driving away with in a few days. And where he’d go with it. And what he’d do. Maybe buy himself a nice little thing to entertain for the night, take her to some fancy dinner, then give her his special brand of tough love in a five-star hotel.
Maybe he’d skip the girl and go straight for the border by way of the Florida Keys, hop on a ship to Turks and Caicos and get properly toasted on primo Caribbean hash and rum on the rocks. He smiled, forgetting all about the man fuming beside him. Silas never indulged until he finished the job at hand; he’d go months without a drop of alcohol (unless the job called for it, as this one had), a toke, a snort of white lightning, a warm pussy on his lap, or any other indulgence.
Then, when payday came around, he’d stock a reasonable amount away and blow through the rest like a tornado rolling through the Grain Belt. He’d saved a nice little nest egg for himself, but he was getting tired of going from job to job. He liked his work, but he liked not working even better. This gig right here…well, he’d have enough to save for a rainy day and a nice, long, multi-year vacation, as well.
He was humming again, unconsciously. He only noticed when Jeremy brought it to his attention, the cop snapping his head around faster than a nasty schoolmarm who’d seen one of her students passing a note in class.
“What the hell are you humming?” Jeremy snapped, eyes narrowed. Silas didn’t turn to look at him. That would only taunt the bull, and Silas knew the best matador was the one who made it out of the ring alive.
“Just a little tune been stuck in my head for a few days. You know it? Goes like this?” Silas hummed louder, the song that had been playing in his head recently, an old Dylan tune called “You Ain’t Going Nowhere”.
“I know it. That’s one of my favorite songs. Gabriella’s too,” Jeremy growled, but the growl sounded forced and sad. Jesus Christ, kid,
you are one sorry piece of shit, Silas thought.
“Does it bother you, buddy?” Silas asked, his tone neutral.
“I’m not your buddy, and yes it does. Very much so,” Jeremy said, now looking back out the passenger side window. Silas noted, out of the corner of his eye that his client’s hand had unfurled, no longer a fist. Now he sat his hand on his knee, palm-down. Silas guessed there would be some distinctive crescent moons carved into Jeremy’s palm from the way he’d been clenching throughout the whole trip.
He wondered how long it would take before Jeremy went back into Rambo-mode.
Not long, he guessed. And he was right; fifteen minutes later, that hand was a fist once more, whiter and tighter than ever. Silas kept his vocal chords quiet, but the song still played in his head.
…buy me a flute and a gun that shoots
tailgates and substitutes
strap yourself to the tree with roots
you ain’t goin’ nowhere…
19
“Well…I mean…it’s got four wheels and an engine…I guess that’s really…all I need?” I chewed my lip as I stared down at the little junker that the old man had proudly driven around the corner and parked before me.
I couldn’t tell if it was the color it was because of the rust, the dust, or because it was supposed to be that color. A very faded and half-unreadable logo indicated that the car had, at one time, been a Ford, though I doubted the company would be willing to take ownership of it in the shape it was in. The tires, at least, looked new-ish. A dented passenger-side door, a missing handle on the back driver’s side door, and a crack in the rearview that would put a plumber to shame completed the perfect aura of “total shit” that the car gave off.
“Ayup, it’ll run ya where ya need to go, but she ain’t no looker, that’s for damn sure,” Frankie, the dealer, said, finishing with a healthy spit of chewing tobacco juice onto the desert dust.
