Kiss of Wrath

by Sandra Hill

She turned and gave him a look that would melt concrete.

  “Or mayhap not.”

  Once she was gone, and Ruff had gone back to his rug in the kitchen, Jack said, “Actually, there’s a reason I stopped by. Do you know some guy named Roger Jessup?”

  Bad and badder . . .

  “The trouble with you, Rog, is that you haven’t thought this thing through,” Clarence said, and cracked his knuckles . . . his new favorite, irritating habit.

  “That’s all I’ve done. Think.” And no action.

  He’d gone to Miranda’s neighborhood every day and hadn’t found a way to gain entry to her house without setting off alarms. He was a master electrician and probably could have figured out a way to bypass the alarm system given enough time and access, neither of which he had.

  He had managed to see his kids playing in the yard, but only from a distance. He’d discovered, also via binoculars, that some big blond dude was living there in his house, probably nailing the bitch in front of his kids. And, yes, he thought of it as his house since it had no doubt been purchased with his money from the sale of his house. Not to mention the big-ass, expensive Lexus SUV that came and went. Also probably purchased with his money.

  It was enough to make his blood boil.

  Clarence cracked his knuckles. Again. He was standing in front of the mirror on the wall between the kitchenette and living room, admiring the fake diamond earrings in the ears he’d had pierced yesterday. He thought he looked cool ever since he’d starting wearing Lamar’s clothing, but Roger thought he looked like a bad Hollywood caricature of a black ghetto pimp. A long-sleeved, red nylon shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, tucked into hip-hugging black pants, and of course the requisite gold chains around his neck.

  “You gotta think like a criminal, Rog.” Clarence turned away from the mirror. “No pussyfootin’ around, worryin’ ’bout this or that possibility. Jump right in, guns blazin’.”

  Crack, crack, crack.

  “Take me, fer instance,” Clarence said. “I decided that Vegas was the place for me to settle down. Pimpin’ was a job that suited me just fine. But my cuz Lamar was becomin’ a royal pain-in-the-ass . . . get it, Vegas, royal flush, royal pain. Ha, ha, ha!” Crack, crack, crack. “So, I eliminated my cuz and now I’m king of the roost.” He beamed at Roger, as if he’d accomplished some great feat.

  Roger assumed that Clarence had killed Lamar, but he hadn’t asked for details. All he knew was that Lamar was missing and Clarence—who smelled more and more like lemons these days, which was better than his prior B.O.—had taken over the pimping business. Roger was handling the accounting, such as it was. Scheduling which hooker went to what corner, and raking in the cash, which Clarence kept in a safe bolted to the floor in the hall closet.

  The only good thing in this mess that had become his life was that Roger had ordered one of the whores, Carlotta, to clean up the apartment and keep it clean. Carlotta had even called in an exterminator to get rid of the cockroaches, which had infuriated the pizza operator on the ground level because apparently the roaches up here scurried on down there. To which Carlotta had said, “Go suck your own dick, Luigi.”

  Carlotta, overaged for a hooker at thirty, was grateful for work that didn’t involve lying on her back with her legs spread. Actually, he kind of liked Carlotta, and not just because she gave a good blow job. She knew his history and sympathized over his anger toward Miranda. “The bitch needs to pay,” Carlotta had said more than once in the midst of licking his balls. Yeah, you had to appreciate a good woman.

  “What would you suggest?” Roger asked Clarence.

  Clarence flashed him a sly glance and went to the freezer to get himself a glass of ice, over which he poured his usual Pepsi.

  Roger barely stifled a groan. The next half hour would be filled with cracking and crunching,

  “Let me see that picture again,” Clarence said. Crunch, crunch, crack, crack.

  Roger knew which picture he meant. It was a photo of Miranda in their backyard playing croquet or some shit game with his kids, all five of them. It had been taken with a zoom lens from the upper floor of a vacant house for sale a half block away.

  “Here’s the first thing you need to decide,” proffered the all-wise Clarence, or so he thought he was. Crunch, crunch, crack, crack. “What are you gonna do with five kids once you off Miranda?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you want custody of your kids?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, sure.”

  “Where would you live?”

  “In that house . . . my house,” he said tentatively. “Or I could sell it and move somewhere else.”

  “You’re assuming the court would give you custody.”

  “Sure. Why not? I’m the father. With Miranda no longer around, why wouldn’t they?”

  Clarence shrugged, not so certain, but then Clarence was skeptical about the fairness of the court system. Roger was, too.

  “What are you getting at, Clarence?”

  “Be honest, bro. What you’d really like is Miranda out of the way, the kids in foster care, and you with the cash to do whatever you want, probably far from Vegas. Seriously, some men are made to be fathers. I don’t see you caring that much about your kids.”

  Clarence was probably right, but Roger didn’t like his pointing out his shortcomings.

  “It’s no crime not to be wanting snot-nosed kids hanging on you for the rest of yer life. And they cost a shitload of money to raise. Clothes, food, all that crap.”

  “It’s just that my wife turned the kids against me. All I had to do was holler and they jumped to her defense. Hard to love children who don’t love you back.”

  Clarence nodded. “Here’s the deal. I can take care of Miranda for you. They’d never find her body or be able to trace her disappearance to you. Child protective services would be on your family like flies on a manure pile, taking your kids away, unless you decide to fight for them. You’d get the house and car and money to go off for a new start somewheres else. Maybe the Bahamas. Yeah, that would be cool. Sun, beach, hot women, no kids.”

  That sounded incredibly good to Roger, who wanted desperately to escape from this shithole of an apartment and shithole of a life. A new beginning, that’s what he wanted. But he also knew that Clarence wouldn’t do this for nothing.

  He looked up at Clarence, who’d stopped crunching and cracking. The icy expression on his face chilled Roger, who should have been accustomed to Clarence’s mood swings by now. He was a schizo just waiting to happen.

  “What would it cost for you to do this ‘favor’ for me?”

  “A ‘date.’ I want you to set me up on a ‘date.’ ”

  “With Miranda?” Roger asked incredulously.

  “Hell no. With yer daughter.”

  “What?” Roger was shocked. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Maggie’s only ten years old.”

  “Not that one,” Clarence said with absolutely no shame. “The other one.” He walked over and tapped a fingertip on the photograph, dead center on his five-year-old daughter, Linda.

  “You are one sick bastard,” Roger said before he had a chance to curb his tongue.

  “Yeah, but I’m the sick bastard who can save yer lily-white ass a whole lot of trouble. Besides, you’re a wife beater who wants to murder someone. Who’s the sick bastard here?” He flicked a fingertip against Roger’s ear as he passed by on his way to the doorway, where he picked up one of Lamar’s old Panama hats from the coatrack. “And, by the way, you have until tomorrow to decide, or get the fuck out of here. Find another place to freeload. George and Ginette are looking fer a place.”

  George and Ginette were a weird couple that Clarence had become chummy with. Sometimes they were practically movie-star gorgeous with great clothes and pleasing personalities. Other times they appeared to have fangs and a rotten egg smell about them. The creepy thing was, they wanted Clarence to let them suck his blood, just a little. In fact, Roger had awa
kened one night to find Ginette in bed with him, naked, trying to fang his neck. She’d even gotten a little bite in before he’d managed to shove her out of the bed.

  The door slammed behind Clarence.

  Roger just stared at the closed door. He needed to get out of this place.

  But how could he “sell” his own child?

  Roger thought it over and realized he had no particular fondness or bond with the little girl, even if she was his own blood. It was the idea of a grown man having sexual activity with a child that grossed him out, and there was no doubt that was what Clarence had in mind when he mentioned a “date.”

  But what could it hurt if it was only for one night? Would that be so bad? Over and done with in a matter of hours. Maybe they could slip the kid a roofie or something, and she wouldn’t suffer too much.

  No, he couldn’t do it. There had to be another way.

  Rubbing the mosquito bite on his neck that was still itchy, Roger pondered the situation. Maybe he could pretend to Clarence that he was willing. Wait for him to kill that damn Miranda, then renege on the deal. Of course, the only way that would work would be if Roger then killed Clarence, too. Now, there was an idea that held some appeal.

  Roger had a lot to think about.

  But, first, he had a sudden yearning for a glass of lemonade.

  Sixteen

  The Energizer Bunny had nothing on them . . .

  The following day was a Sunday, so Miranda was home all day.

  Despite her mortification over Mordr’s brothers and the cross-dressing neighbor seeing her post-sex, Miranda couldn’t stay mad at Mordr.

  She was insatiable. Mordr was insatiable. Together they were like a pair of sex-starved rabbits. She swore she would be walking bowlegged to work the next day. Mordr swore his cock would be worn down to a nubbin.

  Even with five sets of curious eyes, they managed to have sex every other hour. The key was finding a place to be alone, which they managed. Boy, did they manage! In the laundry room on top of the washing machine during the spin cycle. In her office with him on the desk chair and her kneeling on the floor. In her office with Mordr taking her on top of the desk, from behind. Near-sex in the shed when she’d gone out to search for some clay pots; Ruff had interrupted what he must have considered a game; he’d wanted to play, too. They were saving the den recliner for later.

  Mordr had tried to talk the kids—okay, bribe the kids—into taking a nap to recover from their long time in the sun the previous day . . . to recharge their batteries, so to speak. They’d looked at him like he’d lost his mind. They were children. They didn’t need to recharge anything, their energy supply being endless.

  Fortunately, or not so fortunately, Darla showed up late in the afternoon. To return a blouse she’d borrowed last week, she said, but really in hopes of catching a glimpse of one of the Viking studs Miranda kept telling her about. No such luck! The men were gone for now, except for Mordr.

  After pouring two iced glasses of sweet tea, Miranda went out on the patio to chat with Darla.

  The children were down in the basement, which Miranda used for a storage area, never having gotten around to renovating the space. Mordr had cleared one part of the large room between their bouts of sex today and somehow managed to have a Ping-Pong table delivered on a Sunday. The kids and Mordr were engaged in a tournament at the moment. He’d suggested that he and Miranda play strip Ping-Pong later. Like strip poker, but more energetic.

  That energy thing again!

  “So, I take it that your undercover bodyguard is doing a good job,” Darla said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Emphasis on undercover.”

  No use trying to hide anything from her good friend. Darla knew her too well. “An excellent job. Above and beyond.”

  “Don’t you mean above and below?”

  “You are bad, Darla.”

  “And he knows his way around the bedsheets?”

  Miranda rolled her eyes.

  “That good?”

  “Oh. My. God!” That’s all she would say on the subject, but Darla got her drift.

  “And he has brothers?”

  “Six, but only three of them eligible.”

  “Three is enough.” Darla sipped at her tea, then spoke again. “No more threats from Roger?”

  “Nothing direct.” She told Darla about the neighbor who found a van parked in her driveway with the occupants watching Miranda’s house. And then, last night, Jack Trixson mentioned rumors were circulating on the Strip about some really vile character named Clarence, a new pimp on the street, who was talking about a hit he was going to perform for his good friend Roger. Miranda’s name had come up.

  What kind of criminal announced his crime ahead of time? An inept one, she concluded, but even inept criminals could be dangerous.

  Mordr had advised Jack to take a vacation this week, that it wasn’t safe to be in the city over the next few days. When Jack had asked him to elaborate, Mordr refused but emphasized, “Trust me.”

  “If this is true, shouldn’t I be warning other people? My boss? Other members of our dance revue?”

  Mordr had shaken his head. “I’m already out of line telling you of the threat.”

  “Must be terrorists,” Jack had muttered, and Mordr had not bothered to correct him. In a way, they were the same thing.

  Miranda felt the need to do the same favor for Darla. “I want you to take a leave from work this week, Darla. Come and stay here with me.”

  “Three’s a crowd, honey.”

  “Crowds R Us. There are already seven of us here, and people coming and going like a revolving door at Macy’s.”

  “I don’t understand why you would warn me away from the city. Roger has no bone to pick with me. I doubt he even knows we’re friends.”

  “It’s not just Roger. Something bad is going down in Vegas any day now, and take my word on it . . . you don’t want to be around.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me what this something bad is?”

  Miranda shook her head. She wished she could tell Darla about the vangels and the Lucipires and the whole St. Michael the Archangel business, but she’d promised Mordr that she would say nothing. Besides, Darla would never believe her. Miranda wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

  Mordr opened the sliding glass door to the kitchen and, without greeting, addressed Darla, “Did you bring a weapon with you? Can you stay for a few hours until I get back?” He had a high-tech cell phone in hand and appeared to have just finished a call. “I need to go out, but I can’t leave Miranda and the children without protection.”

  “Uh, I’m standing right here,” Miranda said.

  “I know you are, sweetling.” He leaned down and kissed her smack on the lips before turning back to Darla, whose mouth had dropped open at such open affection. His kiss must seem like a declaration of some sort, but Miranda knew better. It was just Mordr getting horny again.

  Darla clicked her jaw shut. “Yes, I have a pistol in the glove compartment of my car, and I can stay as long as you need me. Is it Roger? Jeez, I’d love to nab the creep myself. A bullet to his family jewels, for a start.” She made a gun with her forefinger and thumb. “Bam, bam!”

  Mordr fought a grin at Darla’s bloodthirstiness. “No, it’s not Roger this time. Leastways, I do not think it is. This is another danger.”

  Darla exchanged a quick glance with Miranda.

  “I do not think there is any threat out here in the suburbs, but do not take any chances. Keep all the doors and windows locked. Open to no one.”

  “Except for you and your brothers, right?” Miranda asked.

  “Not even for us.”

  The implication was they could teletransport inside, if need be. Oh boy!

  “Keep your weapon at hand at all times, preferably on your person. Miranda can give you a shirt or something to hide it from the children.”

  “Wow! You’re really serious about this danger, aren’t you?”

  “Serious as si
n.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me jackshit about what’s going on. I don’t like being kept out of the loop when my person and that of my friends and associates are in peril.”

  “It has to be that way.”

  “Sort of like, if you told me, you’d have to kill me.”

  “Exactly like.” He waggled his eyebrows at Darla to confuse her about whether he was serious or not.

  After giving Darla more instructions, Mordr flicked his fingers for Miranda to follow him upstairs. Under normal circumstances, she would tell him what he could flick, but he added, “Come, talk to me while I change my clothes, sweetling.”

  Sweetling? Darla mouthed at her, but Miranda suspected that, despite the endearment, Mordr had something else in mind.

  Man in Black. Cloak and weapons. “I thought this was supposed to happen tomorrow night.”

  “Schedule change. Jasper and his demon vampires will be gone by midnight.”

  Once they were upstairs, he shut the door behind them and tossed her onto the bed before she could blink. He spread her legs and knelt between her knees.

  “I thought you were in a hurry.” Men! she mused. Even in the midst of impending danger, or perhaps because of impending danger, they had to have one last roll in the hay.

  He pulled his T-shirt up and over his head, tossing it over his shoulder. “I have a half hour. I can be reclothed in three minutes. That leaves me twenty-seven minutes with nothing to do. Any suggestions?”

  “Not as many as you have, I’ll bet.”

  “You have no idea.” He pulled the claw comb from her hair and spread the tresses out over the pillow. Mordr had developed a liking for wavy red hair.

  What could she say? She’d developed a liking for grim Vikings.

  “So many things I want to do to you,” he murmured. “So many things I want to show you.”

  “How about the things I want to do to you?”

  He smiled. “I haven’t even shown you the Viking S-spot yet.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Or doggie sex.”

  “Uh.”

  She loved this playful side to Mordr. But he was scaring her a little bit, too. Like time was running out and he was trying to cram in all the memories he could. She’d known theirs was not going to be a long-term relationship. Still . . .