Out of Control (14 page)

She clenched around him as he slowly withdrew his hand from between her legs.

“Don't worry, I'll put it back whenever you want. I just had to know how you tasted.” He lifted his hand to his face and licked his fingers. “Sweet and juicy,” he murmured, his voice husky. “I want to put my head between your legs and never come up for air.”

She avoided responding by fishing around awkwardly for the ends of her bra. She struggled to refasten it over her breasts. They seemed bigger, swollen and hot and sensitive, abraded by his beard stubble. She finally managed to yank her tank top down. She took a deep breath and forced herself to say it. “Do you, ah, want to make love to me?”

The quavery, high-pitched sound of her voice embarrassed her, and she hated that she'd used the word “love.” She should've asked if he wanted to have sex. Do the nasty. Even fuck. None of these more accurate terms would come out of her mouth. She felt too vulnerable tonight for words with such a harsh edge of reality. She was such a sentimental, girly, romantic wuss. She never learned. Never.

He stroked the tops of her naked thighs. “You'll come back to my place with me?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean here. Now. In your truck. I would do it. If you…if you wanted me, I mean.”

He laughed. “Of course I want you. Let's at least go into your—”

“No,” she said hastily. “I don't like the way I feel in there.”

He was silent for a long moment. Bad sign. She started feeling nervous, self-conscious. Ashamed for being so needy and desperate.

“Three things,” he said finally. “One, I've got no condoms. You?”

Oh. Yeah. That. She'd lived like a nun for so long, she'd forgotten the ABC's of modern sex. She let out a disgusted sigh. “No.”

“Two, Snakey's out there somewhere, and I'd rather have a couple of good locks between us and him, if we let down our guard that much. And three…” He brushed her hair off her cheek, a tender gesture that made her breath catch. “You said ‘no' earlier this evening. You sounded like you meant it. I didn't mean to pressure you into having sex with me tonight. I just wanted you to know how great we could be together.”

“You did. Oh, God, you did,” she said fervently. “I'm destroyed.”

“You were really pissed at me, for my kinky proposal. If we had sex now, you might get weird about it. Throw it back in my face the next time you get mad at me. Which is liable to be soon. I want to get this right.” He paused for a moment, and added, “But I still think you should come home with me. That hasn't changed.”

It's now or never, you goddamn tease
, she wanted to shriek.

Here she was, a writhing chaos of lust, and he just sat there, holding her bare naked bottom right on top of his huge hard-on, talking about self-control. Trying to impress her. Dolt.

In any other circumstances, she would be impressed. She would be charmed, disarmed, all that good stuff. Just not tonight, poised on the edge of doom. She was losing out on what promised to be the most exciting experience of her life because Davy McCloud just had to be a rightous dude at all costs.

Something had to be done. This was not to be borne.

She scrambled off his lap and onto her own seat, yanking her jeans up over her bottom. He gasped, startled, as she reached out to stroke the length of his erection. Mmm. Long and hard. Very nice.

Good. That was progress. Startling Davy McCloud was no mean feat. By the time she was done with him, he would be more than startled. She wrenched his belt buckle open, attacked his buttons.

By the time she was done with him, he would be dumbfounded.

“Margot.” His voice was ragged. “Hey. Wait. You don't have to—”

“Would you please, please just shut up?” She shoved his jeans down. She slid her hand into his briefs until she got a grip on him.

Oh. Wow. He was very hard, hot and throbbing in her hand. Bigger than she'd fantasized, and her fantasies had been extravagant.

It had been a long time, and God knows she'd never dealt with a male member on this order of magnitude. But tonight, she felt inspired.

“Lift up your butt so I can slide your jeans down,” she ordered.

He obediently lifted his hips. “Margot—”

“Go on, beg me to stop,” she challenged him, jerking his jeans down to mid-thigh. “I dare you.”

His burst of ironic laughter broke off into a shuddering groan as she seized his thick, hot shaft and stroked it. Thick and blunt and velvety hot, ridged with veins, she memorized it in the dark with her hands and wished she had more light to see him properly.

“Wow. You're aggressive,” he said.

Something went cold inside her. “Does that turn you off?”

He covered her hands with his own, and closed them tightly around his throbbing member. “Do I feel turned off to you?”

“Uh, no,” she admitted. “But guys are weird. Delicate creatures. You never know what will freak them out.”

“I'm not a delicate creature.” He dragged her clutching fists roughly up and down the length of his penis. “But I'm aggressive too, you know. Does that freak you out?”

“It would be awfully unfair of me if it did, wouldn't it?” she retorted. “I guess it just means we'd fight a lot in bed.”

“I'm bigger,” he said, his voice breathless and rough. He rotated her hand around the swollen glans, spreading his pre-come until the thick bulb was slippery and wet. “I'd win.”

“There are weapons other than brute strength, you overgrown galoot,” she informed him loftily. “Big's not everything, you know.”

“But big is good. You like big. Right?”

She laughed as she leaned over, inhaling the warm scent of him. “Don't be vain,” she murmured. “It's unbecoming. Good Lord, Davy. I mean, really. This thing of yours is a little excessive, don't you think?”

“Sorry.” The word strangled off into a sharp gasp as she milked him boldly. “It just…uh, grew that way.”

She bent lower over his lap. “Oh, I'm not complaining.” She gripped the thick root of him firmly in her fist and licked a salty drop of his pre-come off the tip, with a warm, lavish swipe of her tongue. She loved the tremors that racked him, his ragged gasps of pleasure.

She couldn't fit much of him into her mouth, but she wasn't discouraged. She just shimmied around on the seat, searching for a more comfortable position, and settled in to drive him out of his head, swirling her lips and tongue around the head of his penis while she stroked its entire length. Slow, deep and hard. She would teach him what aggressive was about. The man would never be the same again.

He gasped, clutching her head. Helpless, just like he had been in her barbarian queen fantasy. It was a wild turn-on to make a man as powerful and self-possessed as Davy McCloud was writhe under her caressing hands, her teasing mouth.

“Stop,” he directed her. “Slow down, or I'll come right now. And I want more. I want this to last.”

Hmm, not the words or tone of an abject love slave, but whatever. She was so turned on, she wasn't inclined to complain, and besides, she liked his self-control. It boded well for when he used that excellent thing of his to please her. If it fit at all, which was anyone's guess.

She was leaving tonight. Don't forget. This is it
.
No next time.

She shoved that painful thought angrily away. The cab of the truck was too cramped, too small. She wanted to flail around, she wanted to come again, she wanted to be naked with him inside her.

It wasn't fair, that this was all she got. It made her furious.

“Hey. Slow down,” he warned her again. “Margot…oh, God—”

She ignored him this time, tightened her grip, deepened her strokes. Faster, harder. She ran this show, damn it. She said when.

He convulsed, and spurted his come into her mouth. Hot, pulsing spasms that went on and on. His fists were tangled in her hair, holding her fast against him as his pleasure coursed through him.

He leaned back against the seat, panting. Speechless.

Margot sat up slowly, and swallowed the hot, salty liquid. It burned in her throat, the raw, sharp male taste of sex that she only could bring herself to swallow when she was totally ga-ga in love—and about to get shafted, since the two things were inseparably linked.

She wiped her mouth. Better not to think about that.

Davy slid his pants up over his hips, tucked himself inside, buttoned up, buckled his belt. Little sounds sounded loud in the quiet darkness. He turned to look at her. She couldn't see his face, but she still couldn't bear his scrutiny. She felt as if she were slowly shrinking.

“Uh, Margot? You OK?” His voice was low, nervous and wary.

It was obvious, then. She couldn't hide the feelings crashing down on her. The fear and shame. The sickening anger.

She'd wanted such normal things out of life. Nothing fancy. Work she liked. Career challenges. Good friends, good times. To cuddle on the couch with a guy who thought she was special. And maybe, if she got super lucky, she could have the whole family cliché. Car seats littered with cookie crumbs. A stodgy minivan. Being part of something real and deep and sweet. Not shoved off to the side, forever out of bounds, looking in the window with big, sad, puppy dog eyes.

She'd tried so hard for it. Hoped so hard.

And what did she have? Mikey. A dingy little sublet. Snakey the Sicko Maniac. Grisly memories that wouldn't let her sleep. A crappy fake identity that wouldn't hold up to the most casual scrutiny. Low-paying, mind-numbing jobs that she couldn't even seem to hang on to. A beater car with a knock under the hood, perilously low on gas.

To add insult to injury, when she finally did find a man who rang all her bells, all he wanted was a convenient, undemanding bed partner that he could dismiss when he got bored. And she was so lonely and desperate, she was actually falling for it. She would attack a guy and give him a blow job in his truck because she was afraid to watch him drive away. She was pathetic. As much of a whore as he probably thought she was.

Self-loathing yawned wide inside her like a cold, aching wound. She opened the door, slid out.

“That ought to cover your costs up to now,” she said.

She slammed the door shut and ran to the car to retrieve Mikey.

I
t took all of three seconds for the top to blast off his fury and break his stunned paralysis.

He slammed out of the truck. Something had broken wide open inside him. He had no idea what he was going to do, nor did he give a shit. He caught up with her as she was jamming her key into the front door, and grabbed her around the waist from behind.

She squawked, and tried to twist away. “Davy, for God's sake—”

“Where the fuck did that come from?”

She tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he immobilized her arms. She flung her head back, her eyes panicked. “Let go of me!”

“No,” he snarled. “Explain yourself. I did not deserve that!”

“Oh, no? After suggesting that I exchange sexual favors for goods and services, you get up on your high horse and—”

“Oh, Christ, I thought we were past that. And I never implied that I thought you were a prostitute!”

“OK. You're right, I'm wrong, I apologize. It was a snotty thing to say. I take it back. Now would you please stop squashing my rib cage?”

“You think a snide, half-assed apology like that makes it better? You tear down all my defenses, turn me into fucking mush, and then lob a grenade right in my face. I did not deserve that, Margot!”

She looked down, and her hair fell forward over her flushed face. “I said I was sorry,” she said, more quietly. “I meant it.”

“And I'm still mad,” he said.

She wrestled herself around in the circle of his arms until she was facing him. “What would it take to make you not mad, damn it?”

He stared down at her trembling lips, at the lush press of her breasts against his chest in the low cut tank top. “Oh, I think maybe fucking you hard for about six hours would take the edge off.”

She recoiled so violently, she broke his grip and stumbled back. “You pig! I'm not the only one who lobs grenades. Get out. Go!”

She shoved the door open, shooed Mikey in. She tried to slam the door in Davy's face, but he blocked it with his foot. “Wait,” he said.

“For what? To get insulted again?” She kicked at his boot with the tip of her high-tops. “Get your enormous foot out of my house and get lost. Permanently. Asshole.” Her voice shook with anger.

He leaned on the door and forced it open slowly against her weight. “Margot, don't. I shouldn't have said that.”

She made a helpless, frustrated sound as he stepped into her house. He caught her in two steps, pulling her tight against his body, and pressed his lips against her neck. “I shouldn't have said that,” he repeated. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Then stop acting scary!” she yelled. “Let go of me!”

His arms tightened, involuntarily. “Forgive me first.”

“Yeah, and what liberties does that entitle you to? Besides, you wouldn't forgive me when I apologized.”

“Yours wasn't a real apology. It was bullshit. But I'll forgive you if you forgive me,” he offered.

“Oh. So we're back to economic exchanges. I give you this, you give me that. Stop muscling me around, you big…stupid…
ape!
”

“Margot. Please. I'm bending over backwards here. If you—”

“No, you're bending me over frontwards, you oversexed moron. Stop it this instant.” She batted at his arms, still locked around her. “OK, fine! I forgive you! Now let go of me! Now! I mean it, buddy.”

He let his arms drop. He was irrationally afraid to let go, as if she would vanish into the dark if he dared to relax his grip. He flipped on the hall overhead light to chase the menacing shadows away.

He felt the change instantly. His photographic memory had stamped every detail of the place into his brain. Something was missing.

The flower fairy calendar. The nail it had hung on stuck out of the scarred wall, empty. He looked into her bedroom. The light spilling in from the hall revealed that her bedding was gone. Nothing was on the floor but her crumpled waitress uniform. He strode into the room and yanked open her closet. Empty. He pulled open her drawer. Nothing.

The rage that had just started to simmer down bubbled back up again. He turned to face her. “Going somewhere?”

Her face tightened miserably. “Davy—”

“Nice of you to say goodbye.” The words felt bitter in his mouth.

She hugged her chest. “We've known each other for twenty-four hours,” she said. “You're acting like you've got a say in my life.”

“I know,” he said. “I don't have any say. Believe me, I know that.”

It was just like with Fleur, he realized, sickened. He'd fallen into the same fucking trap. Fleur had been dead set on destroying herself. Nothing could stop her from it. Certainly not him.

Fury was giving way to misery, a feeling so huge and dark, it horrified him. He'd built a fortress inside himself to guard against this feeling, and Margot Vetter blew it full of holes without even trying.

It was dragging him down. The awful futility of trying to save someone when there was no saving them. No point. No hope.

Stuck in three feet of snow, tires spinning while Dad roared useless instructions and Mom got paler and paler as the life drained out of her.

Oh, no. Not this. Not now. Please, not now.

His small, white hands clutching the wheel, stretching his foot out desperately to reach the clutch.

Blood all over the seat, the floor, the gearshift. Blood everywhere.

Oh, Christ, make it stop. It had been years, and now was not the time for it to start up again. He pressed his hands against his eyes until they hurt, red and black alternately pulsing in his inner vision, and deliberately replacing the stress flashback with emptiness.

Calm, blank, zero. The blinding white emptiness of the North Pole, the frigid black emptiness of outer space. Codes, numbers, logic.

Slowly, it eased down, and he started breathing again. His heart was still tripping over itself, his face damp and cold.

He let his hands drop, but he couldn't bear to open his eyes for a long moment. He felt exhausted. And ashamed. The woman had enough problems of her own. It wasn't fair to burden her with his demons, too.

“Forget about it,” he said dully. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

Her eyes were very big. “It's OK,” she said cautiously. “I—”

“Don't.” The word came out of him with a savage force that made her flinch. He put his hands up. “Please. I don't want to hear it. I'm gone. I won't bother you again. Good luck with…with whatever.”

She was crying again, and it was his fault, but he had no comfort left to give. He walked past her without looking at her.

He saw it gleaming in the porch light as soon as he jerked the door open. It swung back and forth off the bottom of the clanking wind chimes. The golden snake pendant. Not his business, not his problem, but it was just too unexpectedly weird not to comment upon. He turned back.

“Did you put that snake thing out there on your wind chimes?”

Margot lunged at the door with a gasp. She stopped short, clutching the door frame for support. Her face went dead white.

 

Faris's blood buzzed with killing euphoria, and a good thing, too, because Pantani's dead weight was hard to handle. It took all Faris's considerable strength to heave, wrestle and fold the corpse into the smallish freezer. It was doable, though. Every bone in the man's body was shattered, which rendered him uniquely flexible, despite his bulk.

The trailing smear of blood that led to the freezer was seeded with hairs and carpet fibers from McCloud's house. The whiskey bottle and shot glasses with McCloud's prints on them were the perfect final touch.

Faris felt much better now. All the pent-up frustrations of the past months had gone into this. The frozen pizzas, ice cream bars, steaks and plastic baggies of various recreational drugs were all melting together into a soggy mess across the bloody kitchen floor.

His cell phone vibrated. Marcus. Faris peeled a hand out of the bloody plastic glove, his heart speeding. If Marcus knew what he was up to, he would be furious. No matter how careful Faris was, Marcus preferred to pilot his brother's kills personally. “Yes?” he responded.

“I have a new job for you,” his brother said.

Tears of relief welled into Faris's eyes. Marcus wasn't calling to punish him this time. At least not yet. “I'm ready,” he said.

“Driscoll's out of the picture now. Priscilla's got a new lab director. He's arriving in Seattle tonight. Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, yes,” Faris assured him. “Tell me. I'll repeat it back to you.”

“Good,” Marcus murmured. “Very good, Faris.”

Marcus explained what he needed. Faris recorded every word, just as he'd learned to do in the memory exercises they'd conducted when he was a little kid. Marcus had taught Faris how to expand his memory capacity. Marcus had used electric shocks when Faris was forgetful back in the old days, but Faris didn't need shocks to remember things now. He repeated every detail back to Marcus when he finished.

“You have to come home immediately,” Marcus said afterwards. “We have to step up the pace. Priscilla is leaving this week, and she's anxious to see you back on your choke chain.”

“Bitch,” Faris muttered. “Why you won't let me just—”

“Because my plan is much more profitable.” Marcus's voice was stern. “My plan is to destroy her and make hundreds of millions of dollars in the process. Think bigger, Faris. You're too focused.”

Faris looked down at the blood-soaked rubber glove. He giggled. “I suppose. But I would love to make her bleed.”

“Have you been making unauthorized kills for your own enjoyment, Faris?” Marcus's voice turned suspicious.

Faris shrank into his bulky plastic raincoat. Marcus always knew. Sometimes Faris lay awake at night wondering if Marcus was a mind reader. All knowing. Like Santa Claus. Making his list and checking it twice, and Faris was always the naughty one. Always punished.

He dragged in a breath and held it inside himself to keep from whimpering, an old trick from when he was little. “I'm being careful.”

“Careful's not good enugh,” Marcus said. “I've been putting together this plan for years. Remember all the time and money that has gone into it when you go off on your selfish tangents.”

Faris's killing euphoria drained away at the rebuke in Marcus's voice. “I'm sorry,” he said, in a tiny little boy voice.

“So you should be. Speaking of sorry, have you made any progress with the Callahan woman?”

“I'm monitoring her,” Faris said hastily. “I have a plan.”

“You haven't even taken her yet?” Marcus's voice took on that soft tone that made Faris's bowels loosen. “Faris, you idiot. If we don't get that mold before Priscilla leaves, you know what will happen. Failure.”

“Failure is unacceptable.” Faris's voice was almost robotic.

“Get her tonight, either before or after you take care of Haight. I don't care which, as long as you don't let her wander away like a stray cat the way you did last time. Tonight. And bring her to me. Instantly.”

“Tonight,” Faris repeated obediently. “I won't fail. I'll get her.”

“If I don't hear Callahan's voice on your cell phone tonight, I will conclude that you're not fit for this job. I've already mobilized LeRoy and Karel. They can handle Callahan, if you can't. She's very beautiful, isn't she? They will be enthusiastic to do their part in convincing her to collaborate. Karel in particular, I'm sure. He's a man of appetite, hmm?”

The thought of those filthy, hateful goons putting their hairy paws on his angel made him panic. “But you can't! Karel and LeRoy are—”

“Do not contradict me,” Marcus said. “Get to work.”

The cell phone clicked shut. Faris gulped back a rush of bile in his throat. He rocked back and forth until he calmed down enough to register the taste in his mouth. Bitter, metallic. Blood and plastic.

His own bloody thumb, still encased in the plastic glove, was stuck into his mouth. He was sucking on it.