Quartet

By V. P. Trick

As Chief homicide detective, Chris had his hands full leading his men. The job was no picnic, but his team ran like a well-oiled machine. Well, except for those incompetents Central has just dumped on him. With years on the force, Chris hadn’t made friends with everyone, and someone at Central was making him pay times four. He was getting too old for the job. Thank God Patricia had abandoned her filing clerk stint. Although, knowing her, the damn woman would have had ideas on how to get rid of them. Now she spent her days at the library and her nights in his bed, at least when she did not run off to Italy or a desert yoga retreat. Just when he thought his life couldn’t become more complicated, a prostitute accused one of his officers of sexual assault.
With Christopher busy helping his man out of trouble, Patricia intended to stay away from his precinct and soon look for another, more normal occupation. For now, she focused on her writing. A psychiatric might say that her story about a female serial killer proved both testimony and outlet for how gruesomely real her job as part of the Big guy’s team had felt. Write, sleep, drink, hide were her therapy, as was her relationship with Christopher. They had made a deal. She stopped claiming their affair was only casual; he refrained from asking her to move in with him. What’s a woman to do when her cop lover gets arrested, though? Marry him–strictly as a get-out-of-jail card, Big guy–buy a house, and help the infuriating man clear his name.
For once, the extremes the damn woman took to support her friends were in Chris’s favour. Too bad he was too busy clearing the murder charges hanging over his head to enjoy her thoroughly.

“What’s in it for me, DesForges, sweetie?” Patricia asked.
That woman was a bitch. “What the fuck are you talking about, Babydoll?”
“You heard me. You all heard me. What’s in it for me? If I get Hamilton out and about, what are you all going to give me in exchange?”
He was stunned. Reid wasn’t. “I don’t care about Ham all that much, girlfriend. Quieter when he’s not around. I offer nothing.”
Patricia started to laugh. “Reid, ma chérie, you don’t have anything to offer. Anyone else?” DesForges knew she wasn’t asking for money. Or sex; it couldn’t be, she was a woman for Christ’s sake!
LeRoy, tacitly the team’s interim boss when Chris was out, no matter what the fuck Central had decided, took charge. “What is it you want, Babe?”
“You know what I want.” Teasing laugh. Foxy lady. Des didn’t have a clue what she wanted. The way her brain worked, the woman was a surprise box to him. From the look of the others, they didn’t know either. “Christopher’s whereabouts.”
“What the fuck, Babe?”
She looked at each in turn her laugh turning sarcastic. “You don’t know? Damn it, none of you know!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311485915

V. P. Trick

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A middle life crisis later (a very early middle crisis), what if earth changed axis? Writing began and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Book preview

Patricia had yet to come back to the precinct. Against his better judgement, and knowing full well Fists and Knot were going to make a comeback, he had offered to give her back her filing clerk-slash-delusional writer-slash-reckless cold case researcher job. Since she had yet to come back, no clenched fists or knot in his stomach were troubling him. For now. Damn woman.

Lately, she’d been working at her hotel, filling in for one of the front desk clerks. Honeymoon or something. Hell, she had lived in the place long enough to know all there was to know about running a hotel. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Chris watched as she greeted arriving clients.

Opposite the front desk in the hotel lobby were two big stuffy armchairs. The front door was to the left of the desk, the bar, to the right. The manager’s office, the hotel’s small restaurant and the elevator were further down.

Patricia smiled at an old couple returning from someplace or another, countryside judging from their outdoorsy outfit. As she nodded at them, a curl brushed her cheek. She pulled the strand back behind her ear. He had come by early just to watch her finish her shift; he planned on taking her out to eat after. Or upstairs to her suite first, and then to dinner. Chris could skip eating altogether, but she had lost some weight lately, and he was working on her putting it back on. Not quite there yet, he should take her to a steak house then.

She looked good even in the hotel uniform. All he got to see right now was her head and shoulders, with her hands and forearms waving in the air as she spoke. Once the old couple was served and taken to the elevator by the hotel’s old-fashioned bellboy, a lone man moved to the front desk. Business trip, Chris guessed, based on the single carry-on and computer bag. He couldn’t see the man’s face, though, only Patricia’s. She smiled as the guy leaned on the countertop. He even made her laugh. The jerk sure was taking his damn sweet time. Then she shook her head no at the jerk, then again, before she pointed her chin at him over the jerk’s shoulder with a smile. The guy turned around to look at him. Turned back. Not tonight, not ever, Chris thought.

The guy eventually went up to his room, and her shift she was done. She came around the counter and walked to him, a coy smile on her face. Seemed her pointing him out had been more for his benefit than the guy’s. Chris studied her as she neared, rising when she reached the sitting area.

Hey, Princess, he said as he stood in front of her. Barely a step away, close enough to touch but not touching yet.

She smiled, head tilted to the side. Hey you too, Big guy.

She wore a pair of silly black-rim glasses that partially hid her wide too-dark blue eyes. He knew how blue they were, glasses or not.

And how was your day, Angel?

Good. The hotel is a pleasant workplace. I’m meeting a lot of interesting guests. Single men mostly, she teased, not even trying to hide her smile.

They were definitely making a stop upstairs. She needed to change, didn’t she? He excelled at helping her change. She must have guessed what he was thinking − not a difficult guess since he often had such thoughts around her − she blushed. He liked the blushing but knew she didn’t. He liked it a lot even so (and because so).

How about you, Big guy? How was your day? Any interesting cases you need help with? Trying to change the subject, was she?

Cases are confidential. You need to be on the team to discuss them.

Aren’t I?

Never again, Angel. Not if I can help it. His turn to evade. How about we eat out tonight? I’m thinking steakhouse.

Again? Didn’t we go last time?

I heard of a new one.

Did you? She looked at him with a frown. You know, Big guy, maybe we should go more vegetarian. I’m almost back to my normal weight after all. And a fine weight that was, he thought. Lean with delicate curves where needed, all perfectly sized for his hands. You, on the other contrary, are not.

So he had gained some weight. During their pretended time-off, he had gone out as per his usual, just not to the same type of places. Less fancy. There also had been less smoking and less running, what with his stress level being minimal, except at the end, of course, where it had sky-rocketed again. The end results were, she was on break from the precinct, he had her safe, and he had gained some weight. Still lean and muscular but heavier. She seemed to like it.

Am I getting fat? Care to show me where? His theory was, it was because of the sex. They had slept together during their off period, but not as much. The damn woman had declared it no proper. So, with her pretending sex was out, he had pretended it didn’t count as exercise hence the weight gain. Hence him joking that it was thus her fault and as a consequence, she had to pay for it. As much and as often as she let him. Ok. Vegan it is. How about offering me a drink while you change? Agreeing on vegan should distract her from his next scheme.

For whatever reason, maybe she was naïve, maybe she was tired, she went along with his suggestion. And hence, they went to her suite four floors up. He poured her a glass of red wine, left from their previous night in, and poured himself a glass of scotch from one of the bottles she kept just for him. He settled on the couch while she went to change.

He retraced her routine in his head and stayed seated just long enough for her to take her hotel uniform off but not long enough so she could get dressed again. Her place was perfect for a single woman living in a hotel suite; designed by her for her own personal and supposedly private use, there were no locks on the inside doors. Hell, there were no inside doors except for one between the bathroom and the walk-in closet. No door between the living room area and the bedroom, no door in the bedroom for the walk-in. Strangely, the bathroom door was at the back of the walk-in. Logical, though, since the bathroom entry was through the walk-in. Her suite, her idea.

It suited him just fine tonight. She would walk between the bathroom and the walk-in freely, barely dressed or not at all. Waiting in the bedroom doorframe with no doors or obstacles to block his view, he timed it just right. Hotel uniform back on its hanger in the closet, tonight’s outfit, whatever it was going to be, still unchosen, she stared undecided at her clothes and did not hear him approach.

Standing as she was, barefoot, in her panties and bra, unaware of him, he thought she was stunning. And she was. Tallish, lean and toned without being muscular, dark waves normally grazing her shoulder, somewhat shorter since the break-up episode, she looked even younger than usual. More fragile. Even now, hands on her hips, frowning at her wardrobe. She had on matching underwear. Bikini panties, lightly padded bra − blush she called that colour, looked light pink to him − whatever the name, he liked the colour, liked the fit on her, panties following the curve of her ass softly, bra cupping her breasts nicely.

The only thing he didn’t like about her clothes? Her bra covered her breasts too much. He liked seeing their enticing shape through the material, especially the nipples pulling at the fabric as they hardened. Not a big problem, though. It didn’t take him long to free them. She wasn’t naïve nor tired then. And from the feel of things, she had been expecting him. Damn woman. They had steak that night, with a salad.

Patricia

The man was impossible! She knew Christopher wasn’t really looking forward to her going back, yet he seemed disappointed at her delayed return. He had teased her all through supper about it.

I’m postponing it solely until the day-clerk comes back from her honeymoon, she told Christopher. Told herself. She did want to go back to work with him. Truly. With all of them; she liked the team thing. And it was a new team at that. She looked forward to meeting and seeing the quartet in action. Christopher was being overly critical of them; surely they wouldn’t be so bad. The man was way too arrogant, and he had been spoiled for too long with guys totally devoted to him. She would so enjoy seeing one of his men challenge his authority.

She sighed and pulled the covers tighter around her. It sure was nice to have him around again. To spend the night with him. Nights. Weekends. Go out. Stay in. No hurry, no guilt, at least on her part; she doubted he even knew about such a feeling. Christopher was the most grounded and centered guy she had ever known. Which in itself was infuriating enough. He never did anything he did not believe in, nothing that didn’t fit his set of values. Said values also included, for some reason, being overly protective of her. Adding to it that he was smart and confident, she found him irresistible, dangerously so for her peace of mind. With very few exceptions, these past few years, decade really, she had preferred jerks. They required less commitment, as in none at all. Damn him again. Not that he wasn’t a jerk at times, though.

Dating him was great, wasn’t it? Great and scary. Some days she just wanted to run off somewhere and get drunk. Get drunk and run. Whichever. But not these days, these days were nice. Maybe that’s why she had agreed to fill in for the front clerk bride. The hotel had plenty of temporary personnel better qualified, but the manager had agreed to her doing the job because they were friends. It had also helped that she had begged said manager, and her assistant, and the barman, and the portier. Maybe this would be her dream job. After all, she had her mornings to linger in bed, not that she was much of the lingering type, with Christopher getting up around five and getting breakfast for the two of them around five-thirty, quarter to six at the latest. Sometimes, she just couldn’t manage to stay awake long enough to have breakfast with him.

He was gentleman enough to let her sleep. He usually left for the precinct between six and six-thirty; she stayed in bed until she fell asleep again or got bored. Most mornings she was up by seven, eight if the night had been cut short like last night. She could still smell him on the sheets. Nice cologne, Bleu from Chanel, her favourite. It smelled good on him. He knew it too.

Today was her last workday before the weekend. She only had two weeks to go after that. She was enjoying herself; this was definitely a good time. She hoped all that happiness didn’t impair her writing, though. She needed some rage in her for her psycho killer woman character and some vengeful anger for the female investigator character that was about to cross her path. Although, she reassured herself, with Christopher around, the fighting was never totally absent. So what if lately, their quarrels turned more into foreplay than full blown fight. Good times indeed.

She finally dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Her hair was a mess − the shorter the hair, the harder to style (or even keep in place) − she stayed under the hot water for an un-eco-friendly amount of time. She wisely forewent any attempt at taming her hair, definitely more curls than waves this morning, and focusing instead on choosing an outfit. Her walk-in closet was half-empty, thanks to the last disastrous weeks. Between Christopher’s attitude, her diminutive philandering office boss, the poet and the killings, she had felt both angry and distraught. Under such circumstances, she walked, drank red wine, went on Yoga retreats, and, if she found someone careless enough to lend her a car, speeded down back roads. Pushed to the extreme, she ran off or travelled to Italy. Another temporary stress-relief method of choice was cleaning her closets and give stuff away. Hence, half her hangers were now empty. The female hotel staff, and some of the male’s family members too, were now wearing her clothes.

Maybe she could convince Christopher to go shopping with her over the weekend. They could ask Reid to come along. Or Bridget. Or both. It felt like a long time since she had spent time with them. If Reid came, she might be able to convince LeRoy so Christopher would have someone to talk with and help with the bags. Hum. Like the Big guy would go for it. She had a better chance of convincing him if it was just the two of them. She would tell him she needed a new bra. Her blush-coloured one hung on the bathroom door handle where he had left it. Had they been at his place, it might have just disappeared. Not that he stole her bras, he simply put them away in his safe. She knew of four for sure he had in there. Lucky her breasts were medium in size, the bras didn’t take up that much space, but still, the safe not being that large, Christopher would take one in and give one back. Or not. He wouldn’t have taken the blush bra, though, it probably wasn’t revealing enough for his taste. Silly nonsense. Only silly thing he did. He did do a lot of infuriating things, though. She dressed in the same clothes she had on last night. It wasn’t like she had worn the jeans and blouse a long time. Only the time it took to go for the steak and salad. She’d barely made it back in them.

She headed to the French café she liked and got a good three hours of writing done, came back in time to eat a soup and sandwich at the hotel restaurant, and took her shift at one o’clock sharp. The Friday clientele was different than the week’s. Tourists only, no businessmen or businesswomen.

She called Christopher during her break. How about shopping we go shopping this weekend? Silence. We could take Bridget and Reid. Bridget being his secretary, and Reid, the only female officer on his team before the quartet, Patricia wasn’t surprised by Christopher’s lack of enthusiasm. I kind of need new underwear.

How about we trade shopping against the weekend at my place? He offered.

She pretended to think about it before taking the deal, but she would have agreed to the sleepover no matter what.

And, Angel? Do not pack any clothes.

He really was impossible. If they were to go shopping, she at least needed a pair of pants and a top. She kept the minimum at his place, like makeup and hair products, clean underwear (in addition to the bras in the safe), socks, a pair of jeans, and a blouse. Those were all the clothes she needed; it wasn’t like she was living with him, was it? He had suits and shirts and socks and briefs and ties and jeans and t-shirts at her place. Logical since he couldn’t borrow any of her clothes, but she could borrow a t-shirt and sweatpants from him if she needed. She wouldn’t actually go out wearing Christopher’s sweats, but they were decent enough for a taxi ride back to her hotel.

Reid will come pick me up when my shift is over. You’re in charge of Bridge.

Fine, Angel. We’ll meet up at the steakhouse near the precinct.

No steak, Big guy. Red wine and steak were fine, red wine and Italian were better. And didn’t they say red wines were fattening? Maybe she had not drunk enough lately. Bridget likes the Italian bistro on Main.

So Italian it was. She had wine over dinner. Three-four glasses, her usual for when she was happy. Or sad. Or horny. Tonight she was mostly the first, maybe a bit of the third. Christopher kept his half of the deal splendidly. Charming, witty, teasing Bridget, complementing Reid, on their work skills, their patience with the guys and the quartet, mostly the quartet, all the while offering her more wine and pulling at her curls and smiling that sexy crooked smile of his.

His Date

"More wine, ladies?"

He couldn’t complain about his life; this sure was the best of time. Patricia was studiously working on a new book, the story of a killer woman or something, he wasn’t quite clear on it since she didn’t talk about her books until they were done and out. He had not even caught glimpses of the story on her computer, her hiding it every time he got near, and he got near a lot, not to the computer obviously, but to her.

After they had broken off for a while, they were now officially back together. Not that he himself had ever thought otherwise, but damn the woman was stubborn. She had wanted to pretend theirs was a casual relationship; he had wanted her to move in. They finally met half-way. She stopped the casual; he put a hold on the moving-in. Having tried, and blown the direct approach, he was now reassessing the situation, hence looking for a new plan to convince his very obstinate, somewhat impulsive, delusional yet sexy as hell writer girlfriend to move in with him. To make the plan more challenging, as if it wasn’t enough already, even the dating-him part was over the top for her, her hating cops and him, well, being one. The plan was, for now, embryonic, but he was patient, way more than her.

We’re looking forward to our shopping tomorrow, aren’t we, Officer MacLaren? She teased innocently, smiling at Bridget and Reid before taking a sip of her wine.

He smiled too. He had every intention of ditching his two female employees very early on tomorrow. Just you and me then, Angel.

Patricia’s last boss had been a jerk; that might explain why she was reluctant to come back to work at the precinct. Not that she needed to work, she had enough money to write full-time. Or she was welcomed to live off of him. He would like that. Immensely. Hell, she could live at his place. He didn’t voice his thoughts, though, since experience had taught him how fast and how sharply his proposition was going to be rejected. Until the moving-in happened, dating her was great.

Her working with his team had been great too, but only when she stayed in the damn office. He wasn’t such a bad boss, was he? So what if he had suspended her and had her detained. They had been safety measures, solely preventive, all well-deserved. She was reckless sometimes. Just thinking about it made him pat his pockets.

The restaurant is non-smokers, Big guy, she whispered. Shopping getting to you?

Funny woman. Not that he was a smoker, but lately, for some strange reason, his anger level had skyrocketed a few times. Smoking helped lower his stress level. Smoking didn’t work as well as jogging, but at times running was inconvenient.

No Patricia-the-filing-clerk meant no deep blue eyes, no soft wavy hair, and no sleek jeans at the office these days. Reid, the only female officer on his team, did wear jeans, but he didn’t count her as a woman. Yes, as muscular and sturdy as she was she looked quite female, but she was a detective hence one of the guys. Besides, she wasn’t his type.

He had to reach his forties to realize what his type was. Damn woman. So no curls in the place but an office going smoothly. Well, except for him being stuck with the fucking infernal quartet, as Patricia had nicknamed them. Four out-of-place and out-of-skill cops dumped on him, ‘to increase his workforce,’ Central had informed him officially. He hadn’t needed any help guessing the unofficial reasons. Someone didn’t like him and was making him pay. Someone times four.

Nevertheless, he was having a hell of a time. He solved crimes like the overachiever he was, working hard at it like the workaholic that he was. He did the job the way he liked it, he was thorough after all, a perfectionist some might say (an asshole others whispers at his back). He had at his side the team he had built. He excluded the quartet obliviously, although he let the four tag along all the same. Getting wiser with age perhaps?

So Patricia’s writing spot wasn’t a safe and secluded library alcove, it would make it too damn perfect, wouldn’t it? Some coffee shops he had no problem with. Big anonymous ones, smaller independent ones like the precinct’s preferred corner coffee shop Vitto’s, or the French place she visited near the business district.

She was safe from killers and stalkers and hackers there, but not from men hitting on her − Vitto’s son, the French owner. He was neither insecure or overly jealous, but he wasn’t naïve or overconfident either. Be it at coffee shops, wine bars, during girls’ night outs or her trips to Italy, the woman tended to be dreamy. When she wrote, worked (research to her) or took walks, she hardly noticed men so keeping an eye on the competition was easy, but her wandering off through the city taking pictures of this and that, stopping here and there for inspiration, was something else. Walking and snooping she called research. She walked all over the city, and the megalopolis wasn’t a small town, quite the opposite. As with all big cities, it wasn’t safe, even during the day, that he knew first hand since he was in charge of homicide investigations for the South part of the town.

Maybe you could ask LeRoy or one of the others to join us tomorrow? So you’ll have someone to play with while we shop for shoes.

The others were the guys on his team. No.

I sure all of the team would join in if you asked them.

No. His team being the guys, LeRoy, Shapiro, Frankke, Hamilton, DesForges, and Reid, plus Bridget, their secretary-receptionist-researcher, to cover a quarter of the city, plus the terrible four who didn’t do much but were on his fucking payroll just the same. Crimes in the Southern districts kept him and his team busy; it was the same for the four Megalopolis police subdivisions. Twelve (well, eight dedicated and four tagging along), teamed up to solve murders. Plus, Patricia if she came back, not that she did anything but clerical work. Yah right. Patricia was transferred, or more accurately had moved herself, from her part-time job at the city’s Archives, judicial section. Why the fuck did he need an assistant research and clerical technician? The fancy title stated what she was supposed to be doing, filing. Supposed to as in, she might do it, or not. He couldn’t remember seeing her file anything.

Her job title should read Cold case snoop and other unprepared, unsafe and often illegal ops. Not as neat a title but a hell of a lot closer to reality. Her unique interpretation of her job. Research she kept calling it. The damn woman was a writer; she had one hell of an imagination, but, unfortunately, reckless ways to do her research. She also had killer instincts for finding clues, dead clues mostly, as in corpses.

He had realized early on that research and playacting were her ways of doing things and dealing with the world and the jerks in it, but knowing it didn’t mean he didn’t fight it every damn step of the way. Damn woman.

No, he repeated just in case. Just you and me, Dollface.

And Bridget and Reid. We’ll see, Darling of mine.

Her Working Man

"How drunk are you?" was the first thing he asked when they reached his door. He had kept on smiling and teasing and playing with her hair on the drive over and in the garage and up the elevator and down the hall to his door.

You should know, you’re the one who kept on filling my glass. His fault really. Surely now she had gained all of the weight back. He just smiled and kissed her neck. Hum… She sighed. That felt good.

More of the crooked smile. Way drunk I would say, Angel.

He had not seen anything yet. Drunk enough, she replied. Not sure exactly what she meant.

She passed by him and walked in. Walked to the couch and turned around waiting for him to close the door. He dropped her bag by the door and closed it behind him. She took a step toward the bedroom and dropped her big aviator jacket, just shrugged it off from her shoulders. I’m tired.

It’s the wine.

She pouted. It truly was the wine’s fault. The wine and him keeping her up late, waking her up early. He needed about four-five hours of sleep; she needed more like eight. Sleep deprivation impaired her thought process. She took off her shoes, one at a time, all the while using a hand on the back of the couch to balance herself. Not an easy task when drunk.

He smiled. She smiled back, unzipped her jeans, and slid them off to the floor, dropping her panties along. There wasn’t any flesh to be seeing yet for her blouse covered her to mid-thighs.

See, Big guy, not that drunk.

From the look of his face, she could tell he had noticed the panties. His smile grew wider. She unbuttoned her shirt from the bottom. One button, two buttons, three buttons. She stopped short of her pubis. She smiled. Nothing to see yet. She unbuttoned her shirt from the top. One button, two buttons, three buttons, four buttons, five buttons, six buttons. Her shirt was loose-fitting, made of soft yet somewhat heavy, stiff cotton. Still nothing to see. Except the colour of her bra, fuchsia, like her discarded underpants, and smooth as silk, almost see-through. This type of colour, only a darker colour would show through. For sure her nipples weren’t dark enough to show through the fabric. She smiled. He smiled. She unclipped the front clip of her bra. She watched him watch her.

I truly am tired.

He didn’t say anything. Had he looked worried there for a moment? She licked her lips before slipping her hand between the flaps of her shirt. She rubbed her belly lightly, her hand higher than her navel, lower than her breasts. Sighed. She really was tired. Curls falling on her shoulders, she tilted her head to the side as if thinking. Pretending too. Distractedly playing with one of the still tied buttons.

He took a step closer. The smile was still there, but it was softer now, less cocky yet just as sexy. She smiled back.

She undid the first of the last three buttons. Undid the second. The last. Just as she had done her jacket, she rolled her shoulders, barely but enough to make the shirt and the bra slid to the floor. The air wasn’t cold, but she pouted and shivered. She always felt cold when she was tired.

He took a step closer. She sighed again.

I am exhausted.

He took another step. Are you really, Angel of mine? He took another step.

"Yes. Fatiguée and drunk, she teased. You wouldn’t exploit a drunk, tired woman, would you?"

He stopped. Grinned. No, I wouldn’t. Unless you wanted me to. He moved another step closer. Close enough now for her to scent his cologne. Do you want me to?

She put her hands flat on his torso. No, I don’t. She leaned into him and kissed his neck. Under the circumstances, me being drunk and all, she whispered, I think I should take advantage of you.

He took a sharp breath and laid down on the couch. Unzipped his pants. Pulled them down just enough to grab his cock. Held it hold in one hand. Hid his sex with his shirt just like she had hers. He smirked. Your show, Darling.

She stood over him, one leg folded on the side of him on the couch, the other still firmly planted on the floor. As firmly as the wine let her at least. Legs braced over him, not sitting yet. She must truly look tired, or drunk if she got to be on top. She smiled. Whichever.

He grabbed her hips in his warm hands and tugged her down gently. Lower. He was visibly more than ready to be abused. So was she. She slowly lowered herself. Down. Until she sat on him. Up. Down. Slowly. He held her hips, steadying her. She covered his hands with hers.

Touch yourself, Angel.

She tightened her left hand around his wrist and slide her right hand to her belly, her pubis, her folds. Barely touching. His hands tightened on her hips. Up. Down. Faster. She couldn’t tell who came first.

Tired and drunk, she only woke on the last ring of his cellular phone. Christopher, on the other hand, had already jumped out of bed, and answered with a sharp, Speak!

It was the tone of his voice that thoroughly woke her up. Too harsh.

Cop face on, he listened for a beat, then hung up.

Just from the way he stood, she knew something was wrong.

I’ve got to go.

You OK?

He didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands in his hair; he would have messed it up too had it not been cut so short. He did slant the front to the right, though, which did nothing to soften his features. No.

Want me to go with you?

No.

Middle of the night phone calls were all too frequent. They meant a body had been found. Sometimes he went; sometimes one of his guys took the scene, and he joined them later, all depending on the case. His team, his territory, his call.

Fear crept in. Something was terribly wrong. He didn’t have just the cop face on, he had the bad cop face one. This wasn’t just a murder. Fear was followed by anger. Defence mechanism, better to be angry than scared.

Christopher! You better not leave me without telling me!

When he looked down at her and pulled her tight against him, his body was tensed next to hers. I’ll call later. Stay.

They were at in his place, for sure he already knew she wouldn’t stay around. It felt too much like she was waiting for him. Long ago, she had promised herself never to wait for a man, so she rarely if ever stayed when he wasn’t in. She couldn’t, not even for him.

It could take hours until he returned. Hours of worrying. Of imagining the worst. She had a heck of an imagination. Christopher? She tried to pull away to look at his face. She felt his breath in her hair.

Wait here until I know more.

Christopher James MacLaren!

He sighed. Ham’s been arrested.

What?! When? Why? She tried to interrupt.

I’ll call when I know more.

She waited, but he didn’t add anything else. Just breathed in and out in her hair. His respiration even as always. Even mad as hell, his breathing and his heartbeat stayed steady. Fine, Big guy. I’ll wait until morning.

As if it was all he had been waiting for, he let go. OK. Thank you, Princess. He dressed. Suit, crisp shirt, sharp tie, dress shoes. Work clothes. He hugged her tight once more and left.

Left her to wait. To think. To worry.

Perspective Féminine: The Fifteenth

New city, new format, same slowly rising excitation. The feeling came from deep inside of her. Creeping. Swelling. Overpowering. She pressed her thighs together. Don’t rush, she warned herself. It was so much better slowly. She smiled at him. Watched as his eyes stayed on her. He was perfect. So arrogant, so sure of himself. He smiled. It took him but a minute to grab his drink and walk over to her.

"May I join you?"

She nodded. Yes, sweetheart, please do. She had watched him kiss his wife barely an hour ago. His wife or his mistress. Not that it mattered, for now he was sitting with her. They talked. He was good. He made her laugh. Had her talked about herself. She lied obviously.

He told her, subtlety, that he had money. Confidence. Asked if it was her first time at the hotel. It was, of course, at least with this outfit. Wig. Disguise. It didn’t really matter what she looked like as long as she had lots of it, breasts, legs, ass. As long as she showed it. Breasts, legs, ass. Classy, casual, rock, cheap, expensive, the clothes were a lure. So was the wig. Blonde, black, brunette, straight, short, curly. Strictly packaging. Be the right bait for the fish.

Her fifteenth was rich, arrogant and as she had witnessed first hand, a philandering prick. The perfect pupil. He had not look her way when she wore her cleaning maid uniform. He did now. The first step was a success. Blaming the overly noisy surroundings, she invited him to her suite. He could have said no. He could have lived. He smiled. They went up.

The room was rented for a week. She had paid with a credit card borrowed from her fourteenth student. Nice touch, wasn’t it? She was pleased with herself. The room was comfortable, done in a rich, dark-brown colour. As if she was sleeping in warm chocolate. Indulging in it.

She offered him the promised drink and excused herself to change into something more comfortable. Nothing. Came back to the living room and watched as he looked her over appreciatively. Yes, my darling pupil, I will be yours. Not that you deserve me, nobody does, such is my burden.

She sat astride his lap and removed his tie. Removed his jacket. Unbuttoned his shirt. He offered no resistance. He could have lived. He had a broad torso. Hairless. She wondered if he shaved or if it was natural. She leaned in and grabbed a nipple between her teeth. He tried to reciprocate and grabbed a breast, pinching her nipple. She pushed his fingers away and laughed. First lesson for you, darling pupil. Slowly.

He stretched his arms on the back of the couch. Fast learner. He smiled at her. Casual, wasn’t he? She slid further back his thighs. Let him have a better view. She cupped her breasts with her hands and plumped them. Tugged on her nipples. Softly, they were already so sensitive. All that wait!

She saw him, felt him stiffen. So easy. She let go of her breasts. Dropped her hands to his thighs. Slowly brushed her hands along his inner thighs, up to his crotch, pushing against his cock, up his pants. Untying, opening, pulling down, freeing. Short but good girth. She would not have felt him all the way in, but there was enough of him to push on her inside, should she have wanted to let him push inside her.

She slowly slid her hands over him, down to his inner thighs. She brought her hands back to her breasts and felt their weight in her hands. Her breasts were swollen. She smiled. Lowered her hands again. Inside his thighs. Then hers. She covered her pubis, brushed her hair with her fingers. He grabbed his cock. She laughed and rose. Lessons for you. First, slowly. Second, only my touch.

She walked backward to the bedroom, waiting for him to follow. He paused to undress completely, folding his clothes neatly. Thinking of the wife or the mistress? She smiled. Arrogant to the end, wasn’t he?

In the bedroom, she lay down on the bed on her back. Arms opened. Legs opened. Offered. Waiting. She asked him to finger-fucked her. Short but bulky, his fingers were like his prick. He pushed in too fast, moved around too much. She watched him work, let him sweat before slapping his hand away. She laughed.

Third lesson. Slowly. Only my touch. I come only for me. She took his fingers in her mouth and came sucking on them. Thinking of the silver chain she had stolen earlier from the wife-mistress’s room. Long and sturdy, it was a pretty, unexpected addition to her collection. She must make sure to leave a deep mark on him. Plenty of time still.

Excerpt from Perspective Féminine, by Trica C. Line

Chris Drives North

He drove over to the North precinct, not speeding, barely a notch above the speed limit. This hour, it wasn’t speeding. Hamilton was arrested three hours ago. Had called him two hours later, after the North precinct’s guys had taken his prints and locked him up. Since Ham was a cop, they were doing it by the book and had given him his