Saturday, December 31 #2
His skillful fingers floated over her blouse, where the magic between them would begin.
Undoing buttons was a turn-on for him—like opening the door to his fantasies.
One. Freeing it all—trusting, committing, surrendering everything to him.
Two. To his hands, to his ravenous lips.
Three. One step away from satisfaction. Four. No more counting; it begins now.
Hungry for more. Hungry for the taste of her.
Hungry for all of her, he slid the blouse off her shoulders.
He unhooked her lace bra and explored the cherished territory with his starving lips and searching fingers.
Angelica’s whimpering gasps weren’t just a wake-up call for him; they were a distress call, a cry of thirst.
Nicholas yanked the ends of her blouse from her slacks and sought the last button.
A solitary button decreed the outcome. When fastened, it stood between the outside world and their deepest desire.
When released, it signaled their entry into divine ecstasy.
They were just a moment—an infinitesimal second—closer to ultimate fulfillment.
Angelica’s hand glided down his body, sparking an electrifying surge and igniting a wildfire below his waist. He spread his legs and, sliding lower on the couch, he throbbed, pulsated, and let out guttural groans that heated their surrounding air as her hand worked her magic.
Sweat broke out on Nicholas’s brow and chest. Driven to free the imprisoned bulge, he quickly unbuckled his belt, unfastened his pants, and pulled down his zipper.
Nicholas’s head fell back against the cushions; his little goddess was driving him to the peak.
The more he had her, the more he desired her, the more he needed her, the more he couldn’t get enough of her.
Her delicate porcelain face, childlike eyes, and curvaceous body sang a siren song that lured him in.
She was his opium, his addiction. This woman could bring him down, but in an exhilarating way.
And he would willingly lose himself to her.
He didn’t care if they ever made it to the bedroom. He wouldn’t make it, anyway. Here was just as good as anywhere. Why slow the momentum? Making love in front of the glass wall was quite suggestive and seductive.
As Nicholas approached the edge—the explosive climax of his fiery journey—a lightning bolt struck the ground with a thousand flashes, and a thunderclap as fierce and condemning as a herd of charging buffalo shook the condo floor and rattled the windows, shattering their euphoric moment.
“Oh, my God!” Angelica shrieked, leaping off the couch.
Nicholas blinked.
She cringed as another deafening rumble reverberated through the dark sky, ricocheting off the walls. As fast as that bolt, Angelica fled the room like a bird escaping the bars of its cage, her clothes askew.
In that instant …
The moment he saw the look in her eyes …
He knew what would happen next …
Nicholas knew Angelica would run.
* * *
The Jenkins’s homicide case started with a bang—literally and figuratively.
They had nothing, if you discounted the mountain of discarded fast-food wrappers, cups, beer bottles, and mice from the body shop search.
His home was pretty much the same—except for clothes tossed about (Jenkins wasn’t a fan of laundry baskets or the washing machine) and no mice.
After a phone call to Emily, Garrett learned that Matthew Jenkins was a cheap, lying bastard who never gave his sister a Christmas gift. The odds were high that he hadn’t planned to start this year.
Garrett suspected that the “wrapped, heavy-as-a-brick gift” from Angelica’s home and Jenkins’s Christmas package drop, which Emily mentioned, were the same item—cocaine.
The value of the illegal drug explains the robbery.
But who knows, Angelica’s jewelry could’ve been more valuable.
A two-for-one in one haul. Thank God she wasn’t home.
Still, without evidence, it wasn’t worthy of a call to Vice.
Jenkins could have had his hand in a fishbowl of illicit drug activity.
He could have been a runner, had his own team, dealt, or worked elsewhere, such as in a cabin off-site or even in Canada.
Yet maybe he branched out and wore many hats.
Human trafficking, forged documents, or peddling stolen auto parts. Any and all were possible.
With a load of “ifs,” he and Bickney had nothing. No, without crossing the Northern border, they already had a load of local guys who hated the deceased on a personal level. The basics—jealousy and revenge. There was no end to the possibilities.
With a homicide suspect under every rock, and plenty who they didn’t know about, and eager to see Angelica yesterday, Garrett pulled out his cheat sheet—an informant.
A guy of questionable morals, known for petty and not-so-petty crimes, who appeared to plea-bargain his way out of jail or into a lighter sentence in exchange for information more often than not.
Since PJ’s “advice” had proven valuable over the years, Garrett kept him around.
Catching a killer trumped collaring the guy in a home-invasion or stolen-car-parts case.
Even with frisky hands, PJ had his own code of ethics—the victim could afford the loss, he would never commit murder, and his helpful words wouldn’t come back to bite him—the snitched-on assailant was sent away permanently.
Garrett planned to meet the enthusiastic talker at a derelict-looking bar with a sagging, leaning clapboard porch. Sleazy as hell, Hal’s Taproom and Lounge somehow managed to squeeze out a smoking permit. Evidently, including the word “Lounge” in the establishment’s name is the key.
The detective had a reputation at this place. None of the occupants gave him the time of day because he did the same to them.
The place was abuzz with chatter, laughter, and a drunken sing-along with Garth to “Friends in Low Places” as New Year’s Eve approached. The smoky air, reeking of whatever you could puff, was as thick as an uncontrollable forest fire.
Dressed to blend in, Garrett wore jeans, a faded T-shirt, and a baseball cap. He knew his clothes would be in the washer by the end of the night and that he’d be jumping into the shower.
As his eyes adjusted to the haze and dim lighting, he spotted PJ in a corner booth, signaling him to come over with a jerk of his head.
His guy with the behind-the-scenes eyes and ears wasn’t a youngster. Around fifty-five, he took pride in his shaggy red hair, which fell past his shoulders.
Garrett slipped in and slid to the middle of the bench seat. “How’re you doing, PJ?” He reached over the table and used his left hand to shake. The hand opposite him just got $50 richer.
PJ blew a ring of smoke into the air and crushed his cigarette in an ashtray packed with butts. “Better than you, Fitz.”
Garrett blinked and batted the smoke away. “How can you be so sure?”
“Hell, you wouldn’t be contacting me if you were.”
He wanted information, not a smart-aleck crook.
A college-age waitress, wearing a low-cut shirt and mini shorts, breezed over to their booth. She was all smiles for the tipster. She probably dug his hair.
“Whatcha having, guys?”
“A Seven Up for me and a mug for my friend,” Garrett said.
“Make that two for me,” PJ corrected with a dazzling grin, especially the one gold front tooth. “I’m drinking the one he’s not having.”