Buried (A Bone Secrets Novel 03) (19 page)

She simply blinked at him.

“I want to know your opinion on the next election and that stupid kid beauty pageant TV show and if you like Indian food.” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if you like to travel or see
movies or go camping, but I want to find out! What I’m saying is that I
like
you, Jamie. A lot. I don’t want to just have an awesome night of sex—and it will be awesome—I want to keep moving forward. Does that make sense?”

A wicked gleam touched her eyes and she smiled. “Perfect sense. You’re saying I’m not a one-night stand.” She touched the collar on his shirt and then the skin just below it, her gaze following her fingers.

Fire lit at his neck and shot downward.

He lunged forward and kissed her.

She met him kiss for kiss, and the next few minutes flew by in a flurry of hands and mouths. Tugging at clothing, undoing hooks, grasping at bedding as they flung back the covers to get bare skin on cool sheets. He moved her back against the mattress and stretched out beside her, touching every inch of that silky skin of hers with his own. She clung to him, gripping as she rubbed her thighs against his, her chest pressed tight to his.

He wasn’t done talking with her, but there would be time to talk later. She ran her nails through his hair, and his body lit up like fireworks. He continued his deep assault on her mouth as they rolled on the bed, taking turns for control. His hands traced her smooth skin, touching and memorizing every dip and curve. It was fast and hungry, no calm, soothing sex here. He felt like a starving man.

And Jamie was delicious.

He pulled back and stopped, holding her at arm’s length, pinned against the mattress, so he could look his fill. Her eyes were dark and her pupils dilated, her lips open and wet, her chest heaving as she paused. Her gaze held his, saying she was giving him a moment to look but not much more. Something possessive gripped him.

“It’s not just sex,” he repeated. He needed to know she truly understood before this went further.

“I know.” The pulse at her neck throbbed.

Her leg shifted between his, stroking his rigidity with her thigh. Michael tried not to moan. Instead, he bent his head to her breast and took her nipple gently between his teeth, teasing the silky tip with his tongue. She hissed and clutched at him. The scent of her skin shot heat down his spine and put every hormone in overdrive.

There wasn’t time. He parted her with a hand, stroking her, and found her slick wetness, which nearly made him release on her stomach. She pressed a condom into his hand. He ripped it open and sheathed himself as her knees came up and her head tipped back. He pressed against her and slid deep.

Their bodies arced together, their pace frantic and feverish. It was mindless, hormone-driven sex. Exactly what he’d needed and apparently she’d needed too. She scratched his back, and the small pain magnified his anticipation. White lights danced behind his eyelids as he heard her gasp, felt her clamp and pulse around him. His tension built.

Michael came, his brain and spine exploding with sensations.

Later, he wrapped his arms around her, relishing the feel of her skin pressed against him. She’d drifted off, but he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to relinquish the moment. He wanted to stretch it out as long as possible, savoring the intimacy they’d shared. He still wanted more, more of everything she had to offer him. Physical, emotional, and mental. He was keeping Jamie around for the long haul.

But he couldn’t wait to pour two cups of coffee in the morning.

Gerald had packed a small duffel bag for a few nights, filled up his gas tank, and parked his vehicle a mile from Jamie’s house at a local gas station. He read the latest Lee Child novel as he waited for his boss’s man to update him. There was no way he was going near Jamie’s home after the break-in that morning. Thankfully, his boss always knew someone, somewhere. And to get one of the cops, who was currently keeping an eye on the Jacobs home for twenty-four hours, to give an update of any movements at the home took a simple phone call.

Something was going to happen, he could feel it. Sure enough. Just as Child’s Jack Reacher character was about to raise bloody hell on four beefy idiots with his bare hands, Gerald’s
phone rang. According to the source, Michael Brody’s black gas guzzler had pulled up to Jamie’s house with her in the passenger seat. It’d parked at her home for ten minutes until the two of them emerged with Jamie carrying a small suitcase. And the SUV was headed his way.

Gerald reluctantly closed the novel, carefully marking his place. Were they headed to the airport? He was prepared if it came to that. Brody’s SUV blew past the gas station, and he pulled out after it. The SUV passed the airport exit and continued east on the highway, following the Columbia River through the gorge where the river cut through the Cascade Mountain Range. Gerald kept his gaze glued to the Range Rover, ignoring the wide blue river on his left. The river was the northern boundary of Oregon, separating it from Washington. On his right were towering steep cliffs with the occasional waterfall.

To Oregonians, the Columbia River Gorge was one of nature’s miracles. Gerald ignored it.

Hours later the cliffs eventually became flatland. The sights grew drier and browner. They crossed over into what Gerald mentally classified as redneck country. The eastern side of the Cascade Mountain Range was home to ranchers and cowboys. How far east were Brody and Jamie going? Boise? Montana? He believed it wouldn’t be too much farther. If they were going as far as Boise or more, it really made more sense to fly.

About fifty miles before the Idaho border, the SUV exited the main highway. A series of dusty two-lane roads and ninety more minutes of driving placed them in a tiny country town. Gerald stopped at the single-pump gas station to fill up and kept an eye on Jamie and Michael’s vehicle down the street. It’d pulled up to the sheriff’s building and they’d gone inside.

Fuck, it was hot.
Gerald stretched the kinks out of his back as the attendant filled his vehicle. Hopefully this was nearly the end of the journey. Why’d they stop at the sheriff’s office? Did they not know exactly where they were going?

He had a hunch Chris Jacobs was hiding out in this shitty little town.

He noticed the attendant eyeing the tattoos peeking out on his wrists. Gerald tugged at his sleeves, hating to pull them down to hide the color. The guy probably thought he was nuts for wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans in this heat. The shirt was athletic fabric, the clingy, stretchy kind that wicked moisture away from the body and showed every sculpted muscle of his arms and chest. It really wasn’t too bad in the heat.

He pretended to make a phone call and held the phone to his ear for a few seconds.

“Shit. What the hell?” he said, loud enough for the attendant to hear.

“Problem?” the kid asked. He looked like a typical country boy. Tanned skin, dingy cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that had been white at some point. He just needed a grass stem hanging out the side of his mouth or a tobacco can ring in his back pocket.

A brief flash of the teen boys from his childhood hit his brain. This kid would have been one of the popular kids. Normal looking, confident. The kind who made fun of Gerald, the freak. Gerald stood straighter, expanding his chest. It was one of the reasons he stayed in top physical shape. It was a confidence builder. And his tattoos gave him confidence. Sometimes he wanted to shed his clothes and show his colors to the world, but that wasn’t their purpose. They were for him. They allowed him to look at his body with pride, boosting his morale. In
private moments, his victims had seen his skin of many colors. It’d intimidated them, helped them recognize his power.

Gerald held up his phone. “Keeps going to voice mail. I’ve called five times.”

The kid nodded. “That sucks.”

“Well, hell. I drove all the way from Boise today to buy a truck from a guy, and now I can’t even reach him. He’d told me to give him a call when I got to town, so he could give me directions. I told him I had a GPS, and he just laughed. Said his address doesn’t work on those things. That common out here?”

White crooked teeth grinned at him. “Totally. A GPS can get you to Demming, but none of the mapping companies are going to waste time with the local addresses when there’s one house every twenty miles.”

Gerald looked over the tiny town. “I guess I’ll sit and wait somewhere and hope the guy gets back to me. I hope he doesn’t think that I changed my mind.”

“Who’re you buying a truck from?”

Yes!
Gerald gave the kid a surprised look. “You think you might know him? This area that small?”

The kid shrugged and glanced at the ticker on the gas pump. “I know most folks.”

“The name’s Chris Jacobs. Sound familiar?”

One eyebrow rose a bit. “Yeah, I know him. Didn’t realize he was selling his truck. That thing’s a piece of shit. Why’d you drive so far to buy that?”

Gerald tried to look concerned while inside he was shooting off fireworks. “You think it’s a waste of money? I’m just looking for a beater vehicle for my nephew to drive to school.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’d be fine for that.”

“You know where I can find him?”

The pump turned off, and the kid clicked the handle a few times, topping off the tank. He slammed the handle back in the holder and punched a few buttons on the pump. “Sure. But you better keep trying to call him. Chris doesn’t like surprise visitors. He nearly shot my buddy, Justin, when he cut through his property going after a coyote. I’ll write the directions down for you. If he’s not home, you could stop by the bakery and ask. Old Juan, the baker, is about the only guy Chris ever talks to. He might know if Chris is out of town for some reason.”

Gerald hid his excitement as the attendant scribbled on the back of his gas receipt with a grimy pencil. Only in a small town does everyone really know everyone else. And willingly give you directions to where they live.

Now he could get down to business. He pictured how to end Chris Jacobs’s life as impatience rushed through him. He imagined Chris fighting for air with Gerald’s hands around his throat, knowledge of his killer’s identity visible in his eyes. Or Chris seeing the spray of his own blood on a wall from Gerald’s knife to the neck. The two men had a history together; it was time for the climax.

Chris studied his monitor in the dim light. Four camera views showed different angles of his home. Three outside and one in. He’d thought about investing in some motion detectors to trip the cameras, but there were too many small critters wandering around. The black-and-white images were still. No one had gone near his home.

Brian made a small sound in his sleep. It was a good noise. A contented noise. It was an adventure for the boy to spend the
night above Juan’s bakery. It was one of Brian’s favorite places to buy a treat, so sleeping above the little shop was even better. The boy definitely had a sweet tooth. Juan created some incredible baked goods. Chris loved the smell and the taste of the baked breads, but he could do without the sweet, dessert-type foods.

He hadn’t eaten sweets in decades.

Sweat beaded down his back, and feeling slightly nauseous, Chris ran a shaky hand over his mouth. No cakes. No frosting. Not for him. He closed his eyes, breathing deep.

He remembered being back in the hospital. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. According to his parents, he’d spent months getting well enough to be released. To him, the time was a big haze. Doctors, nurses, police, detectives. He’d spoken to none of them and looked away at their questions. He couldn’t even face his parents. He knew he looked bad. The burns ran up and down his face, and his hair had been pulled out in places. Later, he’d learned that both his cheekbones and his nose had been broken, probably more than once.

Although most of the hospital days were a complete fog, there were some clear memories. Jamie. He remembered the first time he saw her. Her green eyes wide in wonder as she stared at his bandages.

And he remembered the Twinkies. They’d been in a small gift basket. His hospital room had been packed with bouquets and balloons and gift baskets. Gifts from people he’d never met. People who’d read about his plight in the paper. People who’d prayed for two years for all the kids to come home safely. He was an answer to that prayer.