Evil to the Max (14 page)

“Tell them you have a mystery witness.”

“I’m a cop, not a reporter that can hide behind ‘sources.’”

“Then I’ll tell them I was at the Round Up that night. I can describe the whole scene quite clearly, and ID Jake Lloyd right down to the red and black plaid shirt he wore.”

Witt raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment on that particular detail. “But
I
know you weren’t there, and I’d be legally required to turn you in if you committed perjury.”

Full sentences. She loved it when she got his back up with all that procedural stuff. “All right, fine, then we’ll have to find a way to break his alibi. I think I’ll pay a call on Nadine Johnson right after work tomorrow.”

Damn, she should have done it tonight. Caught Jake and Nadine together. Needled until one of them broke down.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Forget it. You look like a cop. You’ll blow my cover.”

“Cover? When did you set up a cover?”

Oops. That little run-in with Pippa Louise Lamont had really given her diarrhea mouth. Nothing to do but go with it now. So to speak. “I had a little talk with Jake.”

Witt’s face clouded over. “Dammit, Max.”

She held up a hand, palm in his face. “Don’t start in on me. We were in a well-lit, public place.” Max crossed the fingers of the other hand behind her back. “I told him I was a friend of Tiffany’s.” She wiggled her shoulders. “So I can’t very well take you with me and pass you off as another friend of hers, especially if Jake’s there.”

He considered that for a moment. “I’ll be right outside.”

“In the car.”

He threw his hands in the air. “I give up.”

Max smiled. So nice to be on top. “I get off at six.” No pun intended.

Witt nodded, then turned to go without touching her again, which was mildly disappointing—only because Tiffany’s emotions roiled inside her, of course.

“Oh, I forgot.” He gave a dramatic pause.

Max waited. Witt stayed silent. She ended up breaking the stalemate. “Forgot what?”

The corner of Witt’s mouth lifted. “Your wino. Name’s Snake. Sleeps at St. Vincent’s Mission on First Street.”

Bastard. He’d been saving that plum the whole time, and he was damn pleased about dropping it on her.

“You’re going to pay for making me wait to hear that, Detective.” Old diarrhea-mouth didn’t think before she spoke.

“I’m paying all right, Max. Just not sure how long I’m gonna have to wait.” Then he reached out, palmed her breast, and stroked her tight nipple with his thumb. “Doesn’t feel like it’s gonna be all that much longer.”

Then he walked away.

Bastard.

If he’d stuck around another half second, he wouldn’t have had to wait at all. Max would have dragged him up to her apartment.

Thank God he was arrogant enough to need the last word.

Chapter Fourteen

The salon was quiet except for the hum of the clothes dryer. Night had fallen outside long ago. She was the last one working, her final client scooting out the front door half an hour ago.

She waited for a soft knock at the back door. Jake was late. Her panties were already wadded up in her purse, and with her own thoughts and hands, she’d worked her need into a near-frenzy. Close, to within moments of coming, backing off, then starting all over to keep herself on edge for as long as possible. She loved touching herself, loved the feel of her own body and the way she could make herself come fast and hard if she wanted to. She especially loved touching herself while he watched. But tonight she’d wait for him to finish her off.

Then she heard the knock she’d been waiting for.

She jerked the back door open, grabbed his arm and yanked him inside. She’d intended to use the massage table, but they couldn’t make it past the laundry room. He pushed her up against the dryer, thrust his hand beneath her skirt. She curled a leg around his thigh to give him better access. His fingers dipped deep inside. She felt the beginnings of a spasm and fought off the orgasm.

“Jesus, you’re wet.” Still circling her clit with one finger, he pulled her hand to his mouth, sucked two of her fingers inside and mimicked her giving him head, then licked the center of her palm. “You started without me.”

“But I didn’t come yet. Fuck me,” she breathed against his ear, then bit his lobe.

“Not so fast, baby.” He withdrew his fingers from between her legs, put his hands to her waist, and lifted her onto the dryer. The machine vibrated under her butt. She leaned forward and pressed down, bringing her pussy into intimate contact with the thrumming metal. She closed her eyes, swayed. Then he pushed her back, drew her skirt to her belly, bent his head and covered her with his mouth.

She moaned, fisted a hand in his dark, silky hair, then bit down hard on her lip to keep from coming with the delicious stroke of his tongue.

God, he licked better than anyone she’d ever had. She wrapped her legs around his shoulders, spreading herself for him. Her breath coming faster, she rocked against his mouth. The orgasm built. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet. The longer she held off, the better. She looked down at him, his dark head bouncing between her thighs, listened to the sound of his tongue lapping at her. The sensation as he swooped inside, then out again, then straight up to her clitoris was overwhelming. Her head fell back, her eyes closed ...

She caught a momentary flash of something, then saw the eyeball peeking through the corner of the half-shut door. She licked her lips and watched through slitted eyes. She moaned and bucked with Jake’s hard tongue strokes. She ripped the buttons of her blouse open, exposing the tight points of her nipples. Plumping a breast in her hand, she pinched a hard bud.

She split her concentration between Jake’s tongue swirling over her clit and the eye watching her. She discerned a soft moan, the chink of metal as a belt flopped open, and the slight rasp of zipper. She knew her voyeur had been driven to the point of madness, driven to palm himself, driven to make himself come. Because of her.

At those thoughts, she came harder than she’d ever come before. She cried out, calling Jake’s name, shouting fuck-me-suck-me words, and holding his face between her legs like a vise as the orgasm rumbled through her.

“Oh, Jesus. Put it inside me, now. Now!” She hadn’t finished the full orgasmic tumble, but pulled him up, needing to catch the wave again before it completely washed away. They both struggled with the buttons of his jeans, and then he plunged deep, hard, slamming her up against the back of the dryer. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck and nipped the flesh there. He pounded her, his wet fingers on the nub of her clitoris, rubbing, sliding.

The eyeball watched on. A tongue slipped out to run across dry lips. Movement flickered in the fragment of light between door and jamb. A soft grunt.

She came again just as her gaze connected fully with the eye watching her.

Looking straight into the sliver of door jamb, she murmured, “Let me suck you. Please let me suck you. I want your come in my mouth. I want to swallow. All of you, every last drop.” She was rewarded with a barely audible groan from behind the door. The eyeball disappeared.

And Tiffany smiled.

Max came fully awake, aroused, disgusted, and frightened.

“Let me love you. Let me get rid of the ache,” Cameron whispered. She could almost feel him on top of her.

“No. It’s her, not me. I won’t give her the satisfaction.”

“When I touch you, it’s only us.” His sadness ruffled through her hair.

She steeled herself against it. “No.”

“I love you, Max.”

“I won’t let her win.” She gritted her teeth, the strength of the bite bringing tears to her eyes. “It was like some weird threesome. She was doing Jake and talking to the eyeball. This is too freaking strange for me.”

“And it reminds you too much of what I did in the bathroom while Witt waited outside.”

Well, yeah, there was that. The Tiffany dream tainted the moment. Except that what she’d let Cameron do was sort of a sicko thing in and of itself, even without Tiffany.

“Believe what you want, Max. Wrack yourself with guilt over it.” Cameron slid to the side, off her. She could breathe again, despite the fact that his weight had been non-existent. His voice, flat-toned, now came from the pillow beside her. “Did you see who was watching?”

Buzzard chose that moment to jump from the ledge to her stomach. “No,” came out on an exhale.

“Next time, control it. Open the door and see who’s out there.”

Max did a half-turn toward him, allowing the cat to nestle in the curve of her belly, then tangled her fingers in its warm fur. “I can’t control it.”

“Yes, you can. Acknowledge it’s a vision and direct it.”

“No.”

“You said that way too quickly, my love.”

She didn’t want to see who was behind that door. It was too frightening, too much responsibility.

“It could be Tiffany’s murderer,” he said.

Or, just like in her childhood nightmares, it could be a horrible monster.

* * * * *

“Max, it’s time,” Miles announced. He held a leopard-print cape in front of him, snapping it in the air like a great matador. “A shampoo, then a new cut. We’ll turn you into a goddess.”

It was a little after eight in the morning, and Max quaked in her high heels at the thought of being a goddess, especially after last night’s dream. Especially since Miles could very well have been the owner of the eyeball staring through the crack of the door.

Miles did not, however, give her time to think, let alone time to say no.

“Ariel, you shall do the shampoo”—a great honor he bestowed with a wave of his hand—“but first, the hair cleansing cream to remove any cheap, tacky hairspray.”

Max did not use hairspray, cheap, tacky or otherwise, at least not since she’d last been to the Round Up for something besides a murder investigation.

“Then the protein system, and finally the damaged hair treatment.” Miles smiled broadly as if he hadn’t just insulted her.

This could take all morning. But the cut was free. Her tough accounting backbone bore the weight whenever the word
free
was mentioned.

Ariel went to work on her, fitting the cover-up, pushing her down into the chair by the sink, and gently working the warm water, then some wonderfully scented goop into her hair.

Having your hair washed was one of life’s little pleasures. She closed her eyes with the sheer luxury of Ariel’s fingers massaging her scalp and almost forgot to ask probing questions of her captive audience. One in particular that Cameron had seemed to think was important, though Max had no idea why. Psychically speaking, it hadn’t seemed weighty.

She opened her eyes to find herself staring straight into Ariel’s armpit. Hmm. One of the things she needed when detecting was to see a person’s face, to gauge their first reaction. She certainly wasn’t going to get it from an armpit. Nothing else to do, but get on with it and listen for the silences. She closed her eyes again.

“I’m curious. You don’t look like a Sanchez. Is that a married name?” Blunt, artless, but Ariel stiffened, her fingers ceasing their rhythmic rubdown. Ah, so there were advantages to not seeing, to
feeling
a person’s reaction instead. “You’re not offended, are you?” she added, to placate, to get Ariel talking. Most people would answer if they didn’t think you were either trying to cut them down or patronize them. “Just tell me to bug off if I get too personal.”

Ariel’s fingers began moving again, vigorously. “No. Of course not. Sanchez is my married name. I’m divorced.” Short, clipped sentences. Sadness? No, more like anger. “Time to rinse.” She turned the water on. Too hot. Max squeaked. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” The apology was genuine. But Max knew she’d hit a nerve. She just wasn’t sure which one or what it meant.

A shampoo, a haircut, and four hours of grueling receptionist work later, the edge had worn off the dream.

No, not a dream. A vision. And she still didn’t like Cameron’s idea of trying to control it.

Nor did she like the idea of her so-called date tonight with Witt. He’d dropped his little bombshell about Snake the Wino, then called her from his truck to tell her he’d pick her up at work. As if he didn’t trust her not to cut out on him like she had last night.

Not that she hadn’t intended to do just that. Witt was beginning to know her too damn well. He was starting to anticipate her moves. Almost as though
he
was psychic.

Or a manipulating ghost was feeding him lines.

She looked at herself in the mirror behind the cash register, pulled on an out-of-place lock of hair. “You know, I can’t really see the difference.” It was the same cut she’d had six months ago, minus the few choppings she’d administered to keep it out of her eyes and off her ears.

Ariel laughed lightly, looking up from her study of the appointment book. “Don’t tell Miles that.” Miles, who had disappeared into Pippa’s office when she’d arrived. “You’re today’s masterpiece.”

There was a clatter, a crash, and a scream.

Max turned to find Jules almost in tears, and Moe practically apoplectic. The dye she’d been carrying in a small plastic bowl splattered her tiger cover-up, her white hose and shoes, and seeped across the floor in a three-foot-wide puddle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jules wrung his hands.

“You moron,” Moe shrieked, snapping like an alligator at his heels. “You stupid, ugly ...”

Max didn’t waste any time rounding the edge of the counter. “Hey, it was an accident. Leave him alone.”

Moe turned on her. “What do you know about it? He’s always clumsy, knocking this over, breaking that, and ruining stuff.” She spread her arms. “Just look what he did to my clothes. Oh and Jesus, this shit is burning me.” She shot Jules another glare. “Pippa’s little pet,” she snarled, but the fear of chemical burns on her legs was greater than her need to get back at Jules. She turned on her heel and left the room.