Quintic (52 page)

He lent her a t-shirt and made coffee.
Three in the morning and they were drinking coffee. Her heart was
beating at a hundred and fifty at least. They talked. The place
belonged to a friend of his, temporarily out of town.

She strolled around, studying her
surroundings. Blank walls. Books on shelves. He had his own room.
Books and drawings. She browsed as her hair dried. Left to itself,
her brown waves curled around her face, down her shoulders and
breasts and back. The blue waves mingled in a mass more sea than
mud.

“
You look thinner with all the
hair,” he said a couple of weeks later.

She shrugged, he said that each time,
and smiled. He was a good lover, a good man too. Crazy, though, but
not like her. Crazy wild.

“
Come here, Babycakes.” She sat on
the edge of the bed near him. “You ever think of quitting that
diner? Seems to me you could do so much more.”

“
I can’t quit, not yet anyway.” She
had not sold enough books yet.

“
I’ll pay you.”

“
Pay me? Surely you don’t mean
you’ll make a kept woman out of me.” A
courtisane
, how old-fashioned. And how was it that
she was not terribly insulted?

“
Nothing like that, although if you
are interested−”

“
Don’t even think about it.”

“
Yah, that’s what I thought. I meant
I’ll pay you to write. To draw. Whatever. Be your own private
Maecenas.”

She pouted and rolled her eyes but
smiled nonetheless. “Silly. You don’t even have a real job.”

“
Sure I do. Might not be a regular
job but then, I’m not a regular guy.”

“
That you’re not. How come you don’t
have any decoration? No pictures, no frames, no nothing.”

“
I never stay around long enough to
bother. I’d love a portrait of you, though.”

“
I hate for anyone to photograph
me.”

“
I’ve noticed. That’s why I stole
pictures of you while you were sleeping and writing, but I want
more. I want you to make a portrait of yourself. Not a selfie but a
portrait. Can you draw yourself for me? A full-body painting.
Please.”

She knew he liked the looks of her, he
said it often enough, he demonstrated it often enough. He would
watch her, his eyes travelling up and down her body over and over
for long stretches of time. Before they made love. During. After.
Even when she fell asleep, she sometimes felt the weight of his
eyes. She wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, but she slept well
when he was near. She felt protected.

He set her up in his friend’s small
living room. Knowing she liked that dark crushed raspberry-pink
colour, he had bought a thick blanket of that exact colour for her
to lie on. He had rented spotlights on tripods, or maybe he had
them already, stored in the garage. That shed was full of tools,
more so than any real handyman could dream of or need. Tools and a
rusting car, his only personal possessions. She didn’t mind, she
didn’t own much herself.

He used the lights as anchorage for the
mirrors. She stretched on her back, naked, her sketch pad in her
hands. She studied herself in the mirrors and painted.

“
Make it a three-quart view, right
side.”

“
Why that angle?”

His answer came, disarmingly simple.
“The couch’s on the right of you. I sit. You crayon.”

Hence, while she drew, he sat and
watched as she sketched herself. Studied her as she observed and
drew.

At first, she traced outlines of
herself. Warming up. A few lines and curves. A drawing every
minute, then one every five, prolonging the pose until one drawing
took half an hour. She got to know her curves. Not just the right
side. Front and also left. Got to know his planes and curves too as
she traced him. He sat, hands on his lap. Hands shielding his
cock.

She made a right side three-quart
view of herself. In the painting, her blue waves covering the swell
of her breasts, the undersides light in contrast to the richness of
her hair, one rosy nipple peeking out. The pale skin of sleek legs
light cut against the blanket’s deep colour, a fold of fabric
modestly covering her pelvis. Waves of blue, strips of creamy
white, a sea of deep fuchsia. She drew herself drawing herself. If
one looked carefully, the dark shadow at the right edge of the
painting outlined a manly pair of feet and legs.

She kept the other drawing, the one
where the feet and legs were attached to a naked male body sitting
on a black leather couch. Head slightly bend. Soft hair partly
hiding the model’s left eye. His right fixed on the painter. The
couch backrest showed the imprint of an arm and hand, although in
the painting the naked man had both hands on his groin. He was not
shielding his cock as much as holding it down.

Later, pouring coffee, carrying plates,
she still felt his eyes on her.

Excerpt
from
PI
Unlimited
, by Trica C.
Line

Their Resembling
Theories

“Y
ou know, I’ve been
thinking.”

Fuck, not again!

Early Monday
morning
, he was enjoying a tender moment
as Patricia sat on the counter watching him cook breakfast. An
extraordinary perfect morning until then at least. She had awoken
at five in the morning, a little after him but a good hour earlier
than her usual time. Since she was up, he was making eggs, bacon
and toasts. She looked sleepy and damn sexy.

After her
late shower last night, she had changed into a pair of sweatpants
and a t-shirt, both his. The clothes betrayed her uneasy feelings.
Easy to tell why; she was thinking too much and getting restless.
So fragile. She had fallen asleep in his arms, untouched, while he
had stayed awake for a long time. Green in her eyes got to him
every time. He needed leads on Lemieux and the diner girls before
she took matters into her own hands.

She smiled
at Christopher’s expression. She was not as skilled as he was at
decrypting facial expressions, but at this very instant his frown
clearly screamed, “
not that
again
,” shortly followed by,
“
what now?
”

She waited
patiently. She too could be patient. Sometimes. She was feeling
amorous this morning. She liked the kitchen counter and knew
he
enjoyed it too. She was thrilled; for
once, he didn’t have any idea what she was thinking.

Until then,
h
e had been thinking about sex. Her next
to him on the counter, legs crossed (for now) was like foreplay.
The counter top’s height made cooking comfortable. Its height made
other things damn near perfect.
Her
. She had taken a quick shower
again this morning; the oversized t-shirt had returned, but she had
exchanged the sweatpants for a pair of white panties. Mussed hair,
dreamy expression, she looked stunning.

His
feeling became painfully evident. They might
still have time for
his
thoughts if
her
thinking didn’t turn into a big discussion.

“Christopher, are you
listening?”

He turned
off the heat. The bacon was crispy, the scrambled eggs fluffy, and
the toasts were just about toasted.

He stood in
front of her. Hands
on her knees, he
opened her legs. Then, his paws groped her butt, and he pulled her
to the edge of the counter. He stepped between her legs, her
breasts brushing against his torso, his hands fisting her butt, and
leaned into her for a perfect moment in his favourite spot in the
world.

“
Now, Angel
of mine. I’m listening. What is it you’ve been thinking
about?”

She frowned
briefly before kissing him. A hard kiss, one hand
in his hair, tugging, one hand on his ass,
quickly, before it insinuated itself into his pants. The kiss left
him breathless. He took the hint.

Later
, they ate rubbery eggs,
cold bacon and mushy toasts; a perfect breakfast he
thought.

And then,
again, she said, “
Mon
chéri
, I’ve been thinking.”

His first
thought?
Today’s going to be
one fucking special day!
Then he caught
her mischievous smile and grinned at her. “I guess on the counter
earlier, that had been my thinking, right?”

“
Yes, it
had, Big guy. It had been mine too, but only after you showed me
your, hum,
thoughts
.”

He laughed.
“O
K, stubborn woman, I guess I can’t
escape it, so shoot.”

“
Lemieux.
I’ve been thinking
−”

He
tried
cutting her off, “Fuck, Patricia,”
but she covered his mouth firmly with her hand.

“
Christopher, please. Let me finish. I know you think
Lemieux is going out with me over and over, but I believe you’re
wrong. I think I was just his type.”

Gripping her
wrist, he removed her hand from his mouth and tucked it against his
groin before he tried butting in again.

“
Shush
, Big guy.” She covered his
mouth back with her other hand and continued, “I’ve seen some of
the women Lemieux dated. He went out with other girls after me, you
know, countless of women at that. They all had the same physique.
Brown hair, medium-to-tall, and like me, none was, shall we say,
bodacious. So maybe you’re right, it’s not a coincidence they look
like me, but it’s me that resembles them. He picked me up,
remember? He picked me up because I had the right physical
attributes.”

He stared at
her. “Not bodacious?” Was that how she thought of herself? He
didn’t. She was the most fucking sensuous woman he had ever laid
eyes on. “Fuck, Patricia.”

“You know what I mean.”

“
No, I
fucking don’t, Princess. Truly, I don’t. You’re the poet here;
don’t you know what images the word draw out for me?” And for most
guys he knew. “You are sexy.” That earned him a derisive pout and a
stare from the blues. “You are the hottest, most voluptuous and
spunkiest woman I ever had the honour of fucking.”

That made
her smile.
“‘The honour of
fucking’?”

“
Yes.
Fucking hard.” He heard her catch her breath and swallow. “Want me
to show you?” He offered.

She blinked
a couple of times rapidly and
licked her
lips. When the tip of her tongue touched her lower lip, he pulled
her to him and pushed his tongue inside her mouth, adding as he let
her go, “Yes. Fuck hard. Have sex. Make love. Screw. Come.
Climaxed. All of the above.”

The damn
woman laughed, not a hint of green to be seen this
morning.

“
Perhaps
what you meant to say
, Dollface, was that
they had perky but not oversized breasts?”

She laughed
and blushed. Damn that woman was sexy, “Fine, funny man, that’s
what I was trying to say. Average breasts. I−”

“
There’s
nothing average about your breasts.” He cupped the soft mounds with
his hands, brushing her nipples, making them harden. Fucking
perfect.

“
Christopher.
” She stiffened under
his touch, and, her expression serious, slapped his hands away.
“Let me finish. I think this is about Lemieux’s taste. I’m just one
in the lot.”

She might
have a point.
“Are you sure about
that?”

“
Yes.
Absolutely.”
Her voice was confident, but
her smirk hinted to an
almost
more than an
absolute
.
“He offered for me because I was a tallish, slim brunette,” she
went on. “He must have picked up dozens before me. Like I know he
propositioned many after me. OK?” Too easy.

He agreed
nonetheless. “OK.”

“
OK then. We
agree that the killer is not after me in particular.”

He was not
going to agree to anything of such, no way, but he let
h
er go on.

“
O
keydokey then,” she repeated.
“So it means either the killer likes killing the same girl type as
Lemieux dated, and Lemieux is an innocent victim, an unlucky
bystander caught in it by accident.”

Chris
doubted that
in truth, Lemieux had
dated
any
of the women but like before, he didn’t say anything.
Your Lemieux jerk is anything but
innocent, Princess
.

“
Or it means
the killer was after Lemieux
, and the
women are the innocent bystanders. But then why two? Unless the
first one was a warning? But why bury her? Hum. I think the
innocent bystander theory has more potential. Perhaps if we looked
more into the victims than into Lemieux?” She paused before
grinning at him, her eyes half-closed, her head tilted to the side.
“That was kind of working the case, wasn’t it?” Not waiting for his
answer, she laughed playfully, “Does it mean you’re
fired?”

No fucking
way.

P
atricia had trouble
focusing on her writing, her mind going back and forth between the
diner girls and Lemieux. Diner girls. Lemieux. For some
inexplicable reason, she sensed a connexion between the three
murders. Three? Two dead young women in back alleys, one stripper,
plus Lemieux, made four, five if she counted the strangled
overdosed hooker. One male, four females, all dead. How?
Why?