Baddest Bad Boys (8 page)

Minutes later, the lock snicked open to her skillful picking. Julia braced herself for the squeal of a burglar alarm. There was none.

As she pushed the door open and entered the modest duplex, she understood why he didn’t bother. The place was dull and stark—a sand colored shag rug, a beige couch in front of a large screen plasma TV. Plain black-out shades. No pictures, posters, bookcases. The blandest lamps a person could find, if they were looking hard. Nothing personal. Nothing worth protecting, other than good quality electronic equipment. The bareness of the man’s home must reflect the emptiness of his soul.

Unfortunately, it also implied that there was no important woman in his life. No woman could live in a place so featureless.

The kitchen was likewise unremarkable. Unusually clean, for a man living alone, but that could just mean that he ate out, or had a cleaning service come in and wipe up his filthy messes. Cupboards revealed whiskies and bourbons. In the refrigerator were condiments and beer. So. He was a heavy drinker. Big surprise.

She went into the bathroom, searching for feminine products, and found only condoms. If he brought women here, he must throw them out before it occurred to them to need a toothbrush or a panty-liner. He probably bent them over the table, humped for a moment, and then speed dialed a car service to get them the hell out of his way when he came. Empathy clutched her throat for the women he’d maltreated.

Slimy, disgusting user. He should be put down. Like a rabid dog.

On the Internet, she’d found records of a brief marriage. She wondered if he’d beaten the woman. Probably raped and sodomized her.

His bedroom was plain. A king-sized bed, a silver gray corduroy duvet cover. His closet had an unremarkable assortment of shirts, suits and jackets. No designer brands. A handful of inexpensive, unattractive ties were snarled around a wire clothes hanger, abandoned and forgotten. So he was cheap, too.

William had worn only the best. Of course.

Two more bedrooms. One was a catch-all, with a weight lifting set in one corner, a scaffold piled with skiing and climbing equipment in the other. Finally she saw how he spent what money he made. She’d checked his pay grade. His monthly income was less than her monthly clothing budget. Unless he was on the take. Which was probable.

The other bedroom was a studio, with a huge desk, a filing cabinet and a laptop. Here she found a hinged frame boasting two five-by-seven photos. One showed Amendola with a good-looking man more or less his age, and a younger girl, in the mountains. The men were dressed in climbing gear, with sunburned laughing faces. The girl would have been pretty but for the bad glasses and the braces. The girl’s face was similar to the other man’s. His sister, maybe. Amendola’s arm was around her shoulder. Julia’s eyes lingered on that point of contact.

The other photograph was taken from a lakeside. The same two men in a boat. Amendola held up a large trout, looking absurdly pleased with himself. A spectacular view of a sunset pink Mt. Rainier was reflected in the lakewater.

Finally, a pinhole window into the man’s private life. She closed her eyes. Summoned William’s face. He smiled mysteriously. She took this to mean what it had always meant: the answers were before her and she had to use her own brain to ferret them out. William’s rigorous attitude comforted her, obscurely. Although they were on different planes, nothing had changed. William was still William.

Amendola’s computer was password protected. His filing cabinet had a dull assortment of tax records. She began sorting through the garbage on his desk. Bills, bank statements, junk mail.

And then, on the very bottom of the pile, she found it.

It was an envelope with a newspaper clipping, dated two years back. A local Olympia paper told the story of Jon Amendola and Daniel MacNamara, who had come upon an unfortunate climber on their way up the Disappointment Cleaver route to the summit of Mt. Rainier. The man had been trapped in a rockfall in Cathedral Gap. Amendola and MacNamara had gotten the injured man out and transported him to Camp Muir. A grainy photo verified that Amendola’s climbing partner was the same man in the other photos. A Post-It was stuck to the clipping, upon which was scrawled, You’re famous. Hope you’re not still undercover, because Robin’s laminated this sucker all over her dorm room door. It was signed simply “Danny.”

Julia stared at the green square of paper. She was trembling.

Robin? Was it possible? The name of the girl in that photograph—she assumed she was Daniel MacNamara’s sister—had a name that evoked William’s avocation? Their whole life’s work? Robin. Incredible.

The robin’s egg had been Julia’s idea. She’d been so honored when William had adopted it. It symbolized the cosmic potential inside each girl. The color invoked both the blue of the sky and William’s piercing blue eyes. The ovoid delicacy, the smallness, the femininity, symbolized the care they took with each soul they taught to fly.

Robin. It was a sign. She looked young, too. William had liked them young. They’d done most of their hunting at college campuses.

Julia closed her eyes. William’s smile of approval shone. She basked in it. And abruptly, his smile faded, and he made a gesture that said, And? Enough self-congratulation. She jolted into action, tucked the photos into her purse. The envelope had a letterhead that read Crowne Royale Group, with a Seattle address. That, too, she put in her purse.

She was closing the front door behind her when the door of the other duplex popped open, emitting a fragrance of vanilla.

It was an old lady, shriveled and bent, dressed in an oversized pink cardigan trimmed with yarn pompom balls. She peered through glasses that grotesquely enlarged her watery, colorless eyes. “Are you Joanna?” she demanded, in the strident tones of the partially deaf.

Julia opened her mouth, but the old lady barged on. “Jonny told me you’d be coming from Social Services to help me sort my medicines. Usually Jonny does it for me, but he’s gone off fishing, so he got me a girl to come. So you’re the girl? You’re this Joanna?”

Julia smiled. “Why, ah, yes. I am Joanna. I’m so sorry, but when Jon told me your name, I forgot to write it down in my notes. Mrs.—?”

“Oh, call me Molly. Come on in, and have some lemon cookies.”

Julia followed the wizened crone into her stuffy, crowded lair.

“Thank you. I love lemon cookies,” she purred.

 

Robin felt so warm. Deliciously warm, curled up in a hot embrace and someone was stroking her hair, too. Slow, feather-light strokes. As she became aware of them, each gentle touch made tender, tickling warmth pulse under the surface of her skin.

Mmm. She didn’t want to wake up. She drank it up, like a kitten lapping cream. But she was drifting up to consciousness, bracing herself for that moment when it all melted away, leaving her alone.

Her eyes fluttered open, and met Jon’s. Bright blue chips of clear August sky. Shock, followed by a thrill of delight, and then pleasure racing and tingling and throbbing here and there, in strategic points of her body and then all points in between. It was real. He was real.

Omigod. This had really, truly, honest-to-God happened.

It had been more intense than she’d imagined. Well worth the effort it had taken to wrangle that guy into submission.

Although one could hardly characterize his exploits last night as submissive. She pressed her thighs together, biting her lip at the glow, the soreness. She remembered it like a crazy fever dream. Like being caught in the heart of a raging storm. Like being possessed by a god.

Jon stared into her face. The look in his eyes was so unguarded, it hurt her heart. Tears welled up. She wiped them away, smiled shakily. The knot in her throat shriveled up all possibility of speech.

Her feelings for him were plastered all over her face, like posters on a billboard. He’d said, virgins always fall in love with you when you fuck them, if you do it right. Well, he’d done it right, by God. She would never be the same again. And she thought she had it bad before.

Her girlish imaginings had been pale and thin compared to the lusty reality of his big body against hers, his huge penis, his rampaging sexual style. She was starting to squirm just thinking about it.

Her face was getting hot, but she couldn’t look away. He looked like he was silently asking for something, but the plea was locked inside him, behind thick soundproof walls, clamoring to get out.

But she could hear him, loud and clear. From inside her heart.

She snuggled closer to him, until their noses almost touched, and lost herself in those bright eyes, the black curling eyelashes. His beard had grown out to a sexy, stubbly shadow that brought into focus the sculpted planes and angles of his jaw. That mouth, that knew no limits.

So close to hers. It happened slowly, so gradually, with no clear act of volition on anyone’s part, a seamless, inevitable melding. One minute they were gazing, the next, they were kissing as if they’d always been kissing, as if they would never be able to stop.

The sweetest, loveliest kiss. She was a flower opening, aching to give him all the nectar she had, with perfect trust. Their lips met, explored, nibbled and plucked and stroked. His tongue touched hers, and molten delight shot down, shimmering in her nipples, blooming between her thighs, making her knees tingle, her toes curl.

He put his hand between her legs, slipping his fingers inside, and his low growl vibrated through her body when he found her wet.

One dizzy, disoriented movement, and he’d rolled heavily on top of her, shoving her legs wide. He lodged himself against her, and started squeezing that big, rock-hard phallus into her body. She was still sore from last night’s adventures, yet the whimpers that jerked out of her with each deep shove were cries of pleasure.

He stopped when he was as deep as he could go. She could feel his heartbeat, throbbing inside her at the mouth of her womb, pressing all those lovely areas that just loved to be pressed.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

She let out a crack of breathless laughter, and dug her nails into his chest. “Oh, sure. Ask me now, why don’t you, when you’re so deep inside me, you’re practically coming out my mouth.”

He swiveled his hips, making her gasp and rock against him.

“You know how it is. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Don’t stop.” She wiggled madly against him. “I like it.”

“Answer my question.” He froze into place, his eyes steely.

She let out a sharp sigh. “I didn’t answer it because it’s a dumb question. Sure, it hurts. I don’t care. So stop bothering me.”

“I could stop,” he said. “If you’re too—”

“Shut. Up.” She shook him, wiggling her hips to get him going.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

“Not on my account,” she snapped, but the rest of her lecture was lost when he cupped the back of her head and started kissing again.

It was different this time. He was gentler, much gentler. Last night had a desperate, urgent, life-or-death quality. This morning, the movement of his body was playful, voluptuous. A slow thrust and glide, no hurry. A seeking, swirling, skillful pulse that teased and beckoned, that drove her half mad with rising desire with each slick stroke.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clutched his shoulders and raised herself to meet each lunge. The shimmering tension was rising, about to crest, but something tugged at her mind, distracting her.

“Um, Jon? We forgot the condom,” she asked shakily.

He looked pleased with himself. “Nope. We didn’t. It’s on.”

“Huh?” she was baffled. “But how did you—when did you—”

“I put it on a while ago,” he confessed. “I’ve been waiting. Forever.”

She laughed at him, but the laughter choked off into wails as he churned her up into a wonderful, shining froth of delight. She lost herself in pulsing surges of heat, light, beyond thought.

When she forced her wet eyes to open, he was motionless, poised over her, with a look of wonder in his eyes. “You’re amazing,” he said.

“Me?” She giggled helplessly. “I’m the one who’s amazing? Hah!”

“I have never felt anything like that,” he went on.

She licked her dry lips, cleared her throat. “Like, er, what?”

“Like the way you come. Your pussy just grabs my dick and milks it, hard, like a wet fist, with the fireworks going off, and the loud rock music blasting, and strobe lights flashing. Un-fucking-believable.”

She blinked at him, at a loss for words. “Gee.” Her voice came out like a dry croak. “That’s, ah, cool. I’m, um, glad you like it. But I think you should take a bit more credit for the phenomenon yourself.”

She wiggled. He was huge, and stone hard inside her. “Didn’t you come?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to feel yours,” he said simply. “From beginning to end. No distractions.”

“But don’t you want to?” she asked, anxiously.

He frowned. “If I let myself come, I’d lose it and be too rough again, like last night. You’re sore. It won’t kill me not to come inside you. You can get me off some other way if you want.”

“No way.” She trapped him inside her, twining her thighs around his. “You’re not slinking away without giving me mine.”

He made a frustrated sound. “I’m not slinking—”

“No way. It’s only fair. I show you mine. You show me yours. I want to see fireworks, and hear music and see strobe lights, too.”

He stared down at her, eyes narrowed, and lifted his muscular torso up off her body, his penis still inside her. He tossed the sleeping bag back as he rose, so that the chilly air displaced the warmth. Goosebumps popped up, though she was a molten glow around his thick staff. He scooped her legs up, draping her knees over his elbows, stretching her so wide, it made her gasp.

“Fine. You asked for it,” he said. “Brace yourself then.”