Love Redeemed, Book 4 (40 page)

“Fuck, baby!” I cry out, incredibly turned on by her cries of ecstasy.
I’m full on impaling into her now. “I’m about to blow!”

“Go…go…I’m com—” her shoulders start to flap and her back jerks up and down feverishly.

Rayna’s legs kangaroo like a rubber band as she convulses all around me. I execute three more plunges before my body jolts, extracting some unfamiliar sound from the back of my throat. My orgasm shoots out of me like fucking rocket in to orbit.

As I rest a moment to catch up with my racing heartbeat,
slowly grinding around inside of her, I’m concerned about Rayna not coming from my wood. This is unusual. I’ve always been in control of how she comes and when she comes, and there’s never been a time when she hasn’t orgasmed from penetration. I don’t dwell on it too long because if I do, it’ll start to fuck with my mind.

It already has
.

Later that evening, Rayna and I are in the kitchen, preparing for dinner. Rayna’s plating the food, stuffing her face with carrots, blueberries, rolls—any
thing in her line of sight. This is indication of her recovery. She gets the munchies after a good smash session.

“You wanna eat here in the kitchen?” she ask
s as I observe the menu for the upcoming month.

“Sure,” I answer half-heartedly. “Why are there such heavy meals for next month?”

Rayna shrugs as she brings the plates to the table, “I dunno. I know he needs it by tomorrow, so I threw things in there to meet the deadline.” She heads out into the great room as I go over the form. Rayna returns with a glass of brandy for me then goes to the fridge for her beverage. “Why are you studying it like that? In all honesty, I did it just before lunch when I was starving.” She chuckles, much to herself.

“Indeed,” I acknowledge her explanation. “I’ll make a few changes before bed. I don’t think Tyler would be amenable to consecutive meals with all this red meat and heavy starches.”

I glance up to Rayna who has already started digging into her spinach and Gouda cheese wrapped in chicken breast. When she comes up for air to find my dubious glare, she simply shrugs. I can’t help but think she’s preoccupied.

“Who did you look like as a baby?” she ask
s.

“Are you trying that desperately to change the subject?” I
reply as I start into my food.

“No. I was thinking about
it the other day. We don’t have any baby pictures of you.”

“The same can be said of your missing baby pictures.”

“Uh-un.” She shakes her head while swallowing, then goes for her glass of juice. I watch as her throat shifts as she drinks. “I have quite a few baby pictures. My mother brought them back from Jersey after New Year’s.”

“I’ll see if I can get my hands on some. Are you going to hang them?”

As she cuts into her food, she shrugs her shoulders. “What time does your flight leave tomorrow?”

“Not until the afternoon…about three or so.” I take a sip of my brandy, while observing her. “
You cool about earlier?”

“What about earlier?” she avoids my eyes.

I finish chewing my food. “Your gagging.”

“It only happened once. It’s no big deal,” she insists.

“Just thought it was unusual for it to happen at this stage in the game.”

“It won’t happen again, Azmir
. And if I’m not mistaken, I more than made up for it in the second round.” She’s finally looking at me. “Drop it.”

We lock eyes for a minute.
And here is my fiery Rayna. It’s a welcoming reprimand to have her visit every now and then, but I have no desire to exasperate her. I decide to forfeit and go back to my food.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need a refresher course
is all,” I speak just above a whisper.

Rayna drops her utensils in her plate and cries, “Azmir!”
She then belts out an enthusiastic laugh that lightens my shoulders.

I chuckle
at my wits and continue to eat, enjoying her mirth. She eventually calms and we enjoy agreeable silence as we eat. When I’m done, I observe Rayna finishing the last of her mashed potatoes and I take my plate to the dishwasher, feeling like a trained domesticated dog.

Before Rayna moved in, I’d leave the dishes in the sink for
Chef Boyd or Louise to find in the morning along with the half-filled pots and pans that accompanied them. Rayna shut that down, saying it expressed arrogance and a lack of consideration no matter the fact that I paid Boyd to cook and Louise to clean. I didn’t necessarily agree, but certainly yielded to her request. I even put my soiled clothing in their respective hampers instead of tossing them into a pile for Louise to sort. I’ve come a long way.

“Why do you monitor
my cycles?” I hear underneath my introspective thoughts.

I turn to Rayna, “Pardon me?”

“Menstrual cycles. Why do you keep up with them? Is that something you used to do with all of your lovers…or smash partners?” Her lips twitch as she inserts humor.

I don’t know how to answer right away. I finish rinsing the plate and fork and put them into the dishwasher as I ponder her questions.

“I’ve done it a time or two, yes. Though it’s not something I’ve made
my
thing.”

“Why do you do it?” she asks as she sit
s, raptly anticipating this exchange. I hope I haven’t offended her by keeping up with her periods.

I find my forehead pinching as I consider her question, deciding how transparent I’ll be in my answer.

“Well, I started it with an older woman I was dating when I was about your age, give a year or two…younger. I knew she’d been around the block and had an idea of my income. I didn’t want the entrapment, so I decided to keep an eye on her cycle…in addition to not slipping with strapping up.”

“And
the other?” Rayna retreats from her seat, traveling over to me with her plate, knife, and fork for me to rinse while I’m still at the sink.
Yeah, I’m housebroken like a motherfucker, and unapologetically so.

“Huhn?” I ask as I
take the dishes.

“You said a time or
two. Who was the other woman?” She rests her hip against the counter and folds her arms, appearing very much into this conversation.

“Uhhhh…Tara.” I turn to rinse. “I knew she wanted kids about four years into our relationship. I didn’t. We didn’t
exactly use…” Suddenly discussing my former sex life with my wife isn’t so fluid. “Well, you know…birth control was entirely her responsibility, leaving me little control. So, I did the math to stay on top of things.”

“Is that
’s why you count mine?” Her eyes are wide though her tone is soft.

I turn
off the faucet and motion for her to scoot back so that I can open the dishwasher door. When I load it and switch the latch, I rest my hip against the countertop myself. This is hard…really hard.

“No. I counted yours because of my quick fascination with you. You were so closed off emotionally that when we started sleeping together and I learned of
that first cycle, I wanted more…I wanted…intimacy and that seemed to have been my only connection in a sense.”  I shrug. “So, I started to count not only your menstrual cycle, but each time we smashed. It became my little obsession.”

There’
s silence. I know my lady’s phasing, incommunicado mind is hard at work. I can only imagine with what.

“Do you still do that…document each time we…smash?”

“Not in a
write it down
matter of speaking, no,” I answer honestly. “Why do you ask?”

Rayna move
s from the counter and makes her way to the doorway off to the great room when she shrugs. “I don’t know. I was just going to ask how you’d record round two of this evening.”

My cock springs up as she leaves me in the kitchen alone.

James Lombardi

I smooth my dress shirt and flatten my tie as I sit in this sterile conference room. I hate wearing this formal shit. I know it’s policy, but the moment I’m out in the field this clown costume comes off. I’m anxious about this meeting. My optimistic side is telling me I’m being acknowledged for successfully apprehending the region’s third largest gun trade organization. Last week ended a six-month sting operation that drained the fuck out of me. I worked twenty-hour days with the South Bay Metropolitan Task Force to bring Louis Suarez and his crew down. That had me in San Francisco with a temporarily assigned group that Captain Munick loaned me out to.

It was good work I did up there, and hopefully now Captain will come off my ass and loosen my leash on the Jacobs case. I came home for a few days in October and paid Jacobs a visit a
t the club he has on Santa Monica Blvd. I’d learned of Harrison’s arrest and thought to use that to ruffle his feathers. He came off high and mighty like a king in his damn minstrel’s gallery overlooking the dancehall instead of the great room.

He’s a reserved man. When I hit
him with the news, he didn’t react the way I thought he would. He didn’t even blink an eye when I mentioned Harrison’s arrest. I’ll bring his cocky ass down now that I’m done with the Suarez assignment.     

I wish they’d hurry
. I’m meeting Terry in an hour. Drumming my fingers, I hear the door open and in comes Captain Munick, Major Pennington, a few Lieutenants from the division and—
Attorney General Kamala Harris
?  What the fuck is this? My fucking heart is about to beat out of my chest. A.G. Harris doesn’t meet to congratulate on a job well done for a case the size of Suarez’s. Like a nervous prick, I stand and assume the salute.

Not even half of them acknowledge it as they take to their seats. Captain Munick nods and once all are
seated, he offers me to take mine. At this time the table attendees are opening files and folders, scrambling for pages. I didn’t receive a fucking agenda.

This isn’t looking good for me.

“Sergeant Lombardi, thanks for being here. You’re versed with who’s here at the table so let’s get right to it. This deposition—”
Deposition?
“…will be recorded starting now.” Major Pennington hits the tape recorder and Munick begins to call out the names of all present. When he mentions the
reprimand of Sergeant James Lombardi
, I nearly shit my trousers.

He sh
ifts his head from the recorder that’s in the center of the table and looks over to me. “Sergeant, authenticate your presence; please state your full name with ranking.”

I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. “Sergeant James Lombardi.”

“Sergeant,” Major Pennington takes over. “…have you just concluded the South Bay Metropolitan Task Force special assignment that resulted in the apprehension of Louis Suarez?”

I’m so fucking lost right now. What is this? I swallow
.

“Yes.”

“Which case were you assigned to prior to that mission?”

Clearing my throat again, I answer, “I wasn’t exactly assigned a case in particular, but as you know in the CBI, we can make inquiries into suspicious or potential illegal activities in between assignments. So, I was looking into the Harrison/Jacobs’ pros/case.”

Munick moves forward in his seat. “You’ve used two acronyms, Sergeant. This goes against policy when giving an official statement.”

I know we aren’t supposed to use short titles and acronyms, but my ass seems to be on the line here and I don’t know why.

“Please clarify,” Munick grills.

Goddamn prick!

“CBI…Criminal Bureau of Investigations,” I grit through my teeth. “Detective Darryl Harrison and Azmir Jacobs…pros/case…prospective case.”

“Thank you,” Pennington offers. “When did you start looking into the Harrison/Jacobs’ prospective case, Sergeant?”

So, the question earlier about my South Bay Metro case was just to assess my honesty and had nothing to do with this deposition.
What the fuck has Harrison pulled off?

I take a moment to think. “Unofficially
, last May when it was brought to my attention. Officially, last June when I’d gotten low-level clearance from Captain Munick.”

“And you are aware that once you receive clearance, at no matter wh
at level, the case is then officially open to the Criminal Bureau of Investigations, correct?”

“Yes,” I mumble.

“Please speak up, Sergeant Lombardi,” A.G. Harris commands.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS ABOUT?

“Yes,” I state affirmatively.

“Have you questioned either of the unofficial persons of interest?” Pennington continues.

I watch as the Leu’s and A.G. Harris scribble busily into their pads and notebooks. 

“Yes.”

“Please state which unofficial persons of interest and when you questioned them,” Pennington follows up.

“Spoke with Detective Harrison on two occasions last year: once in May and a second time in July. I met with
Azmir Jacobs in October. I’m sorry, I don’t have the specific dates to present, I wasn’t exactly prepared for this…event,” I offer candidly.

“No need,” Pennington returns. “We have them.”
He goes on writing for a few moments before continuing with, “In October, when you met with Mr. Jacobs, did you also encounter a Ms. Tracy Edwards?”

My mouth goes fucking dry.
I find my eyelids falling as I exhale harshly.

Mother fuck me! This is my ass!

~~~~~~~~~~

As I walk to my pickup, feeling light from the confiscation of my desk revolver, I’m seething. This is one of many issues I have with CBI policy: they focus on the wrong shit. I’m being reprimanded for compromising an investigation by having an affair with an associate of the
unofficial
suspect.

Fuck!
Tracy has no idea of the investigation.

And as
a result of poor policy by California’s finest, a goddamned drug lord gets to flood the streets with his fucking poison. The shit infuriates me!

I slam the door to my truck close. Anger builds from my belly and I explode, pounding my palms into the steering wheel. Once I let up
, I rest my spinning head on the wheel to allow my racing heart to slow.

I swear to fucking holy hel
l, Jacobs. I’m going to get you. I will hit you where it hurts. I don’t know how…and I know where just yet, but you can bet on it!

~~~~~~~~~~

Rayna

I’m standing in front of a display refrigerator at a bodega in South Los Angeles. It isn’t the safest of neighborhoods, but I don’t feel threatened or intimidated at all. I’m armed with personal security, complements of one A.D. Jacobs. An A.D. who would blow a gasket if he knew of my whereabouts, no less. John, my assigned security—
God, I can’t believe I’m using this term
—will likely include this in his report to Azmir, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

I just
left Karmen’s, one of the women in my Bible study group, in Athens. After hearing once again about her devoted dildo, I need a sugar fix. It could also be for the fact I haven’t eaten since breakfast, working tirelessly on my monthly reports. Before coming in, John admonished me about taking too long in here considering we have an unattended luxury car outside. I mollified his heeding by explaining I’m aware of the neighborhood we’re in and promise I’d be two minutes.

Right now, I
’m dealing with a far more pressing issue: deciding between a
Snickers
bar and
Ben & Jerry’s
pistachio ice cream.
Which is the lesser evil?
As I pull open the refrigerator door, I hear sensual giggling from a distance. The distance, though is close enough to distract my decision making process.

I glance
up and toward the direction of the shrilling sounds. I swear, I’m not being nosy; it’s just that the sound is that distasteful. It doesn’t take long for me to find the culprit. The store is relatively small, larger than a Mom and Pops convenience store, but certainly nothing you’re able to get lost in. What isn’t expected is recognizing a pair of eyes from the rumpus couple, engaged in a tasteless public display of foreplay.

“Brian?” I practically whisper in disbelief, totally stupefied. The last thing I
’m expecting is running into Brian Thompson here in Athens.

I
’m not alone in shock, even through his visibly besotted gaze, I can tell I’m the last person Thompson thought he’d see tonight. Outside of his drunkenness, Thompson appears to be a different man than I knew from all of those abrupt visits to my office. His shoulders aren’t squared, eyes aren’t discriminating, and he doesn’t have his usual air of superiority. He does develop, in recognition of me, a discernible sneer. And naturally, he isn’t sporting an Italian suit aligned so well with his haughty demeanor.

Even the woman he
’s with is outside of what one would ever think Thompson would associate with. She’s nearly his height without shoes, but in her scuffed closed toe, strappy heels she towers him just a little. She’s his café au latte complexion and is sporting a horrible auburn wig that’s cut in a silky bob that passes her shoulders. The ornery strap of her thin tank keeps slipping from her shoulder, I notice her pulling back up several times. Underneath her mini skirt, her black stockings have a run that goes from her thigh to well into her shoe. Her magenta lipstick is smeared beyond the lining of her full lips. Her thick eyeliner is smudged outside of her pink eyes. They are blissfully and sloppily wasted.

“Whoa,” he slur
s slightly. “What are you doing in these parts, princess? Or maybe I should ask who let you out all alone?” As he speaks, his body slowly pivots towards me, almost as if he’s drawn to me.

In an answer to his question, John step
s closer to me, abandoning his
eight feet away in areas where there aren’t many people
standard practice. Thompson freezes at the sight of him, but then I see a hint of a smirk crack upon his face. His drinking companion becomes aware of his new fixation, and turns in my direction as well, wearing a similar expression. 

“I see you still have your guard dog, even if he
’s assigned armor.” I opened my mouth to counter his comment, but defeat engulfs me right away.

This security thing
is ridiculous. However, it’s been for so long that, just as Azmir assured when he decreed it after the fire months ago, it’s become an accessory that I’ve eventually forgotten about being odd.

Thompson snort
s and turns in a 180 degree angle, quickly ending our abrupt run in.

“Brian, wait!” I call out.

I haven’t seen him since the parking lot fiasco last fall and don’t want to lose an opportunity to apologize to him for that day. Call me crazy, but not having made peace with Thompson for that day still feels like I’ve wronged Azmir. Though he’s never brought it up again, I still had remnants of guilt, floating in my heart about how I allowed that ordeal to get so rampant. It was so out of control that it forced Azmir to react in a manner that was barbaric and outside of his calm and aplomb nature.

Thompson turn
s back toward me, a dubious expression develops across his face. Even John shoots me a questioning glare.

“John, just give me
three minutes,” I murmur to him with stern eyes. I will not be told whom I can and cannot shoot the breeze with in a local convenience store.

“This Thompson guy is very high on the no access list, Mrs. Jacobs,” John warn
s. I can’t believe there’s a list of people I’m forbidden to be within mere feet of!

“I was never made a
ware of this list,” I emphasize the syllable in the word. “But I can assure you it will be addressed with Mr. Jacobs quicker than you can write this two minute chat with Brian Thompson in your little report to him,” I hiss. John, who I’ve always shared an amenable relationship with, and I do the stare down game. The game that I will not lose.

The moment John’s eyes blink
, I turn back to Thompson and incline my head to the top of the aisle, gesturing the location for our talk. With a short period of hesitation, he acquiesces and follows me, but not before whispering something in the ear of his acquaintance causing her to giggle lasciviously into the air. It’s annoying and makes me idly wonder if that’s what I sound like to the walls of the marina when Azmir and I are lighthearted with our affection.  

Once at the corner, with my back toward John and his friend, I go right in.

“Brian, you up and disappeared from the practice…” I don’t exactly have a script prepared for him. I had no idea that he would never answer the invite issued via voice message to meet for coffee months ago. And so much has taken place in my life, pushing this unfinished business to the back of my list of priorities. “I left you a message a few months ago, asking to meet so that I could apologize for what happened that day behind the recreation center. I thought I’d have time to formulate my words, but then I learned your firm left the practice—”