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Authors: Maya Banks,Karin Tabke,Sylvia Day

Men Out of Uniform: Three Novellas of Erotic Surrender (11 page)

BOOK: Men Out of Uniform: Three Novellas of Erotic Surrender
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Kirsten’s face lit up. “I agree. We’re being pathetic sitting here stuffing our faces with ice cream when we need to be celebrating the fact that you did not kill your evil employer.”
Jessie sighed. “She wasn’t evil. She was just . . .”
“Evil. She was evil and moody. She was a crusty old bat and she probably hadn’t gotten laid since fire was discovered.”
Jessie tried to hold back her laughter because ... well, it was just wrong to speak ill of the dead.
“I’ll concede that she was moody. I won’t, however, speculate on her sex life because that’s just ... gross.”
Kirsten snickered and then threw her legs over the end of the couch. “Okay, so what are we going to do? Powell’s is obviously out and we’d never set foot in that place again even if it reopens. I vote we go somewhere, get absolutely shitfaced, and then take a cab home. I have bra twenties for both of us.”
Jessie laughed. “Okay, I’m in. No one will recognize me if we’re in some dark bar anyway, right?”
 
After spending hours making calls, interviewing the victim’s family members and friends, Rick had a headache from hell, and he was frustrated because nothing made sense.
He and Truitt as well as the entire team assigned to the Big Thicket Killer had tried to connect the dots between the most recent victim and the ones before. With no success. They couldn’t find anything that linked the women.
It was seemingly random, which made it all the more frightening. What was the killer’s selection criteria? Did he just drive around, see a woman, and decide she was the one?
The women weren’t from the same area or town. They had no common interests. They didn’t shop in the same places, go to church at the same churches. Their jobs were varied, some being students, and some not working at all.
The only common denominator was that they were women. And that left a hell of a lot of potential victims in the running.
“Let’s pack it in,” Truitt said. “It’s been a long day and we’re not getting anywhere. We all need some sleep. We can start back in the morning.”
There were murmurs of agreement but after everyone had filtered out of the conference room, Rick still sat, staring broodingly at the crime-scene photos.
“Come on, man. Let’s get out of here. Go have a beer.”
Rick sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He was getting out of his chair when his cell phone rang. Frowning when he saw the incoming call listed as private, he punched the button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Detective Broughman.”
Chills raced down his spine when he heard the telltale metallic silence and then, “Detective, I just wanted you to know that I’ve already selected my next victim and I’m sure she’ll be more of a challenge than my last.”
“You son of a bitch!” Rick roared into the phone. “Stop playing your sick game. These are innocent women you’re killing.”
There was a distinct pause. “No, Detective. They aren’t innocent. Not at all.”
The phone went silent and Rick swore.
The chief stuck his head in the door. “Something wrong, Broughman ?”
“He just got another call from our killer,” Truitt said quietly.
“And?” the chief demanded.
“He said he’s already selected his next victim. Jesus Christ, Chief. What the hell do we do? I’ve never felt so helpless in my life,” Rick said. “How are we supposed to keep these women safe when we have no idea how he’s choosing them? We’re just sitting around waiting for him to fuck up.”
The chief looked ten years older than he was. His hair seemed grayer and the lines in his face were more pronounced. “I think we need to go public. We should at least warn the women in this area that this bastard has already chosen his next victim. We need to go stronger on our public warnings. We’ve issued several statements to the females in the area, but we need to bring home the seriousness of them having their personal safety foremost in their minds.”
Truitt let out a strangled sound. “We’ll incite panic.”
“Yeah, well what else are we supposed to do?” Rick challenged. “We can’t just do nothing. We have no idea how these women are being taken. There’s no sign of struggle in their house. No strangers lurking around their homes. No unusual activity. It’s like this guy just walks them right out of their house and they willingly go with him.”
“Maybe they do,” Truitt said slowly. “What if this guy is someone they would trust?”
“But there’s no connection between these women. What are the odds that they’d all know this guy and trust him?” the chief asked.
“We could call around and see if anyone from the cable company, electric company, gas, city whatever has been seen at the victim’s residence,” Rick suggested.
Truitt shook his head. “We’ve already covered that angle. No utility trucks or men in uniform or otherwise were spotted in these neighborhoods. It was one of the first things I thought of.”
Rick blew out his breath. His headache was only getting bigger.
“You guys go home,” the chief said. “You aren’t any good to me in your present condition. I’m going to get with the mayor and call a joint press conference immediately. I don’t care what kind of panic I incite. The women of our city are going to have to be careful.”
Rick nodded, resigned to the fact that there was another woman out there that he likely couldn’t save, who might already be in the hands of a maniac.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he said to Truitt.
It wasn’t like he’d ever sleep, because when he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the image of a beautiful young woman covered in dirt and blood.
Chapter 10
 
W
ith makeup and her hair fixed, Jessie didn’t resemble the photo that had aired on the news. She wasn’t sure how the hell they’d managed to drag up the picture they had. Jessie had looked hung over, and since she rarely imbibed to excess, it wasn’t like she’d had many opportunities to be photographed drunk off her ass.
Tonight, though, she was going to make an exception and blow off some serious steam and anxiety.
“Holy crap, it’s loud in here!” Jessie exclaimed when they entered the corner bar.
“What?”
Jessie leaned in closer. “I said it’s loud in here!”
Kirsten nodded and grinned. Then she motioned toward the bar and the two women threaded their way through the crowd. As they reached the counter, the music stopped, though Jessie’s ears kept thumping right along.
“Thank God,” Kirsten said. “Now we won’t have to holler to order a drink.”
The bartender was cute in a preppy sort of way but Jessie found her mind wandering to the two rough-edged cops who’d rocked her world in bed and shattered it out of bed.
The women accepted their drinks and Kirsten turned around, drink in hand, to survey the assortment of people in the dimly lit interior.
“Looks like pickings are slim tonight,” Kirsten muttered. “Not too many cute ones.”
“That’s your problem,” Jessie said. “You like them cute when you should be looking for a harder edge. Something that screams badass and I’ll rock your world in bed.”
“Uh-huh, well we’re not all queen of the threesome,” Kirsten said dryly.
“Oh God, that sounds so dirty when you say it,” Jessie groaned.
Kirsten chuckled. “You’re cute when you blush. Besides, don’t listen to me. I’m a jealous bitch right now because I’d die a happy woman to get it on with two gorgeous guys.”
She threw back her drink and chugged it down then she held out the hand with the glass in it and bumped Jessie’s arm. “Bottoms up, girlfriend. The night is young and we’re wasting good booze.”
Jessie complied, tipping up her glass and swallowing down the tart drink.
Kirsten turned around, ordered refills, and then asked for six shots of Patrón.
“Oh, hell no,” Jessie said. “You aren’t getting me to shoot tequila.”
“Don’t be a whiny bitch and drink up. I’m buying tonight.”
Jessie grimaced then gingerly picked up one of the shot glasses. “We’re crazy.”
“But we’re cute crazy,” Kirsten said with a grin.
She held up her shot glass, clinked it against Jessie’s, and then both of them put the rim to their mouths and tipped back their heads at the same time.
It was like swallowing fire.
Jessie came back wheezing, her eyes watering. Around them applause broke out and it was then she realized that she and Kirsten had an audience.
“Shit,” she muttered.
Kirsten shrugged. “Let’s give them a show.”
Chants of “Drink, drink, drink ” filled the air and Jessie reached for the second shot. A moment later it felt like the lining was stripped from her esophagus but the alcohol was down and swimming around her stomach.
“One more and then let’s dance,” Kirsten said. She thumbed in the direction of the band that was returning from break.
By now Jessie couldn’t remember what her original complaint had been but she was game for some dancing. It had been a while and she could shake her ass with the best of them.
They toasted again, slogged down the shot, and then Kirsten hollered to the bartender. “Get us another set up. We’ll be back after this song!”
She grabbed Jessie’s arm and dragged her to the dance floor just as the first chords blared over their eardrums.
Within moments they had a crowd around them, a mixture of guys and girls. Jessie let the music and rhythm roll through her body, already loosened by the alcohol. She closed her eyes and let the rush of exhilaration flood her chest.
Relief. Bone-melting relief. Freedom from the fear that had permeated the very air around her for the last few days.
She and Kirsten whooped it up, together and separately. It was probably well established that they were lesbians with the way they bumped and ground all over each other. The shouted “I love you”s also might have done the trick, but none of the guys seemed to mind. The more exuberant she and Kirsten got, the more guys flocked to the dance floor.
When the long set was over, Kirsten dragged her toward the bar where their drinks waited.
“Okay, let’s do this again,” Kirsten shouted over the music. “Then we dance.”
“If I don’t puke first!”
By now a few others had joined in the shotfest and the bartender lined up an entire row of Patrón. Eager hands grabbed the glasses, and after a raucous count of three, they began downing them one after another.
“Do you see what I see?” Rick muttered as he and Truitt stood in the doorway of the pub.
Truitt’s eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on the bar where Jessie stood with a crowd around her. She was rapidly downing shots along with another woman about her age.
“Yeah, I see.”
“What the ever-loving hell is she doing?”
“Looks like she’s getting drunk,” Truitt said dryly.
Before they could move in the direction of the bar, the woman with Jessie slammed down her glass and then took Jessie’s hand and dragged her onto the dance floor.
What followed left Truitt’s tongue hanging down and his pants uncomfortably tight. The woman moved like a dream, all curves and softness, undulating in rhythm to the music.
Her breasts were plumped up—had to be one of those Wonderbra contraptions—and nearly spilling out of the top she wore. Or didn’t wear. Hell, it was hard to tell from here whether she was more into the shirt or more out of it.
But what really set his teeth on edge was the number of men surrounding Jessie, all trying to touch her and get up in her space.
“She’s wasted,” Rick growled.
“Oh, you think?”
“Well, we can’t barge in and flash our badges. After her experiences with the police this week, she’d never speak to us again. Which means we’re just going to have to pretend we’re her pissed-off boyfriends and wade in to drag her off.”
“Uhm, there might be a problem with that,” Truitt pointed out. “It would appear she’s here with her friend. I didn’t see Jessie’s car in the parking lot. Which means we’re going to have to take both of them.”
BOOK: Men Out of Uniform: Three Novellas of Erotic Surrender
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