Tequila Dirty Page 5

  I was bullshitting, of course, but business owners who hire illegals all know this line. A warning. I had his number.

  He said nothing. What could he say?

  Asshole. I nodded goodbye and followed Rita back to the kitchen. She picked up our food, then led the way out to the lot. We ate our sandwiches in my car with the windows rolled down. There was a faint breeze coming in from the east and, even though it was still light out, the pale blue sky had already started to star up.

  In less than five minutes, I’d polished off my cheeseburger with onions and hot peppers—really good, too—and the medium pack of thin fries. Like most cops, I was an expert at eating on the run. Rita nibbled at a corned beef on rye with Swiss while I drove us four blocks west and parked outside the Kettle of Fish. She looked delicious, pink dressing smeared on her full lips. I wanted to lick them off.

  She wrapped up the rest of her sandwich and set it on the floor of the car. “Chito will tell you how he introduced me to Ruben that night. I have a bone to pick with him about that. Jeezus.” She rolled her eyes. She had bread crumbs stuck to her chest. It was all I could do not to reach over and brush them off. “Maybe the big dildo can tell us more about the guy who set me up. I sure hope so. You ready?”

  I was ready, all right. When I reached over, she closed her eyes. But all I did was dab at her lips with a crumpled paper napkin. She made a fat pout and blew a kiss my way. Then she popped open the door. I’d forgotten to lock her in.

  This was not the way I’d wanted to handle this—or any other—case.

  We climbed out of the car at the same time, headed for the back door of the bar together. It was like she’d replaced Hendricks. Meet my new partner, Rita Deltone. Who was in charge here?

  I shook my head in self-disgust as I followed her twitching buns into the Kettle of Fish. We stood side by side in the doorway, waiting for our eyes to adjust. I held in a small burp. I was sated, but I felt as if I were starving. Ravenous. Like an animal on some kind of endless hunt. I was overloaded with sensory allure. I wanted to growl deep in my throat, pounce on her. Drag her back to my lair.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Shit. He’s not on tonight. Let me find out where he’s at from the bartender. You wait here, okay?”

  She even sounded like Hendricks. Always giving the orders, making me stand around with my dick in my hand.

  “I’ll talk to the bartender,” I said. “Guy looks familiar.”

  “He’s that sex offender who cleared himself a couple years back. Remember I told you about him? He was front page news in Dusky Beach, and the YouTube video went viral.”

  Now I remembered. The good-looking guy who’d been set up on a kiddie porn charge by a conniving coworker. I watched the man pour draft beers while chatting with a bottle blonde in six-inch stilettos. He was handsome, well-built. Not your usual S.O. profile. Those guys tend to play to type, creepy little men who sneak around like the rats they resemble, hiding themselves in dark corners so they don’t stand out. This guy stood out. But in a decent sort of way.

  “I’m sure I can do better without you, Detective. He’s probably not all that partial to cops, after what you all put him through.”

  She had a point there. “I myself did not put that man in a jail cell,” I said. “But go ahead, see what you can find out. Make it quick.”

  I leaned against the back wall. Clots of happy hour revelers in various states of inebriation were scattered around the dimly lit room. I scanned the corners for a skittles game but didn’t see one. No pool tables, either. Just battered booths and round tables, a long mahogany bar.

  For a small woman with a head wound, Rita Deltone sure could make a room come to attention. Heads swiveled and conversations halted as she sidled up to the bar, cocked a round hip, and beckoned to the bartender. He jogged over, apparently pleased to see her.

  They leaned into one another and talked quietly for two and a half minutes. I timed it on my smart phone while I made a couple brief calls. Hadn’t she told me this guy had been replaced behind the bar by Chito?

  I burped up a mouthful of beef grease. I should’ve had the corned beef. Her sandwich had looked damn good. I hadn’t eaten the stringy red meat topped with sauerkraut and Russian dressing in years. What did they call that sandwich back when I was a kid haunting the local deli? My mind tickled, the forgotten name an itch in my brain. Like the answer was, somehow, important.

  Then Rita was at my side, her scent like the wild fruit that grows in lush green rainforests, and my dick took over. Again.

  “Okay, I got info. Let’s go outside.” She smiled. Her lips were a deep coral color, her teeth toothpaste white. My heart bounced around in my chest, so what could I do? I smiled back and followed her out.

  On our way to the car, I said, “Where’s Chito?”

  “Called in because he was gonna take the night off to drive around in his new car. A classic car. An old Cadillac.” Her eyes shone, reflecting shards of golden light from the anti-crime street lamps overhead. “Bet Ruben unloaded it on him. Then left town.”

  “That’s unfortunate. If we don’t know what he’s driving, we’ve lost our one lead.” I kept my voice steady, but inside I was revving up for the best part of the chase. “You still want to talk to Chito tonight? I’d like to stop by the King Kong Suites first, see if they made a copy of Ruben’s driver’s license.”

  Unlikely. And unlikely she’d agree to accompany me there.

  She got all animated. “The bartender told me Chito was calling in at eight to see if he had to show up. In case they had a big rush and needed two behind the bar. So that’s real soon. I told him to tell Chito to come to my place. He won’t expect you to be there, too, and you can surprise him, ask him about Ruben. Maybe Chito lied, maybe he knows Ruben real good. Hell, maybe he was in on the con and helped set me up.”

  We were driving south on Pearl, so I made a right turn and headed toward her apartment complex. Why not? She was lying. But that only made me want her more. How I thought of it was, I could get a piece of her, then do what I had to do.

  In the blink of a pretty teal eye, I’d turned ruthless. Maybe I’d make lieutenant by thirty after all.

  My phone beeped. A text came in. Then another. When we stopped at a red light a few blocks south of her place, I checked my messages.

  Just as I suspected.

  I tucked the phone back in my pocket. Then I slid my hand across the seat to her leg, squeezing the warm flesh just above her knee. She didn’t pull away. I ran my hand up her smooth thigh to her crotch and fingered around. She was plenty damp, all right. She was ready. Ready for me.

  Unless she was lying about that, too.

  Chapter Seven

  We parked in the lot for her building and went through the routine again of waiting for someone to come out so we could slip inside. When I watched her shapely rump bounce up the first flight of stairs, something inside me broke loose. I was way, way over my head on this now. Way over.

  We got to the second floor landing, and I reached for her, spun her around.

  I kissed her right there, standing in the stairwell. I pulled on her hair, bit her lips, sucked at her neck. When she reached for my face, I pushed her hand down until she took hold of me and held fast. I would’ve ripped her panties off and taken her right there, but she gripped me tightly and said, “No, no, bad boy. Come inside my apartment, baby. We don’t want to be seen.”

  She dragged me with her up the stairs and down the hall to her apartment door. I had my hands up her short dress and in her damp panties. She had me by the dick. When she let go of me, my poor boner throbbed so hard it hurt. I wanted her hand back, her rough grip. I had to get inside her, that’s all there was to it. I had to see her naked body, then make it mine. But only for a few minutes. I wasn’t asking for everything. Just a little taste of her.

  We tumbled inside, and I kicked the door shut. Instantly, I had her dress over her head and my mouth on her erect nipples. I sucked them
hard before I stuck a finger up inside her. It was steamy moist in there, a jungle path to the treasure. Two fingers, three. She wasn’t tight, not for a girl her age, but she was soaked real good. When I pulled her dress off, my dick tingled. I pressed it against her hard belly, and she stroked it, gently at first, then more aggressively.

  Once we stopped for a minute to get our breath, we began removing each other’s clothing. Her white sports bra, my tan sports coat. Her emerald green thong, my tie, belt, and off-the-rack slacks. I’d dropped to my knees and had my hand between her legs again, parting her, opening her up when she said, “Are you going to leave the shoulder holster on? I mean, it turns me on, but it might get in our way.”

  I’d forgotten about my gun.

  I unbuckled the leather holster and slid it off. Then I set it on her ratty chair, stripped off the rest of my clothes. She watched me quietly, one hand on herself, playing around. Her eyes were half-mast, her face flushed. Her bright pink nipples looked huge, extended. Maybe she wasn’t faking it. Playing me. Maybe she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

  It didn’t matter either way.

  “Lie down on the bed, bad cop,” she instructed in a dreamy voice. “I want to fuck your cop brains out.”

  “Promises, promises,” I managed while lying back on her small bed. My big white feet hung off the end, and my head was mashed against the silver bars of the cheap metal headboard. My dick stuck straight up. Maybe she could tell it was the shlong of a man who had not been fucked like this by a hot chick. Not in a long time. Maybe never. Good boy, good cop. Dull sex life.

  Tears were forming in my eyes, I wanted her on me so much.

  She turned around and slowly bent over, flashing me her sweet ass while she picked up something from the floor. I lifted my head to see what but, quick now, she scooted to the bed and straddled me, pressing her wet crotch against my pulsing dick. Rubbing me, soothing and stroking, licking and sucking, then easing it, throbbing, inside her.

  Oh, my god, it felt so good. I moaned and lifted myself into her. Deeper, harder. I started to drive it home, eyes closed, sweat beading, soaking the sheets in the hot little room. She groaned loudly as she rocked back and forth, guiding our tempo, easing into the prolonged guttural cry of her orgasm.

  My turn. I pumped up and down, arching my back and fighting the urge to flip her over and climb on top. It seemed strange, somehow, like the power in the relationship had shifted.

  I was seconds from release when she suddenly pulled away. “Hold on. Let me do something first.”

  I was hers. I let her do what she wanted. I closed my eyes, allowed her to move my arms up to tie my wrists to the headboard. She used her thong for one wrist, my plain brown necktie for the other. I pulled on the ties, and they held, which made me even harder. I dripped. I pulsated. I moaned.

  “No blindfolds,” I told her in a husky voice.

  “The trusses will be enough,” she responded.

  Trusses.

  This is where my story takes a turn for ugly. As Rita would say.

  She slid herself down my chest and licked at my balls until I begged her to get on top again. That’s when she said it. “No.”

  “No?” I opened my eyes. She pressed herself against me, slipping down my legs, rubbing her juices along my thighs, my knees, my calves. “What do you mean, no?”

  She sat up. “No means no. You’re a gentleman. You should know that.”

  I hooked a leg across her neck and squeezed, but she bit my ankle until I eased up. As soon as I let her go, she slipped off the end of the bed and rolled away from my feet. She was stronger than she looked. A lot stronger.

  Smarter, too.

  When I looked over, she was standing at the foot of the bed, naked and pink, rosy with the flush of her orgasm. Her cleverness. She laughed. At me. I yanked on the wrist ties, but that only made the knots tighten.

  “Told you I like games. How’s it feel to be hogtied to a water buffalo?” She giggled. “That’s what they call it back in Lemon Run.”

  “There is no Lemon Run, Florida,” I told her. “I looked it up online while you were chatting up the bartender.”

  My erection had not deflated. I could still fuck her. And if she gave me the opportunity, I still would. Only now, I would make it hurt.

  But she didn’t give me that opportunity. She retrieved my gun and aimed it at my swollen dick. That’s when I remembered what the name of the corned beef, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut sandwich was—a reuben.

  “No Ruben, no Chito, no skittles. No powder blue Cadillac and no lambskin case. Right, Rita?”

  She grinned. “Very good, Detective. But I sure had you going there for a bit. Right? Told you I’m good at playing dumb. But I thought you’d figure it out with all the food names I was using. Guess I musta been hungry.”

  I twisted and thrust until the bed rocked a few inches in her direction. She stepped back. “You move a whisker, and I’ll blow off your damn cock.”

  She would’ve, too. I knew she wasn’t bullshitting this time around.

  She used clothesline from her closet to tie my feet together and reinforce the wrist binding. I grimaced, but I didn’t yell or swear. Tried to hang tough. But she really trussed me up hard and tight.

  While she wiped herself off, dressed in pink shorts and a tight T-shirt, I lay there like a piece of meat. As she packed up a duffle bag with her minimal belongings, I tried to talk myself through the pain, the humiliation, to not slide into a deep depression. But I could see it looming before me, a dark liquor-filled cavity where I would soak myself for weeks, maybe months to come. My wife would never take me back. I’d never make lieutenant.

  Numb, I watched her gather up everything. Her bright eyes skated around the room. She was cool, completely in control. Even her accent seemed different, more subdued, when she said, “I’ve got to take off now. I want to thank you for the Prius. It’ll save money on gas during my getaway.”

  “Rita, don’t do this. I have feelings for you. I thought—”

  “Told you I don’t go for strangers.” She cut me off, piercing me with a frosty stare. Then she balled up my clothes and stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag. “Besides, you’re still married. You know I have little use for a sorta married man.”

  “But—”

  “And really, Detective, you’ve been dogging me hard. You’ve been objectifying my ass this whole time. You don’t think I knew what you were thinking? Looking at me with that hangdog, puppy dog, doggy fuck face of yours? I wanna pork the hick girl from Lemon Run, that’s what you were thinking while I was knocked out, tied to a bed, treated like somebody else’s dirty business.”

  She tsked and shook her head. Then she hooked her duffle over one shoulder, and picked up a fawn leather satchel in her free hand. Was that lambskin? My gun was tucked in her pocket, my clothes in the bag over her arm. She had my smart phone, my wallet and keys.

  The door slammed behind Rita Deltone, and I heard the clicks as she double locked it. She’d had the key all along.

  For quite a while, I just lay there. Trussed like a bacon hog in that white on white room.

  Sally Stone

  Epilogue

  I didn’t want to do that to you. Our brief time together was sweet, it was fun, memorable. It really was. I liked being around you. I felt something. Still, you were using me. Like every other man I’d ever come across. Plus, I’d lied to you from the beginning. So I figured you’d never believe me about anything. Ever.

  I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m a pathological liar. And a criminal, as it turns out.

  But here we are again, face to face. You in your casual civilian clothes. Tight jeans. Navy polo shirt. Nikes. Auburn hair long, combed back from your suntanned face.

  Me in this nice red and white dress from Donna Karan. Red leather pumps, wicked high heels. Hose, even. Black hose. Work clothes. I got a good job in a bank up to Boar’s Creek. Small town on the northwest curl of the state. I got savings, dividends. No need to take a
cut from other folks’ dirty money. I make my own nowadays.

  This sleazy bar in west Dusky was my pick. The meeting your idea. Your departure from the force has left you with time on your hands. Enough time to become single-minded about me. You had enough dedication to your cause that you’ve been able to track down Rita Deltone from Lemon Run. Ha ha.

  “So,” you say to me after I slip into the seat next to you at the bar and order a Screw Job from the sexy bartender. “We meet again.”

  I give you a look. “So full of you wow, this one. I can’t believe you had the guts to email me. After the way it ended with us.” I smirk, then frown deeply. Why would you contact me after all this time, anyway? “You must be wired. But hasn’t the statute of limitations run out on little ol’ me?”

  Before you can respond, I lean into you, hands flat on your thick, warm chest. I feel you up, searching for a recording device. I want to dip my hands down into your crotch, just to fuck with you. I know you aren’t wearing a wire. I doubt you’d try to turn me in. What would you say?

  Hot breath in your face, I give your nipples a tweak. Then I move away, snickering. Your eyes are flinty, unreadable. When I look down the bar, Sexy Barman catches my eye. He’s been watching us carefully while he mixes up my drink.

  You sip your draft beer, still staring at me, your eyes burning holes through my silk dress and into my flesh. Anger? Or desire?

  “Like I told you on the phone, all that’s behind me now. I’m just another guy with an errand list to complete. I’m divorced now, too, in case you were wondering. I’ve got alimony to pay so I’ve moved into real estate, renting out apartments in two-story flop houses I buy cheap and convert. Bunch of buildings out west here, a few nicer places on the beach. Plus, I have a desk job. I teach criminal justice at the university.” You shrug. “Drive a 1965 Mustang now. Convertible.” Your eyes sear.

  The bartender sets my drink in front of me. He winks. “Don’t get many requests for these anymore,” he says. “No whiskey sours, either. Everyone wants martinis, cosmos. Red wine or light beer.”