Blood Brothers (6 page)

When he was full, he sat back in a deep
chair, propped his feet up on an ottoman and waited.

An hour before the people from Entrepreneur
were due he took a hot shower and freshened up. Dressing in a long
sleeve black shirt and grey slacks, he wiped his Italian leather
shoes until the shine was so bright he could see his face
clearly.

So fresh and so clean now, he stood at the
window, not risking sitting and wrinkling his clothes. The one bad
thing about the Peabody was that it lacked an impressive view.
Still, with a strong cup of cappuccino that had been waiting for
him after his shower, the view was good enough. Coffee, he liked.
Cappuccino, he liked. Not much of a drinker, there would be enough
Champagne tonight to float a battleship. He would surely nurse the
same glass for an hour, merely sipping, and then exchanging it for
a new one.

The phone rang as he took down the last dregs
of the cooling liquid. That was the good thing about cappuccino, no
bitter last sip like with coffee. The caller was the concierge. The
journalist and reporter had arrived. After Michael told them it was
fine that they come on up, he stepped into the bathroom to give
himself one last look. Who knew, he just might end up on the
cover.

***

The door burst inward with slightly less
force than an explosion. Banging against the wall, a framed
photograph fell to the floor, the glass shattering.

She felt strong hands all over her. He was
pulling her closer and closer to him. This man possessed real
power, true strength, the kind not manufactured at a health club
but from living life, from taking it by the horns and breaking it
down. That, more than anything, more than his rugged good looks,
more than his money, aroused her. It aroused her a lot.

She was backpedaling now. He was driving her
where he wanted and she allowed it without so much as mock
resistance. His lips were soft yet firm, his tongue quick and
precise and his mouth hot and hungry. She felt the backs of her
legs collide with the bed and it took just one little shove before
she collapsed on her back on the cheap mattress and scratchy
comforter.

Carrie was sexually active but not
particularly promiscuous. Today, however, she’d let her passion
flow freely and once it had reached its pinnacle, there was no
holding back. Derek wasn’t the only one with hands and a mouth.
She’d started this, in her car. They had left the office in
separate vehicles, but after the first house she’d felt the twinges
of lust growing exponentially. After leaving his car at a gas
station, he’d ridden with her. While usually a careful driver,
she’d thrown caution to the wind and took the first step.

Now, here they were in a motel on the
outskirts of town. He’d been a complete gentleman, going in
registering, paying for the room, everything. He’d said it was
better for her not to be seen and she couldn’t argue with that. If
Michael heard about this—

Michael…she tried to concentrate. She needed
to leave now; it was already after three in the afternoon. But
Derek was so…persuasive.

He was on top of her now. The blouse spilt in
his hands and Carrie couldn’t help but think of a romance novel
she’d read less than a month ago. In it, the man had ripped the
woman’s blouse completely in two. It had struck her as silly and as
something that could never happen in real life. Right at this
moment, there was nothing silly about it. It was exactly what she
wanted.

Derek massaged her breasts through her bra, a
nice dainty, light blue number made of delicate lace—a bra that she
had almost not worn. Now she was glad she had, instead of the
conservative beige one she’d almost chosen. As he was busy with
that, she reached for his belt and began to undo his trousers.

***

This was perfect. He hadn’t counted on her
being so very attractive…or so willing. She had a beautiful body
and as of yet, she had no problem with using it to her advantage.
He thought it might take a while to get her to see things his way.
Jerry certainly didn’t expect it to go so quickly. Not the kind of
man to complain after finding himself in bed with a willing and
able participant, he decided to do his best to keep her there.

Which proved not to be a terribly difficult
thing to do.

She smelled wonderful. She tasted even
better. Her body was firm. Soft like spun cotton. Warm like the
noon sun, without being too hot or oppressive. It was possible to
forget the pleasures another, especially someone like this, could
bring you. But for everything that Jerry had forgotten, he was of a
mind to learn them all over again this day. Those things and
more.

When he entered her, it was like wrapping
himself in liquid silk. Her fingernails sliced fiery trails down
his back, the pain making the pleasure all that much more sublime.
He lasted a very long time, much longer than she. And when he was
spent, he started again.

Afternoon sun bled around the draped window,
deepening from yellow to gold to fiery red and then to black. Hours
passed like minutes as Jerusalem Garrett and Carrie Vaughn explored
each other’s body as if they were strange new continents that
harbored resplendent treasures…which they found, to each others
utter delight, was actually the case.

It was barely past eight when, weakened and
fatigued to the point of physical and mental exhaustion, both
collapsed onto the mussed and sweat-stained sheets, and after a
time, slept.

Jerry did not sleep long.

He awoke slowly, rising from the bed. Jerry
reached down and unclipped his cell phone from his belt. He tiptoed
into the bathroom and quickly dialed a number. Satisfied Carrie
slept undisturbed, he eased the door closed.

He spoke for a few minutes, listened as the
other party replied and ended the call.

Back out in the larger room, he walked to the
window and nudged the drapes open just a little. Light from the
sodium vapors outside leaked in giving enough light so that Jerry
could see Carrie’s body well enough.

And what a body it was. He explored every
rise, every crevice, and every sloping angle of her smooth form
like Columbus in search of the New World. And what wonders he
discovered.

Playtime was over, at least for now. The time
had now come for work. Bending once more to retrieve his trousers
lying upon the floor, he replaced his cell phone, after ensuring it
was turned off. Then, with practiced ease, he withdrew two loops of
twine. String was a remarkable thing. Light, silent and very
strong, especially if it was wound correctly and fashioned into a
good knot.

Carrie lay on her stomach facing the other
wall. Her dark hair splayed out beside and behind her, like crude
oil on the white linen sheets. With a swift move of his hand, the
sheet covering her rump was whisked away, revealing her to both the
yellowed light from outside and his wide eyes. How could anyone not
believe in God after seeing an ass like that?

Lightly, he trailed the pads of his fingers
over her cheeks and on to her back, stopping at her neck.

That would be all the tenderness she would
feel for quite a while. Of that, Jerry was sure.

Jerusalem Garrett had learned much since his
days in Benedict. While much of it was useless trivia and
lackluster skills anyone of sufficient age would gain, he had
mastered techniques of plying the human body into submission as
exactly and efficiently as if he were simply inputting code into a
computer.

With one arm, Jerry rolled Carrie over onto
her back. She didn’t wake. That was fine. She soon would. Her
breasts rose and fell with each breath. Not much, but the slight
motion was noticeable. He took one arm and swiftly secured it to
the headboard’s post with the twine. Once that extremity was snug,
he repeated the process with the other.

Still, Carrie Vaughn slept.

With her lying on her back, her face towards
the ceiling, Jerry drew back his right hand and swung hard. His
open palm connected with the girl’s cheek, the smack resounded
within the room. Immediately, her eyes flew open as her head was
rocked to the side. She opened her mouth to scream but Jerry
stuffed her wadded up panties into her mouth. He jabbed them in
quickly to avoid being bit.

“Now, the fun can start,” Jerry said, knowing
it was going to be an extremely long night.

The interview had gone remarkably well.
Michael had never given many interviews, just a few to local
papers, but he had the ability to talk a good game, and that was a
necessity in such a situation. He’d won over the seasoned
journalist and had even discovered that, according to plan, he
would be the feature story of the issue.

He made ten million dollars at four-thirty
this afternoon. At that time he and the pharmaceutical company reps
had met at the nearby First Bank of Tennessee, where the loan was
being handled, and they’d signed the contract. And since his
company was the seller, not him personally, after taxes he’d still
have a king’s ransom coming his way.

The reception downstairs had been very nice.
Ice sculptures, live music, the whole shebang. The food had been
catered by the Brazilian steakhouse next door and, for once at a
thing like this the food had been good, if not excellent.

But here he was, the evening still young,
pacing in his hotel room, the bowtie of his tux loosened, dialing
on his cell. He should be overjoyed. He should be exuberant. He
should be…something besides the way he was.

He was frustrated. He was anxious. And he was
slowly nearing anger.

He dialed the number of Carrie’s house. And
her cell. Sent her both an email and text message.

She had responded to none of his
attempts.

She would pay for this. Carrie was the reason
he had booked the suite for the weekend. Considering this week’s
profit the cost wasn’t anything to cry about, but he could be home,
sleeping in his own bed, instead of here, a lonely man in a rented
room. This kind of thing happened to other men, less fortunate men,
but certainly not him. Well, at least it hadn’t before. And god
damn it, it wouldn’t happen again.

Despite himself, he quickly went through a
mental checklist of the cash he’d squandered on that no good slut.
Vacations, paid for her entire year’s lease up front, jewelry,
meals, clothing—and not the cheap variety at that—shopping sprees,
the list went on and on. And all for what? So he could sit here
with his crank in his hand, searching her down like he was some
jealous zit-faced teenager?

He stood, moved to the micro-fridge and
pulled out a beer. A Corona. He found the bottle opener in a side
drawer, ripped the cap off quickly and downed a third of the
bottle’s contents in one long, greedy gulp.

After the beer was drained, it took him less
than five minutes to strip the tuxedo away and dress, again in his
grey slacks and black shirt. A minute after that he was out in the
hallway and closing in on the elevator.

A short walk from the parking lot of the
Peabody and a left, took him to Beale Street. The strip was alive
with faces and forms, ablaze with lights of incandescence and neon,
thrumming with music and laughter. Michael felt better already.
There was such a good vibe in the air it was infectious.

Five bucks bought him another beer from a
street vendor. Tall and cold, it was almost a two-hand job to carry
it. Walking up and down the street was not his style, so he was on
the lookout for a nice place to settle in and watch the local night
life. He soon found it. Club 312 looked like a nice prospect.

Abutted between a piano bar and a large
souvenir shop, Club 312 pounded with the bass lines of the latest
radio hits. Up at the entrance, over a black silk awning with the
place’s name emblazoned, two large muscle-bound men stood sentry.
Both were dressed in black. One was bald, the other had long
rust-colored hair down to the small of his back. Either one,
Michael knew, could have easily made mincemeat of him if they were
of the mind.

He chugged the remains of the beer, already
buzzing heavily, and dropped the cup into an approved trash
receptacle. He always carried a money clip so just in case his
wallet was lifted he’d still have some cash left to get him by.
Pulling his clip free, he thumbed through several bills and pulled
out a ten. Handing it to the bald man’s extended hand when he
reached the top of the steps, Michael walked through the door and
into the local den of iniquity.

And what a den it was. The lights were low,
except, of course, for the multi-colored strobe rotating and
revolving in a crazed, lilting manner.

Disoriented at first, it took a moment for
Michael to acquaint himself with his surroundings. Deep and wide,
the floor disappeared in the distance with smoke and dimness
devouring half the dance floor. Strategically placed on the rear
and right sides of the dance floor were small, high tables and
chairs—pub sets, they’re now called. On the wall nearest him, a
long narrow bar ran thirty feet, its stools filled with thirsty
patrons. The most apparent and striking of Mike’s observations was
that the clientele were much younger and much more chic than he. It
made him very aware of his age.

The music was loud and wild. The beat thudded
in his chest, though he didn’t recognize the song. Hell, he
couldn’t even understand the lyrics. It was rap, or hip-hop, or
whatever the urban music of today was called. He didn’t have a
problem with such music, per se, but when said music assaulted the
eardrums and the very nature of the vocals was irritating, it was
just not worth the torture to listen. At this volume, however,
there was no hope of ignoring it.

Already Mike’s trained eye was searching out
the women, the really attractive ones. It didn’t take very long for
him to single out several potential partners.