Crash Into Me (34 page)

She
squirmed and tightened her legs around him, urging him on, so he dipped his
head low and took the tip of her breast into his mouth, tugging gently. When
she cried out, he picked up the rhythm, thrusting hard, his hands on her hips
and his mouth on her breasts, assaulting her with the most exquisite friction
and hot, delicious suction.

She
was close, so close, but just before she exploded, he slowed, lifting his mouth
from her breasts and tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue. “Are
you going to tell me you love me again when you come?”

At
first, the meaning of his words failed to register. She was so filled with him,
caught up in sensation, teetering on the edge of climax, that she almost
nodded, going along with anything he said. Love. Come. Yes.

Wait…what?

Her
eyes flew open. His face was a handsome mask, devoid of emotion. Clearly, he
was still angry with her, and intent on taking a measure of revenge by proving
his mastery over her body. “You bastard,” she panted. “I was faking.”

He
slid his hand between them, strumming his fingertips over her clitoris. “Like
you’re faking now?”

“Yes,”
she moaned, throwing her head back and biting down on her bottom lip, refusing
to cry out his name as the orgasm rocketed through her. She gripped his
shoulders, making crescents with her fingernails and feeling her inner muscles
convulse around him as she came and came and came.

She
was vaguely aware of him coming, too, pumping his hips and grinding into her,
seeking the deepest possible penetration on his last, most powerful thrust.
Then it was over, and he withdrew from her abruptly. Letting her slide down the
wall, he stumbled away from her to dispose of the condom before she was steady
on her feet.

Like
a wet rag, she sank to the carpet amidst their discarded clothes.

He
came back from the bathroom with his pants buttoned and his expression flat,
appearing as cool and unruffled as if he’d just been discussing the weather
forecast instead of fucking her against the wall.

Picking
up his T-shirt and pulling it over his head, he said, “Give Grant my best,” as
he walked out the door.

When Ben got home, Carly and James were
sitting at opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch TV. If Carly’s hair
hadn’t been mussed and James didn’t have a pillow over his lap, Ben still
wouldn’t have bought it.

“Say
good night, Carly,” he said on his way to the den.

“That’s
what I was doing, Dad.”

“Do
it with words this time.”

The
den was a large room beyond the kitchen, in a dark, seldom-visited corner of
the house. It was a miscellaneous space, part office, part storage room. Carly
sometimes used the desk and computer for school projects, but she preferred her
laptop and the comfort of her own room. The den also housed a collection of
surfboards, trophies, and memorabilia. There were too many magazine articles
and photo spreads to display, but Ben had framed a few classics, some of the
most reckless moments of his life, caught forever, like death wishes frozen in
time.

For
all of those reasons, and more, the room was rarely used.

Nathan
turned from the computer as Ben walked in. “Find out anything?”

Ben
muttered a noncommittal reply and sank into the only other chair in the room, a
black leather chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a psychiatrist’s
office.

“Did
she let you in?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Groaning,
Ben lay back and threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes.

“You
just had sex with her, didn’t you?” Nathan’s tone was scolding, and saturated
with prurient interest. “How was it?”

Ben
lifted his arm and quirked a puzzled brow.

“What?”
Nathan asked innocently. “I’m gay, not dead.”

“I
know,” he said, leaning back again. “It’s just that you’ve never asked about
stuff like that before.”

Nathan
pursed his lips together. “I wasn’t curious about the bimbos you couldn’t seem
to get enough of in the nineties. And Olivia was your wife, so that was sort of
off-limits, as far as casual discussion was concerned. But this is different.
Special Agent Vasquez is pure intrigue.”

“Not
anymore,” Ben lied.

“So
dish details,” Nathan prodded, not believing him for a moment. “Did she
handcuff you to the headboard?”

Ben
gave him a wry smile. “You have a wild imagination.”

“And
you are ruining my tawdry perception of heterosexual relations,” Nathan
complained, smiling in return.

“No
handcuffs,” he said shortly, “but it was good.” After finding out she’d been
playing him from the beginning, Ben would have said she was as cold as ice.
What they’d just done together proved the opposite was true.

If
she’d been any hotter, they’d both have gone up in flames.

“What
did you find out?” Ben asked, changing the subject.

Nathan
turned to face the computer. “Ms. Vasquez has been on the FBI payroll for the
past five years. She earned a degree in Criminal Justice and has attended the
San Diego Police Academy, as well as the FBI Academy in Virginia.”

Ben
grunted, unsurprised to discover that she was well educated and expertly
trained.

“You
know that other name you gave me, Everett Moore?”

“Yeah.
He doesn’t exist, right?”

“Wrong.
I had to bypass a few firewalls, but I found him in a criminal informational
database for LA County Jail. About ten years ago he was doing time for rape.
The underage victim is unlisted, of course.”

Ben
felt a strange hollowness spread through his chest.

“He
was stabbed to death by a guy named Rodrigo Garcia.”

“Garcia.
Not Vasquez.”

Nathan
nodded. “I poked around in his file, too. Garcia is a model inmate at Santee
Lakes Correctional Facility. His father is deceased, some Mexican national
named Ramón Garcia, but his mother lives in East San Diego. Her name is
Anita Vasquez.”

Ben
closed his eyes, hating her for lying to him about some things and telling the
truth about others.

“Rodrigo
Garcia has one sister, six years his junior. Sonora Mariela Vasquez.”

“Sonny,”
he murmured, tasting the name on his lips.

Nathan
turned to face him. “Hmm?”

“She
goes by Sonny.”

His
brother gaped at him incredulously. “You’re in love with her.”

“Please,”
he scoffed, refusing to entertain such a ridiculous notion.

“It’s
written all over your face.”

“That’s
not love, it’s satisfaction,” Ben said. “I just banged the hell out of her.”
Never mind that he’d never felt less satisfied. The sex had been phenomenal,
but staying there and doing it again, going slow, taking his time…that would
have been better.

“Whatever
you say,” Nathan chuckled, logging off.

“Tell
me what happened with James.”

“You
know I can’t.”

“Nathan,”
he warned, doing a conscious imitation of their father, “this is my daughter
we’re talking about.”

“No
it isn’t,” Nathan replied, annoyed with Ben’s intimidation tactics. “We’re
talking about a teenaged boy, and my client, a person to whom I have a legal
and ethical obligation.”

Ben
wanted to press further, but knew his brother well enough not to bother.
“Should I be worried?”

Nathan’s
smooth brow wrinkled. “Carly thinks she’s in love with a kid whose father just
turned up dead. Her best friend was also murdered, consequently. Yes, you
should definitely be worried.”

“You
know what I mean.”

“Carly
is my niece, Ben. If she were in danger from James, don’t you think I’d tell
you?”

Ben
rubbed a hand over his tired face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with him?
Adopt him? Kick him out on the street? Send him to his brother’s?”

“No.
Don’t send him there.”

“Why
not?”

“He’s
safer here. Trust me.”

If
anyone had ever told Ben that he’d be allowing his sixteen-year-old daughter’s
boyfriend to spend the night under his roof, even once, he’d have kicked their
ass on principle. “And what about Carly?” he asked. “Where will she be safe?”

When her dad poked his head in to check on
her, Carly pretended to be asleep. She made a little snuffling noise and turned
her head to one side, letting her hair cascade across the pillow.

He
shut the door quietly and moved on, walking down the hall to his own room.

She
wanted to get up and sneak downstairs immediately, but she waited in the silent
dark of her bedroom, ticking off endless minutes, her heart pounding with
anticipation. When the walls seemed like they were closing in on her,
threatening to suffocate her, she slipped out from beneath the covers and
tiptoed across the hardwood floor.

At
her bedroom door, she hesitated. The hallway was quiet and there was no sliver
of light beneath her father’s door. When he was awake, he checked in on her
often, but when he wasn’t, he slept like a log. She remembered climbing into
her parents’ bed one Christmas morning and jumping on the mattress, having a
pillow fight with her mom, and opening several presents while her dad snored
on.

She
snuck across the hall and down the carpeted stairway, moving silently in her
bare feet, feeling the delicious rush of blood through her veins. In the living
room, she peeked over the edge of the couch to make sure James was sleeping. He
was on his stomach, face making a dent in the soft feather pillow, one hand
shoved down the front of his pants.

She
smiled sadly, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair.

Earlier,
when she’d been afraid James would be arrested for murder, she’d told him she
loved him. She’d just blurted it out, right in front of everyone. The look on
his face was one of total disbelief, as if he couldn’t fathom why she would say
such a thing.

It
brought tears to her eyes, just thinking about it.

Being
with James made her feel better, and hearing him tell her he loved her back
warmed her insides, but she’d never been good about handling her emotions.
Visions of Lisette’s murder and her mother’s bracelet made her head swim.
Worrying about her dad, and James, and everything…

She
just couldn’t take it anymore.

Moving
past the living room couch, she padded into the kitchen and felt her way down
the black granite countertop as her eyes adjusted to the dark night. The
butcher block was there in the corner, knife handles offering themselves up
like saving graces.

Letting
out the breath she’d been holding, she wrapped her hand around one and pulled,
hearing it slide from its sheath with a soft
snick.

The
blade gleamed in the moonlight.

Pulse
racing, she ducked into the guest bath, pulled the door closed, and turned on
the light. In her reflection, her eyes were huge and her hair was wild. She
looked like a deranged mental patient, fresh from the asylum.

Stifling
a delirious giggle, she lowered herself to the bathroom floor and pulled her
extra-large T-shirt over her head. Clad only in bikini panties, she stared down
at her skinny body, looking for the best place to cut.

Everyone
told her she was pretty. Carly didn’t see what they saw. She was too tall and
too thin, with flyaway hair and bones sticking out all over the place, her
haughty attitude masking a thousand insecurities.

Her
mother had been beautiful. She’d also been curvy and womanly, with an awesome
pair of boobs and a butt her dad couldn’t keep his hands off.

Carly
looked down at her naked chest. She had cut herself here because it was one of
the only places she had extra flesh. It also felt safer to nick this secret
place, where no one would ever look, not even her dad.

Now
that James had touched her breasts, and told her how much he liked them, she
felt weird about cutting herself there. He would surely find out.

Where
else could she do it? What places did boys not want to look, or try to touch?
She frowned down at herself, experiencing a flurry of indecision. If she didn’t
make a cut, she’d have a long night to look forward to, awake and fraught with
anxiety.

Raising
the knife, she brought the blade toward her upper arm. It was winter, she
rationalized, and she wouldn’t be wearing any tank tops for a while.

The
sharp sting was both shocking and comforting, painful and beautiful. Blood
welled from the cut in jewel-bright beads, wet and red and luscious. Tears of
relief fell down her cheeks and she closed her eyes, feeling the warm trickle,
savoring the sweet release.

When
she opened them again, James was standing over her. Groggily, she brought the
T-shirt up to her chest and fumbled for the knife, but he’d already seen it.