Head Rush (4 page)

Sophia is Otto’s assistant, and a powerful memory revisionist.

“The day I’d ever let Sophia look into my eyes,” I say, “I’d gouge them out first.”

Simon inspects his fingernails with strange ferocity, like he’s struggling to stay out of the conversation. It’s so unlike him! Back in the old days, Simon was always the first to condemn Packard. He and I used to bond over our hatred of being Packard’s minions, trying to think of ways to get free. Of course, neither of us thought Packard had it in him to shoot a man.

And Packard’s explanation of what really happened—that somebody else shot Avery, and Sophia revised my memory to make me think I saw him do it—it’s just the sort of outlandish claim Simon would make fun of. But he doesn’t.

Something’s not adding up.

Just then I feel the warning tingle of pain again and I clap my hand to my head, willing myself to think of something else…anything else. Otto catches my eye. He gets it. He puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s with me.

Thank goodness for Otto.

Steve comes back with a clipboard. “Some items before I can let you go.”

I get out of my still-running car, and he hands the clipboard over, points out the blanks he wants me to fill in. I try to concentrate wholeheartedly on this little task while the guys talk—something about Steve giving Simon a lift back to his car at the little trailer office. Otto and I will be along shortly. Otto wants to check a few things.

I pray the warning tingle doesn’t turn into full-fledged pain. Maybe it’s a vein degrading. But it was never like this—so frequent, so scary. Tension seems to bring it on, especially the tension of thinking about the shooting.

Steve and Simon take off in the truck, bumping between the rows of cars toward the distant edge of the lot, where they’ll skirt the perimeter until they hit the outer gate.

I stand by my open passenger door. “Ready?”

Otto shakes his head sternly. He walks to the front of the car and points to the hood.

“What?”

“Come around the car,” he says. “To the front of the car.”

Traffic Stop. My favorite Detective-Sanchez game. Is he kidding?

“Otto—”

“Come around to the front of the car, with your hands where I can see them.”

My mouth falls open.

Otto waits, all rumbly and detective-y.

In the distance, Steve’s truck has reached the outer gate. They’ll be out of sight soon.

“Otto, I have that weird thing—that pain tingle.” I touch my head. “I have to concentrate on not thinking about it. Or the shooting. Or anything.”

“Now.”

I smile, disbelievingly. “Seriously. I have to concentrate.”

Otto smiles slyly.

A fluttery feeling in the pit of my pelvis, like feathers inside me. “Jesus, Otto.”

He points to a spot on the hood of the car. “Right here.”

Is he bluffing? There’s nobody here, just acres of cars; Simon and Steve are too far away to see us, and they’ll soon disappear. Still, it’s a public place. It’s kind of exciting. I cross my arms. “You want me to compromise more evidence? By sitting on the car?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says. “Are you going to comply?”

“Hell, no.” I stroll over with a sassy smile, and I laugh as he lifts me onto the hood of the car. “Hey!” The hood is warm beneath my coat, and the vibrations of the motor touch the center of me. “You have
got
to be kidding, Otto.”

A lock of hair has fallen over one of his eyes, but he makes no effort to remove it. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re wearing under that skirt?”

Unaccountably, my mouth waters. I put on my gangster-moll voice. “You really think I’ll tell you?”

He holds my gaze with his. “Yes.”

“Dream on, copper.” I bite my lip to keep back a smile. “You don’t know nuthin’”

“Maybe I do.”

I press my thighs together, which feels sort of delicious. My head is feeling normal again, and the air is mild and misty. “Oh yeah?” I glance around, searching for Steve’s truck, or any other sign of human life. Nothing.

“Don’t look around, look at me.” He takes my mittened hands in his and positions them behind me.

I leave them like that. The car engine vibrates, warm beneath me. He draws in close, between my thighs, cheek brushing against my cheek. My breath speeds as I feel his warmth, his energy. He whispers into my ear: “You know I always find out.”

I love how unlike himself he is in this game. It’s dizzying, and suddenly I really want to fuck.

He puts a gloved hand on my knee, bare above my boot. Nearby, a crow caws.

“Ignore it,” he whispers.

I watch his eyes, the irises are lines of cocoa alternating with burnt sienna. His lashes are thick, and the olive skin below his cheekbones is baby smooth.

“Maybe I want to see what the crow is doing,” I whisper saucily.

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you compromised all that evidence.”

“What’re you gonna do about it?” I ask as he slides his hands onto my bare legs. He’s never worn gloves before. I like it, on a sort of dirty level. He presses his fingers onto my knees and firmly pushes them apart. Then he pushes his hands up under my skirt, up my thighs. There are little ridges around his gloved fingers that drag lightly along the skin of my inner thighs. I gasp. It’s all quite exciting.

“Shhh,” he says. He stops and takes off the gloves, slowly, face stern and serious, or as serious as he can consciously make it. When he’s truly feeling serious, his jaw is more defined, and his lips are tight, not pillowy like they are now. His lips always give him away.

He pockets his gloves and continues up toward my panties with ungloved hands. My heart beats wildly as he pushes his fingertips under the elastic, grazes my tender center.

“Take them off,” he whispers.

I narrow my eyes. “Or what?” I say it slow and mean, lingering over the
w
and the
t
. “Or
what
?”

With a happy smile he pulls back, totally breaking the role—the detective in this game isn’t supposed to smile. And then he leans in to kiss me, passionately.

He’s not supposed to kiss me passionately either. I don’t like when Otto ruins the Detective Sanchez game.

I thump a mittened hand onto his chest and push him back. “What do think you’re doing, Detective? You want them? Fine.” I pull off my mittens and set them aside. He steps back as I wiggle out of my panties and present them to him on one finger with my best unrepentant-bandit-girl smile.

He pockets then without expression. Then he pulls a condom from his pants pocket.

I snatch it away. “I don’t know about your methods, Detective,” I say.

“You don’t?” His delivery is lackluster, almost melancholy.

I wait for him to say something more; when he doesn’t, I feel this jolt of annoyance. He shouldn’t have started the Detective-Otto-Sanchez-traffic-stop game if he didn’t want to play the part.

“You know what I think?” I snap. “I think you’ve crossed a line!”

He regards me thoughtfully.

I tip the sharp corner of the foil package onto the tender skin of his throat. “I
know
it. I know you’ve crossed a line.”

He closes his fingers around my wrist. Then, “I don’t cross lines; I make hard choices.”

“Hard choices.
Rrrrrright
.”

“Yes. Right. I make the choices that have to be made. The choices nobody else has the guts to make.” He pulls my hand away from his neck, condom and all. “I see what needs to be done and I do that thing.” He rests his other hand back on my thigh, heavy now. He’s even managing a serious mouth, which surprises me. He looks like he’s actually being serious. “I handle business and I accept the consequences. I take the hit. Your choices are easy. You only have to comply.” He comes closer, whispers hot into my ear. “Compliance is your only remaining option.”

He’s silent for a while and I wait, unsure where he’s going with this. Is it a prisoner thing? That could be exciting, though we might need props. 

I pull away. “If you think compliance is my only remaining option, you’re crazy, mister.”

He gets this strange look. “You should be glad. It’s making things easy on you. It’s a kind of gift when things are made easy like that.” Suddenly he seems to remember himself. He releases my hand and tilts his head, giving me the Detective-Sanchez eagle eye. Then he undoes his belt buckle. “Now. Are you going to put it on me?” He holds my gaze as he unzips his pants. “Or am I going to have to put it on myself?”

I rip open the little foil package. “Guess you’re going to have to wait and see.”

“Put it on me,” he says in the rumbly voice.

I unroll the condom over his hard cock.

“Come here, you,” he whispers, but he’s the one who comes to me, snaking a hand around my waist, touching me gently with the other, in all the ways I like, and eventually he guides himself into me. I rest my hands on his shoulders as he fills me slowly, being sort of tender, which
really
isn’t the game—I’m the felony girl and Detective Otto Sanchez is supposed to be all action and say dirty, demeaning things, preferably using the word
fuck
a lot by this point.

Instead, he holds me tightly, presses his cheek to mine, makes love to me slowly, with emotion. Even if I didn’t sense it from the desperate cadence of his breath, I’d feel it in the way he moves, the way he holds me.

If he hadn’t ruined the game already, this would’ve definitely done it. And really, why did he pull off the gloves? The gloves were good.

This intensity—this rawness I feel from him—is suddenly dizzying. Is it passion? Grief? Distress? And then it hits me: it’s love. They say love is a kind of wound. That’s what I’m feeling from him. It’s as though his heart hurts with it. He’s being real.

I suddenly feel inadequate, unable to match his level of emotion.

He wraps his coat around us like a cocoon, and I try to lose myself in his scent, his warmth. I push up his shirt and run my hands over his chest, wanting to enjoy him for just him. All his familiar Otto sounds. My fiancé.

After we’re done, Otto stays in me, holding me tightly, face buried in my breast. He stays there for a long time, panting, overwrought.

I wait for him to let me go and pull out of me, but he doesn’t. It starts to feel a little uncomfortable—not physically, but emotionally. Like there’s too much truth here.

I don’t want him to think I don’t love him! If he could maybe just wait, I know I have love inside me, but it’s as if I can’t locate it. Like it’s hidden away. Like love is a thought from inside a long-forgotten dream.

He kisses my neck. “I’m so sorry,” he says right up against my skin.

I stiffen. “You? For what?”

“I’m just sorry.” He holds me, like he doesn’t want it to be over.

Is he sorry he ruined the game? I close my fingers tightly on his shoulders and straighten up, and he finally pulls out of me. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him.

He looks at me so strangely. I’m starting to feel nervous.

“I’m going to be a better man,” he says, pulling off the condom.

I tilt my head with a
you’re-crazy
look. “Otto, I don’t need you to be different or better in any way whatsoever.”

“Justine—”

I press two fingers to his lips. He seems so serious. “You have nothing to apologize for or be better for. Nothing. Got it?”

I watch his eyes with the sense that many grave thoughts pass behind them.

“Okay?” I remove my fingers, resisting the temptation to make a joke, like he only has to apologize for screwing up the game. This isn’t the moment.

There’s a fast-food bag on the ground nearby. He puts the condom inside it and pulls up his gloves from his pockets.

The wind has shifted: the air feels drier; sweat chills on my skin. I can hear the steely whine of a jet in the distance.

Otto’s jaw is tight; lips in a grim frown. He looks around, seeming remote now, disgusted, even.

Disgusted?
Is he disgusted that we had sex in the middle of the impound lot? That he ruined the game? That he gave me so much, when I gave him so little?

I jump down off the hood and put out my hand. “I believe you have something of mine.” Meaning my panties.

He hands them to me and pulls his gloves back on. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Three

I decide to demand the tracker later, given Otto’s strange mood. I crank the heat and drive us out, enjoying the familiarity of my car and its quirks. As  we pass the impound trailer-office, Smitty joins us, following in the limo.

Just as I’m turning onto the main road, I notice that somebody has messed with dashboard Gumby.

“What the hell?” I gape at his rubbery green arms, raised up high. Happy arms. “Somebody changed dashboard Gumby.”

“Mmm?” Otto scowls at his mobile.

I bend Gumby’s arms down—his glum position. “I always adjust dashboard Gumby when I drive. To reflect my mood. The last time I drove, I specifically remember adjusting Gumby so his hands were over his eyes. Because I was worried. About
you
.”

I have Otto’s attention now.

“That’s when I last drove,” I say. “The moment we knew the Dorks had you, but we didn’t know if you were okay, or if we’d be able to rescue you. I left my car behind at my apartment when we went to find you. But when we got in just now, Gumby was set on happy Gumby. Arms up is happy Gumby. It’s not how I left him! I never put him like that.”

“Does anybody else know you do that?”

“Everyone,” I say. There’s this awkward silence where I realize that doesn’t include Otto. “—who’s ever driven with me,” I add, feeling weird that Otto doesn’t know about dashboard Gumby.

“How about people who knew about Gumby and had access to your apartment?”

“Who would drive my car somewhere, leave it, tweak Gumby, and put the key back?”

Otto gazes at me, still with that grim edge. “Who indeed?”

It takes me a moment to get who he means. “You think it’s Packard? You think this is part of his trying to make me think my memory was revised? Changing dashboard Gumby?”