Killing Bliss

Killing Bliss

by

EC Sheedy

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2005, 2013 by E.C. Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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For Tim... always.

Not a word would be written without him.

For my Red Door friends. You know who you are...

Not a word would be sent in without them.

Chapter 1

The tall, Hollywood-handsome man stuffed his SCI-Smithfield Prison T-shirt into the overflowing washroom garbage can and shrugged into a new checkered shirt. Not first-class, but it would do. For now.

He walked into a stall, locked the door behind him, and took his first private piss in seven years. When he was back in his jeans, he stepped out of the stall, washed his hands, and studied himself in the cracked mirror over the sink.

Looking good, looking damn good.
He lifted his chin, ran a hand over the double shave he'd given himself this morning before they rolled him out.

The first thing I'm gonna do is find myself a nice, soft bed with a not-so-nice, even softer woman lying in it—with her legs open.

He forked his fingers through his dark blond hair and slicked it back, Valentino-style, then turned his head from side to side for one final check.

And that's all you'll have to do, sweet cheeks, just lie there, because Frankie boy will take it from there. Be the quickest fuck and the easiest buck you ever did see.

He picked up his duffel bag and rummaged through it for the aftershave he'd bought in the bus station gift shop. Figured he'd give himself another shot. His fingers closed around his envelope, and he pulled it out. There wasn't an ex-con from here to California who didn't leave the pen carrying a manila envelope, the official walking papers. According to his dumb-ass counselor, over sixty percent of them walked back in within three years.

Dumb fucks.

Shaking his head, he tore the envelope in half, then quarters, and crammed it in the trash along with the T-shirt.

Where he was going, he wouldn't need either one.

Because after he'd dried out the first whore, he knew where to find the second one.

Three years he'd waited, three miserable years he'd tracked the bitch.

His nerves jumped at the thought of her. Crazy kid back then, tight as hell...
Oh, yeah.

He splashed on the musky scent, then, smiling into the mirror, he checked his straight teeth. Liking what he saw, he lifted his chin again to admire its cleft, then adjusted his cock more comfortably in his jeans.

Seven years in the Smithfield prison gym had given him rock-hard biceps and a six-pack gut—the best body he'd had in years.

Hell, maybe Miss Hot-Stuff herself would
come,
explode under him like a goddamn bomb. He straightened his collar.

And if she didn't? Who the hell cared?

He walked out of the washroom whistling. One good thing about prison, with a few bucks and a couple of solid connections, you could find out anything about anybody. Put the Internet to shame.

He was a free man with information, and for the first time in his life, he had a plan.

He knew what he wanted—and he knew who was going to give it to him.

And he knew exactly what he'd do to her to get it.

* * *

Addy Michaels shoveled the last of the topsoil into the wheelbarrow and straightened to backhand wipe the sweat from her forehead, adding more grime to the smear she'd made earlier.

The final load after a long day.

When the soil was spread and raked, and after she did some paperwork—she groaned inwardly—she'd head for the lake and have a swim. This great weather wouldn't last forever, and she planned to enjoy every minute of it. If she got in before the tall cedars at the far end of the lake blocked the sun's rays, she'd be swimming in golden water. Star Lake might be more giant pond than lake, but the water was as sweet as a mountain spring—and right now darn near as cold.