PsyCop 5: Camp Hell (2 page)

Jacob shut the closet door and looked at me hard enough to make him squint. “Something’s wrong. Is it Lisa?”

“Lisa’s fine. She sent me her e-mail address. Maybe one of these days she’ll trust me with her phone number again.”

He planted his hands on his hips and kept on staring. I felt myself scowl even harder. I know he was accustomed to teaming up with the Human Polygraph, but didn’t he understand that sometimes people lied and minimized because they were wrestling with something too ugly to lay out there for everyone to see?

“You’re mad that I borrowed your Auracel,” he said, finally.

There—something I could hang my mood on. Thank you, Jacob. “Don’t go through my pockets.”

“I’m sorry.”

Like I gave a damn that he’d slipped some of my meds to an astral rapist. It wasn’t as if it was my last pill or anything. And it’d gone to a good cause. I did my best to scowl harder.

Jacob sat on the edge of the bed, pulled my foot into his lap and dug his thumb into the sole. I turned all to jelly inside, but I think my scowl didn’t slip, much. “I’m truly sorry. I did what I thought was right at the time.”

The nerves at the bottom of my foot seemed to be connected directly to my spine. I sagged into the mattress, and my eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling again. Jacob swept his thumb over the ball of my foot, and I made a noise that I usually reserve for sex.

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I said. “It’s just been a rough couple of days.”

-TWO-

A gunshot woke me.

Not inside the cannery or anything. Not as if someone was standing at the foot of my bed aiming a semi-automatic at us. A faraway gunshot, a few blocks away, at least. There weren’t any followup shots, or screams, or sirens, either.

Typical noise. I’d been sleeping through it for years.

I looked at the alarm clock. Glowing green digits read 4:08. Jacob lay on his side with his hand nestled under his cheek, breathing deeply. He hadn’t woken. Why had I?

I stared up at the ceiling and listened, but there was nothing more to hear. I struggled to remember which day it was, and almost had myself convinced that it was Friday. But then I remembered the guard escorting Roger Burke into the meeting room at Metropolitan Correctional Center, and I realized it was Monday, and I was faced with at least five days of work before I’d get to take it easy. I closed my eyes and told myself to go back to sleep and get two and a half more hours in. I’d be foggy and sore if I got up now. I needed to stay alert to see if I could determine who at the Fifth Precinct knew about the MP something something—whatever the fuck Burke had called it—and who were just the same old people I always thought they were.

I sighed. I’d need my wits about me to field a phone call from Stefan without sounding like a complete dumbass. He’d probably pick the least opportune time to call back, like when I was in the car with Zigler. I always suspected his talent told him when he could make someone squirm just for the fun of it, and he usually did, because that’s how he is. Or was. It’d been over fourteen years. Maybe he’d outgrown his small sadistic pleasures.

I wondered what number I’d given. My cell, I would assume, since I didn’t even know my new land line. And then it dawned on me. I hadn’t left him any number at all. I’d totally forgotten to call him.

My eyes shot open and my adrenaline surged. What were his office hours? Nine to five? What if he came in early on a Monday morning to do some sort of clerical thing? It seemed unlikely, but it seemed even less likely that he’d carve out time on a Friday afternoon to do it.

Chances were one in eight million that if Stefan did come in early on Monday mornings to do his paperwork, he’d be doing it at four a.m. But I wasn’t exactly thinking rationally.

I slipped out of bed, cracked my knee on the massive slab of furniture that served as a bedside table, and crept out of the room barefoot, praying that I wasn’t going to discover a stray tack or chisel-edged staple the hard way.

I paused at the foot of the stairs. A streetlight shining through glass block windows provided enough illumination to see where the furniture was. I could make out the shapes of the doorways on the second floor, all three with their doors open. And even though Jacob could sleep through a hurricane or a gunshot, I decided that if I left the message now, he’d hear me and wake up.

I thought about locking myself in the downstairs bathroom, but then it occurred to me that Stefan would know. He always knew all kinds of weird things like that.

I decided it wouldn’t be abnormal in any way to call from the kitchen. And also, that Jacob wouldn’t be able to hear me if I did. I stubbed every toe on my right foot on the coffee table, swallowed down the word, “Fuckgoddamn,” and slipped into the kitchenette.

I could see the room, kind of, by the glow of the microwave clock. There was a flashlight in my overcoat, but that was hanging in the entryway, and I figured I’d lose a limb if I tried to retrieve it. I could just turn on the light, but I was positive that Jacob would feel it shining through the bedroom floor, then come downstairs and demand to know what I was doing.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, I pulled open the refrigerator door…and was struck blind by the light thrown by the minuscule appliance bulb. I blinked away door-shaped afterimages as the coolness that’d been trapped inside the fridge settled around my bare toes, and I figured out what I was going to say to Stefan.

And then I checked the number on the sticky note that was plastered to my phone, flipped the phone open, and dialed.

I guess I’d expected Stefan’s voice. He’s got a deep baritone that would’ve made him the perfect host of a campy horror flick matinee. But it wasn’t Stefan on the voice mail. It was a woman, maybe even a professional voice artist, by the sound of her.

“You’ve reached the office of Russeau and Kline, and we’re pleased that with among all the empathic behavior-modification therapists available, you’ve selected us.”

I forgot whatever it was I’d meant to say.

“We specialize in weight loss, smoking cessation, drug and alcohol counseling, and productivity in the workplace. If you have a goal, we can help you obtain it.”

Did I have a goal? Shit. I drew a blank. A total blank.

“Office hours are Tuesday through Friday, ten to six. For a nominal convenience fee, limited after-hours sessions are available.”

So it was possible Stefan was there now. Right now. If someone who needed therapy in the middle of the night had slipped him a big enough incentive. Think, I told myself, think. Be cool. It’s just Stefan.

“Press one to make an appointment. Press two to leave a message for Lorraine Kline. Press three to leave a message for Steven Russeau. Press zero for more options. When you’re finished, press pound for more options, or just hang up.”

I pressed three. Three was Stefan’s favorite number. I used to mock him relentlessly for having a favorite number. And then we’d steal a can of whipped cream from the cafeteria and inhale the propellant. And have sex.

A computer voice said, “Please leave a message for,” and Stefan’s deep voice, just the same as I remembered it, said, “Steven Russeau.” Which wasn’t his name. His name was Stefan Russell. Who’d convinced him to change his name, and how?

There was a beep. No time to wonder. “Uh, hey, Stefan. Steven. Uh, right, Steven now. It’s Vic…Victor Bayne. I never changed my name. So, right, anyway…I was wondering if you want to meet. Just to talk. I mean, yeah. For coffee. Sometime.” I said my phone number, probably too fast, and snapped my phone shut.

I told myself there was no reason to panic. It was just Stefan. If our younger selves could have seen me now, freaking out over leaving him a stupid message, we would’ve both laughed.

“Vic?”

The refrigerator door rattled as I gave it a spastic jerk. I threw my phone in the crisper and peeked over the top of the door. Jacob stood a few feet away from me, silhouetted in the archway that led to the cannery’s main room.

“Are you looking for something?”

How long had I been standing there staring into the refrigerator—and how long had Jacob been watching me do it? I grabbed the first thing I saw, one of Jacob’s protein shakes, and closed the door. “I was just, uh…hungry.”

“Oh. You had such a strange look on your face, I was worried there were spirits in the leftovers.” He came up beside me, pulled me against him with one arm, and re-opened the refrigerator door with the other. I stopped breathing as I wondered if he had a taste for lettuce, and if so, whether he’d wonder why the romaine was checking its messages.

Jacob pulled a half-empty quart of orange juice toward the edge of the shelf, coaxed open the top of the carton with one hand, then picked it up and drained it in one long, sensual swallow. He pitched the empty carton into the trash. “That’s what you get for falling asleep without eating.” He glanced down at the shake. “You like those? I’ll buy more.”

It had never occurred to me to drink one. I popped open the tab and took a swallow. It tasted like half & half spiked with kiddie vitamins, but mostly like the can. I shuddered. “I guess not.”

Jacob took the shake out of my hand and put it back in the fridge. He shut the door, and then backed me into it. “I can think of something that tastes a whole lot better.”

Magnets dug into my back as he went for my throat. His teeth grazed the marks left over from the previous week’s encounters that had just healed.

“No biting,” I said, and I tried to shrug him away, but there was probably fifty pounds more of him than there was of me, and he didn’t budge. I struggled more, and his tongue touched my neck and moved lower, licks punctuated by small nips of his teeth. Enough to sting, but not enough to mark. I let my breath out carefully. The thought of him biting down on my collarbone made the slug of protein shake I’d just taken do an anticipatory cartwheel inside my stomach.

“I’ve been dying to get you alone, and awake. We’ve got a whole building to christen.”

I’d never considered against-the-fridge to be one of the more appealing sexual positions, but it looked like Jacob was out to prove me wrong. He grabbed my hips, and even through my sweats, shocks of pain-tinged pleasure shot straight to my balls.

He let go of my hip to stretch the neck of my T-shirt. I heard thread snapping. His teeth closed on my shoulder, and my cock started to perk up. He followed with a long lick that led back to my throat, hinting at where he’d really like to bite down.

“You’ve been really hard on my clothes lately,” I said. I pushed him away just enough to slip out of my T-shirt and drop it on the floor before he turned it into a stretched-out rag.

“I’ve been really hard…and your clothes are in my way.” He raked his fingertips up my sides, my ribs, and I could feel the strength and the power in his hands. I got off on the thought that he’d tear through anything to get to me.

I cupped his face in my hands and pulled him up for a kiss. His tongue tasted sharp, like orange juice, and he stabbed it into my mouth. My cock twitched and nudged his leg. He groaned into my mouth and pressed his crotch against me. He really was hard. I let go of his face and crammed my hands down the waistband of his boxers. I squeezed a hand between us and grabbed his cock. Hot. Thick. Stiff. I grabbed his ass with my other hand.

Jacob broke the kiss and shoved my sweatpants down. While he was bent over, he clamped his mouth around my nipple and sucked hard. A shock ripped down my spine, and my cock gave another twitch. Jacob wrapped his hand around my balls and pressed his thumb between them. He tugged them as if he could draw the sensations right through my body.

“Fuck my ass,” I said, because he loves it when I ask for it. He squeezed my balls together and slipped his other hand deeper between my legs so he could pet my hole with his fingertips. I had my arms wrapped around his head, and I breathed into his short, short hair. Deep, shuddering breaths. Breaths that wet his scalp. He pushed a finger into me and I gasped.

He let go of my nipple and latched onto the other one. He sucked so hard it stung, and his finger drilled higher. “Do it now,” I said, because I was going to finish during the foreplay if he didn’t.

He straightened up and continued to stroke his thumb over the cleft of my balls while he looked around. “Anything we can use? I don’t want you getting bored while I go all the way upstairs to get the lube.”

Lisa had unpacked the kitchen, not me. I had no idea where anything was, and I didn’t feel like stopping to rifle through the cupboards. “Margarine?”

I regretted it the minute I said it. If the last thing I wanted Jacob to do was open the refrigerator, why’d I go and tell him to fuck me with the margarine?

He pressed his mouth against my ear. “I like the way you think.” His voice was low and rough, more of a breath.

Damn. I couldn’t take it back now. I shoved his chest to make enough room for me to turn around. “I’ll get it.” I opened the refrigerator door and was blinded again by the light bulb. I found the small yellow tub easily enough, on the door where we always keep it. I glanced down toward the crisper. I could make out the black shape of my cell phone through the glass of the lowest shelf. I moved a jar of pickles over to cover it and closed the door.

My eyes took a second to readjust to the nearly-dark kitchen. Jacob had stripped naked. He toyed with his nipple with one hand, stroked his thick, hard cock with the other—slowly, just watching me, and waiting. “You do it,” he said.

I peeled off the lid and stuck my fingers in. Cold, but it would warm up soon enough. The fake-butter smell wafted up around me. I’d never noticed it before, not while I was making my toast. I scooped out two fingers’ worth and sniffed it.

I figured I wouldn’t feel so ridiculous if I wasn’t facing him. I turned around and stepped the rest of the way out of my sweats so we were both naked, and I bent at the waist and pressed my forearm into the refrigerator door. I widened my stance and reached down between my legs.

I smeared the margarine over my hole. It was only cold for a second, and then I shoved two fingers in. I suspected I’d never look at the word
spread
on the label again without smirking. The buttery smell hit me again, strong. I could hear Jacob’s hand working his cock.