Quintic (36 page)

“
So. Queen Elizabeth the Third, you
are the best?”

She started to chuckle, the sound
surprising in the little interrogation room. He liked her laugh.
“Don’t be silly, Officer. That’s not my real name.”

“
Obviously. But you are a third
child.”

“
Absolument
pas
! I’m an orphan. An only child I believe.”

“
Thus arrogant.”

The smile again. Cockier. “Not at all,
Officer. Only men are egotistic.”

She was clearly fucking with him, and
he, the chump, he was enjoying it too. “What are women then,
Princess?” Sexy. Funny. Smart. Crazy.

“
That’s an interesting question. I
have no idea. Can I call my lawyer now?”

Oh no, Darling, you
cannot, not so soon, we’ve only just started.
“No.
Name?”

“
Really?” The teasing smile turned
into a frown. Her eyes darkened.

His turn to grin. “Again, Princess.
Name?”

With her PI licence identification
number, no doubt he was going to learn her name soon, if he didn’t
already have it so, at that point, she should have stopped toying
with him and just gone along with the interrogation. Why did she
find him so damn intriguing? “No.” Not smart, she thought. “No,”
she repeated, more to herself than to him.

“
I’ll just write down Princess for
now. Address?” She gave him the address of the strip club where she
had been picked up. “So. Name: Princess. Address: Castle, Magic
Kingdom.”

“
Fuck you.”

“
With you, Darling, anytime.” The
fuck if he was falling for that woman. “Soon I hope.” No serial
killer will ever again lick down your neck, Princess. Only
me.

He should have let her go then. Not
smart. Months later, he found himself stuck in a fucking alley,
rain pouring on him.

Dating wasn’t his thing. Even worse,
dating a private investigator. Never in his life plan. Then again,
neither was falling in love.
You hunted the
jerk long enough, Princess Love. Tonight, we get your fucking
waitress killer. Tomorrow, I get those gorgeous eyes of yours
solely focused on me.

It rained all night.

Excerpt
from
PI
Unlimited
, by Trica C.
Line

MacLaren’s
Girl

F
uck, she looked lost curled up
as she was in the corner. The boots looked heavy and, without
shoelaces, they sagged around her ankles. The baggy jeans clang to
the outlines of her legs, making them appear skinny under the thick
fabric. She had covered her head with the hood of her sweater,
locks of hair shielding her face.

She was
awake now
; he could tell, even though her
eyes were scrunched up closed as if she wasn’t ready to face the
crowd yet.
Too fucking bad,
Pussycat, because I am
. She let out the
teeniest of sighs.
Showtime,
Princess
.

He
had
traded a future yet undetermined
favour for her released and had retrieved her shoelaces, money, and
jacket. And Charles. No way he was keeping the fucking rookie after
this stunt.
I won’t make the
quartet mistake all over again
. The
Charles was taking the blame for the whole mess didn’t make sense,
not with her involved.
What’s
the story here, Patricia?
What possible
explanation would the damn woman have
this
time for her evening at
the fucking strip club? Wait for her version, Chris chastened
himself. If he could get one. If he could get a true
one.

Here she
was, sleeping. Fucking
sleeping
! He breathed through his
nose, patted his pockets for his cigarettes. Found his pack but
remembered all the precincts had turned no-smoking years
ago.

She blinked
a few times before her eyes focused on his shoes, then slowly
travelled to his legs. His thighs. His crotch − He cursed under his
breath when his cock grew harder, barely a glance from the damn
woman! − His abdomen. His chest. His chin. Her eyes stayed
there.
Come on, Princess, let
me stare down at those blues of yours
.
Her eyes remained glued to his chin.

She rolled
on her herself, pushed her ass off the floor stiffly, stood and
made a show of dusting herself off, before sighing theatrically. He
left the room and, after a few seconds, heard her boots clapping as
she fell in steps behind him.

He dropped
Charles off at the stripper club
.
“Meeting. Ten sharp tomorrow. My office. Don’t be late.” He watched
as the rookie got into his car, head down like a fucking school boy
about to be scolded.
Got that
right, kiddo
. Big time.

Where to now?
Patricia sat in the
back seat, passenger side, farthest place from him.
So fucking typical, Dollface.
She had yet to say a word. Even with Charles,
her fucking strip club buddy, she had kept silent. She had hugged
the guy, though. A goddamn hug with a kiss on the cheek. Meaning
what? That it was OK? Wrong! That it wasn’t Charles’s fault? Wrong
again, the guy had driven her there! With the hood and the cap, she
looked like a college kid.

Her looking
lost and tired, he
understood, but her
not being angry or defensive, he didn’t. His place then.

He parked in
the garage and turned off the ignition. They sat silently for a
while. Theirs was a relationship based on silence
s and sighs. Sex. Friendship. Trust also. Unwavering trust
encased in their silences. His omissions. Her lies she laced from
half-truths. Anger. And love, as of yet not mention out
loud.
Whatever, wherever,
whenever, however, forever, Angel of mine.

She didn’t
run out of the car. Granted, she couldn’t, he had learned pretty
early on her defence mechanisms and had the child safety latch on
both back doors at all times. Simpler that way. Not that she would
run very far, he was a much faster runner than she was.
Not in the mood tonight, Angel. Not
before we talked.

Running after her lead to
tackling; rolling on the ground closely followed, which
meant getting into close physical contact, him on top. And that
triggered rubbing on her part, her technique for pushing him away,
thus making him even harder, which in turn, induced him to seduce
her, and getting her aroused resulted to him wanting more. Fucking
too distracting. Amusing. Sexy. Arousing. But not tonight. He
wouldn’t learn anything about Charles and the fucking strip club
once the tackling started.

He studied
her in the rea
r-view mirror. No worries,
no guilt, he thought again, shaking his head. He got out and opened
the back door on his side. She lowered her head ever so slightly
before scooping clumsily to his side of the car. She fucking
strolled to the elevator at an even,
remorseless
pace!
Fuck, this better be good, Princess.
I can’t wait to see how you spin this one.

H
e kept on studying once they
were safely in his place, as she took off the cap, the boots, the
jacket that was his and the sweater. He had a moment of
unadulterated hope at the thought of her giving him a little
striptease to ease the tension. No such luck, struggling with the
arms, her unveiling stopped at the sweater. Good thing too, because
sex would have distracted him from their chat. His boner was
already messing with his concentration.

“
Booze or
coffee, Pussycat?” She smirked at his chin. “All Right. Since it’s
nearly five in the fucking
morning
, coffee it
is.”

He turned
the espresso machine on, got milk and made foam milk for her latte
while she sashayed, that oh so very rare slow walk of hers, and
leaned, not sat, on the kitchen counter to observe him at work.
When the coffees were ready, he got eggs from the fridge and made
scrambled eggs. She took care of the toasts while he cooked.
Is guilt making it difficult for you
to focus, Princess?
She wasn’t buttering
the slices of bread as precisely as per her usual. His girlfriend
usually made sure to spread butter right up to the crust. He did
not vocalise his amusement at her sloppy job.

Since she
took an enormous bite of toast before the eggs were done, he
realised the distracted spreading came more from hunger than
remorse. Her hip propped against the counter, she licked the butter
and crumbs from her fingers as she watched him cook under her
eyelashes. He liked when she watched. Not an awkward feeling in
her, though, he thought yet again.
This better be fucking good
.

They ate the
eggs standing
up, her hip to the counter,
her nose in her plate, his back to the fridge, his eyes on her
face. They had yet to say a word, but their silence was comfortable
like always. As soon as she took the last morsel of eggs, he
grabbed her plate and stacked it on top of his in the sink. When he
extended his left hand out, she gave him her cup without a word. He
made two more coffees, double espresso and latte as before, setting
them on the kitchen table near the windows, and sat at the table
looking at her, a smile creeping up on his face as he curled his
forefinger to motion her closer. It wasn’t light yet, but the
morning light was creeping in.

She
approached the table reluctantly with a small shake of her head. As
she neared his side, she shoved the table lightly with her butt,
threaded herself into the gap she’d made between his chair and the
table, and straddled his thighs, her ass on his knee but her pelvis
away from his crotch. She propped her feet on his chair’s lowest
side rungs and flattened her palms on her thighs. Tempting but not
yet teasing, this was going to be fucking good.

“
Hi, Big
guy.”

Sweet.
“Hi, yourself.” Nothing
more.
I’m going to make you
work, Pussycat of mine.

“Long night?”

She sure was
good with euphemisms.
“You mean short.”
By now, he was smiling; she, on the other hand, looked somewhat
unsure. Good.

MacLaren and the Boss’s
Woman

“I
think my strip club visit with
Charles went very well.”

Say what?
Chris’s mind went
blank.

“
To
think
he was worried he wasn’t tough
enough for you guys. But he did well tonight, didn’t he? He tried
to break off a fight.” She made a V with her forefinger and her
middle finger. “Twice.”

He
frowned
(might have growled too) at her
fingers; her hand returned to her thigh.

“
He even
saved me from a punch. You should be proud of him. He did well,”
she repeated.

Proud of what
,
Princess?
The kid had taken her,
his boss’s woman
, to a strip joint for Christ sake! And what was that about
being punched? Did she participate in the brawl too? The woman
didn’t know how to fight. A kick here and there, punches thrown
aimlessly, fists without power. The few times she had fought him
for real, it had turned into foreplay. He hated to think she fought
with anyone else but him. Jerks at a strip club did not deserve to
fight with her!

“
Of course,
Charles shouldn’t have bothered calling you,” the damn woman was
saying. “Everything was under control, Big guy, really. He’ll
learn; you’ll see. I’m sure he will be fine.”

“
The fuck he
s
houldn’t have bothered calling me!” Did
she honestly believe Charles had done well? Chris didn’t know where
to start. Shit. And nothing justified them being there in the first
place! He might have been smiling right now, but it wasn’t an
I-think-you’re-cute smile. His anger was coming back. “Want to run
that by me again, Princess. Slowly. I must be so fucking tired. I
think I’ve missed something. Who’s stupid idea did you say it
was?”

She frowned
and s
hifted ever so slightly on him. He
dropped his hands on her thighs, soft but firm, to prevent her from
standing up. Their eyes locked.

“
Weren’t you
listening, Big guy? And what the heck difference does it make? Of
course, it was my idea.”

Big fat
l
ie. He knew the signs to look for: one,
she had not confessed to it being her idea right away; two, her
answer contained two snap-back questions.

“
We were
talking about Lemieux
, and I thought it
would be a good idea to go back and study the place some more. For
Charles, of course, so he could give his input to
Hamilton.”

So it had
been Charles’s idea. Covering for him
,
was she? Why? Charles had already admitted, repeatedly, that the
trip was his idea. Not that Chris thought her entirely innocent. If
Charles had only hinted that he might, possibly, at some point,
consider maybe going to the club, she would have been already
halfway to the place, the rookie in tow.

“
So
Charles’s idea. OK, Pussycat. Got it. Why on earth did he take you
with him?” As if Chris didn’t know the fucking answer to that one
already. He saw the faintest hint of a smile in the corner of her
eyes, admired as she valiantly fought not to let it go to her lips.
The damn woman knew he knew.