Authors: Melissa Cutler
“Suck it,” she whispered, panting. “Please.”
Her plea laid waste to the last vestiges of his control.
He tore away from her nipple and loomed over her, cupping the back of her head in his hand. With his mouth close to hers, he said quietly, “Are you telling me what to do? I think you were. You know what that means?”
“What?” she breathed, her eyes dark with passion.
“It means I’m going to touch you so lightly you won’t be able to stand it.”
She shivered.
He pulled her other breast free and traced her nipple with his fingertip. She arched up to him, but he stayed with her, adjusting his pressure to her squirming, desperate body. Closing his mouth over her nipple, he brushed the tip with his tongue as gently as a feather might, then he traced her areola with his tongue as his finger had. When it was good and wet, he lifted his mouth and blew on it.
Rachel groaned.
He fixed his mouth on it again and captured her nipple in his teeth. But instead of flicking it with his tongue, he simply held it there and breathed on it. Her groans became a panting cry, but still not the sound he wanted to hear from her again.
Holding her nipple in his teeth, he pressed a hand between her legs along the seam of her pants until his hand was over where her clit would be, two layers of fabric below. With his fingertip, he tapped hard and rhythmically against the warm denim, willing the sound he wanted to hear into being. Though she squirmed and arched, she remained silent until he wound his hand back and unleashed a single, forceful throttle against her crotch as, finally, he sucked her nipple as hard as he could.
That brought up the mewling whimper from her throat.
After several more forceful sucks on her nipple, he repositioned himself between her legs. Steeling his hand into a flat paddle, he let rip with another hard hit right into the seam of her jeans.
“More,” she begged.
So demanding. He unsnapped the button of her fly, then rolled her to her stomach and yanked her jeans and panties down as far as they’d go with her legs spread, which wasn’t all that far. Still, the round swells of her bottom were exposed. Taking her soft, willing flesh in his hands, he parted the cheeks to catch a glimpse of the secrets her body protected. The places he wanted to sink his fingers and tongue and cock inside.
He ran his thumb inside the crease, delving deeper, lower, until he hit the honey of her arousal. Whew, she was wet for him. He dipped lower still, and she bucked the second his fingertip hit the swollen rise of her clit. She squirmed, clearly trying to increase the pressure of his touch. He lightly pinched her clit, plumping it between two fingers.
There was sound again, a primal, guttural whimper that meant she would come as soon as he allowed her to. He backed off, slipping two fingers into her wet, swollen opening. She squeezed his fingers and his mouth went dry. When he got around to fucking her, it was going to feel out of this world. It was going to blow his fucking mind.
First things first.
She wanted him to spank her again. Harder, And, well, that was one demand he was happy to oblige. He unlatched his belt one-handed.
It sagged in his hand, much heavier than he’d expected.
Shaking his head to clear it of the fever dream he was operating within, he looked down. This wasn’t his off-duty belt. It was his equipment belt, complete with radio, firearm, utility knife, and all the other trappings of his job as sheriff.
He blinked at it, reality hitting him hard.
What, in God’s name, was he doing? Had he gone crazy? He’d come to Rachel’s ranch with two of his employees to process crime scenes for evidence. And not an hour later, he was knuckle-deep inside her in the middle of the day. In uniform. With his squad car sitting out front. And with her sisters home.
My God. He had no integrity at all. He’d become a sheriff to fight against Meyer and the other good old boys who abused the power of their positions. But look where he was—getting his rocks off with a victim in an open case while he was on the clock. Could he ever feel superior to Meyer again? Because he sure didn’t now.
The instinct to pull his hand away from her was a strong one. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that she was close to release. So utterly close. And the damage was done. There was no taking back the choice he’d made any more than he could take back all the other terrible choices he’d made involving Rachel.
Remember this, you rotten prick. Because this is the last time you’ll have her like this. Never again. You’d better brand into your memory her sounds and the way she feels on your hand when she comes. Because this is it.
He rocked forward, set the belt on the box next to Rachel’s hip, and braced his hand on the lid as he leaned over her, as close to her ear as he could get.
“Rachel?”
Her eyes, blissed out and half lidded, regarded him dreamily.
He dragged his fingers from her depths and swirled them over her clit. Smashing her eyes closed again, she whimpered and panted, her hips straining toward his touch.
He stared at her beautiful face, her freckled nose and long lashes, the tightening of her jaw as he swirled and stroked her. “Say my name when you come.”
She lifted her head and opened her eyelids all the way, questioning. He thought she was going to ask him why, but then one corner of her lip turned up, and she whispered, “I always do.”
Then her body tensed. Her eyes rolled back and she dropped her cheek to the box lid. That mewling whimper spilled out of her throat, and then, as her back practically levitated from the box, she chanted his name.
He watched, unblinking, trying not to miss any detail of her orgasm. Her pulsing muscles, her wet heat, the sound of his name. Her wild, bucking body coming apart all around him.
When her release subsided and she stilled, he almost said, “I love you.” Except it didn’t matter that he’d finally figured out that’s what he felt for her. Because she’d told him in so many words, too many times to count over the last year and a half, that she couldn’t love him, not after what happened with her mom. Even if she could grow to return his feelings, what could they do about it? Some things weren’t meant to be, and, clearly, he and Rachel were doomed to keep looping back to each other in the same vicious cycle of impulse and denial.
The bowline knot released easy enough from her wrists, though she’d tightened it considerably since he’d bound her. That was the kinky thing about a bowline—the harder the bound person pulled against it, the tighter it got. Rachel’s wrists were red and raw.
She straightened her bra and shirt, then stretched up, tugging her panties and pants in place as she stood. “Why did you stop?”
“I wanted to take care of you. That’s all I need.” He rubbed her wrists. “These marks look bad. Do they hurt?”
She pulled away from his touch. “I’m fine. Give me a real answer. Why did you stop?”
He snagged his belt and held it up as proof of his sins. “I’m on the job and I should’ve never . . . we should’ve never . . . You put that rein in my hand and I forgot who I was.”
Nodding, she hugged herself. “You should have thought about that before you chose to go by horse with me.”
“You’re right.” His chest grew tight, seeing the defeat in her expression. So much for an afterglow. Shunting the pain aside, he reattached his belt, then went in search of his hat. When he found it, he pulled it low over his forehead so she wouldn’t see the storm in his eyes. He almost didn’t elaborate, the truth hit so close to home. But he owed it to her because she was right. He tipped the first domino when he decided to accompany her. “But I couldn’t pass up my one chance to ride with you.”
She swallowed, her eyes locked on a spot near his feet. Then she rubbed her wrist and he had to wonder if the binding had hurt her, after all. “I’ve always wanted to ride with you too.”
He let out a hard laugh. “We are so screwed up, you and me. My God, we are a mess.”
She swayed, like all the energy had drained from her in one mighty whoosh. He reached for her, but she caught herself on a post, sagging against it. He smoothed a hand over her back. “You all right?”
“No, I’m not.” She turned her eyes up to his, resolve as hard as steel glinted in them. “Recuse yourself from the investigation. For me. For us.”
Chapter Twelve
The stuffy heat of the stable pressed down on him. The buzz of flies he’d previously been oblivious to filled his ears. He ran a finger between his collar and his neck to combat the heat and the excruciating tickle in his throat.
Why the hell had he ever thought it was a good plan to quit smoking at the same time he tried to quit Rachel? He would hand over the deed to his house if a cigarette would materialize in his hand. Stupid thought to flit across his mind, but he couldn’t have possibly heard Rachel right. Because that would mean she felt something for him besides blinding lust, besides infuriating resentment for that lust—which, he’d decided a while back, were pretty much the only two feelings she harbored for him.
“What?” he croaked.
She straightened. “Remove yourself from my case. I want to try for something real. With you.”
Oh, God, no. Why now?
Why couldn’t she have been ready a month ago, before the shooting? Feeling as if he’d been struck with a cane, he sunk into the arm he’d braced against the post, closing his eyes. “Don’t you think I’ve considered that already? I haven’t thought of one other thing since Monday except how I can possibly make everything work. There’s no easy answer.”
She shoved away from the post to pace the length of the stable, her hand on her forehead. “You were expecting the answer to be easy? Because I can tell you from experience, nothing in life worth having is easy. Look around you on my farm, Vaughn. Every valley used to be covered in alfalfa. My crop. It’s all gone. I’ve been fighting for my place in the world since the day I was born. You think anything’s supposed to be easy?”
“Damn it, Rachel. Listen to me. I didn’t mean
easy
like you think. Look, the Meyers have been acting above the law since the day I met them. My whole goal in becoming a cop was to one day put myself in a position to hold them accountable for their crimes. That’s what I’ve been working toward for the last twenty years. Since I was sixteen, that was all I wanted.”
He flicked the brim of his hat higher, no longer wanting to hide himself from her. “Then, after twenty years of waiting for the right moment and the right case to come along, Wallace Jr. and his friends trespassed onto your property with drugs and automatic rifles. They shot you. They shot your horse. It was the perfect opportunity for me to bring justice down on the Meyer family. It was the case I’d been waiting for.”
She sucked her cheeks in and looked so lost he thought she might start crying. “Forget I asked. I can’t compete with revenge.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—everything’s changed for me, but I’m trapped. If I recuse myself now, the first thing that’ll happen is Meyer and his men will start digging around to find out why. And they won’t have to dig far. People in town are already spreading rumors about you and me.”
“You’d lose your job.”
“Maybe, but I don’t even care about that anymore. What I have to care about is that the people of this county entrusted me with enforcing their laws. If the truth came out about our involvement, all the interviews and evidence I’ve collected against Meyer Jr. and Jimmy de Luca could be labeled as tainted in the eyes of the court. If a judge threw it all out, a convico help you find the woman who tried to kill my only child?”
“Give it a rest with your bullshit melodrama, Meyer. A woman’s life is in danger.”
Please, let her still be alive.
“She should’ve thought of that before she aimed her gun at my son.”
“Junior brought that on himself. You know it as well as I do, damn it. Like we both know you’re not going to stand by while a woman’s life is at stake, if for no other reason than it’ll crush your public image if word gets out.”
Meyer propped a shoulder on the door frame and folded his arms over his chest. “It’s fun watching you squirm, Cooper. Like a worm on a hook, helpless. I could get used to this.”
Vaughn ground his teeth together. Every second ticking away dimmed Rachel’s odds at being rescued alive. Time to play the only ace up his sleeve. “If you don’t come with me and tell Junior to cooperate, I’m going to make his life a living hell, beginning with a move to the general population. And I’ll make sure that every single criminal you put away knows your son’s inside. How long do you think he’ll last before someone makes him their bitch or kills him?”
Meyer straightened. “You do that and you won’t believe the wrath that will come down on your family.”
Vaughn slid his body forward, getting up near Meyer’s face. He’d move his parents to Canada if he had to, but there wasn’t a threat Meyer could levy that would derail this, Vaughn’s only hope of recovering Rachel. “You drive to the jail with me right now or I make the call to move Junior out of solitary. Your choice.”
Meyer’s lips twitched into a vicious grin. “If you want my help”—he spit the
p
out, spraying Vaughn with spittle—“it’s going to cost you.”
Vaughn looked into the eyes of the man he’d hated for twenty years, an abuser of people, animals, and power—the man who’d given orders to arrest Vaughn’s mother and father. None of it mattered anymore. “Name your price.”
“If Junior cooperates, he pleads out on the assault charges. Parole, no jail time.”
Vaughn curled his hands into fists. “Fine, but only if you drop all charges against my parents.”
“All right. Then I should add that you’ll need to drop the other charges against Junior while you’re at it.”
“Okay.”
Meyer licked his lips. “One more thing. After you find the girl, you’re going to resign.”
Vaughn didn’t hesitate. “Done.”
Meyer grinned, satisfied. “I’ll get my keys.”
Vaughn phoned Binderman on his way to the jail, so by the time he arrived, Junior was set up in an interview room.
Acutely aware that forty-five minutes had passed since Kellan had called him about Rachel’s disappearance, he watched with mounting nerves through the one-way mirror while Meyer talked to his son. Angela Spencer, the district attorney, slid up next to him, dressed to the nines like she was fresh from a hearing at the courthouse, despite the fact that it was four-thirty in the morning.
“Hey, Angela. Sorry to put you in this position. I didn’t have a choice.” It hadn’t been Vaughn’s place to bargain for a plea agreement. He’d banked on her support by virtue of the professional camaraderie they’d cultivated over the years.
She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Glad it doesn’t happen all the time, but I’ve got your back.”
“Thank you.” Vaughn turned his focus to the interview room. The dynamic between Meyer and Junior caught him off guard. Junior didn’t once make eye contact. His whole body, from his eyes to his feet, turned into stone the way teenagers did when lectured to. Vaughn had expected smugness, maybe even a celebratory hug. But the hostility Junior exuded had Vaughn making a one-eighty with his interview strategy.
When Meyer gave the signal that they were done, Vaughn brushed by an exiting Meyer and settled into a chair, working hard not to appear as terrified as he felt about Rachel’s fate.
“Did your father tell you the deal? Help me find Elias Baltierra and El Diente, along with the woman they kidnapped, and you plead out.”
Staring vacantly at the table, Junior’s lips twitched into a hateful smile that made Vaughn’s stomach drop. He’d staked Rachel’s life on Junior’s cooperation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Junior wasn’t going to make it easy. It was all he could do not to glance at his watch.
“Let’s start with the Parillas Valley shootout. Where did you get the rifles?” he asked, to test Junior’s veracity.
“Dealer in Chaves County.”
So far, so good. “Was it El Diente?”
Junior’s chest trembled with a silent chuckle.
Vaughn’s patience was unraveling fast. “You can tell me. Remember? You help us and we’ll cut you a plea deal. Tell me where I can find El Diente.”
Junior turned his smirking face up to Vaughn. “You’re looking at him. I’m El Diente.”
Vaughn wanted nothing more than to smack the smile off Junior’s face. Instead, he punched the table. “Stop it with the bullshit answers. If the woman El Diente and Baltierra kidnapped isn’t found alive, the deal’s off. You’ll rot in jail for the rest of your life as some prisoner’s bitch. Start talking.”
Junior sat up a little straighter. “I told you, El Diente’s my street name. I set it up for myself four years ago when I started dealing weed. If somebody was kidnapped, must have been Elias who did it.”
“How’d you decide on a name like that?”
The smirk returned. He looked Vaughn straight in the eye. “Because when people cross me, I take a tooth as payment.”
The way Junior said it—the boastful gleam in his expression, the conviction in his tone—convinced Vaughn he was telling the truth.
Mother of God.
Wallace Meyer Junior was no junkie or small-time dealer or petty criminal. He was a mass murderer. And all those cold cases and unsolved murders bearing El Diente’s signature that Vaughn had pulled to reexamine had a new number one suspect. He rolled his gaze up to the one-way mirror, knowing Angela was conducting her own mental search of past cases.
He could interview Junior about past crimes all day long, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to saving Rachel. “I’m confused. If you’re El Diente, then who killed Shawn Henigin? Elias?”
“How should I know?”
“Because Shawn was missing a tooth when he died. And Elias is the only one of your gang who could’ve done that. I’m betting he’s running the El Diente show, and you’re riding his coattails. Know how I’m so sure?” He fell forward over the table and drilled Junior with a glare. Time to go for the jugular. “Because your daddy didn’t raise no leader. Even tonight, he was certain you’d do whatever he told you. He pulls the strings and you dance like a puppet.”
Junior waved his hands. “That’s not true. I’m El Diente.”
Vaughn painted a look of skepticism on his face and drummed his fingers on the table. “My first memory of you was the day you were bucked from that horse, when you were five. Do you remember?”
Junior scrubbed a hand over his face, the air of superiority wiped clean away. “Don’t talk about that.”
“Your horse threw you, and your daddy was all over that. Took you aside, real fatherly-like, and told you it was time for you to learn how to command respect from those you governed. You remember what happened next?”
“Shut up.”
“He put a whip in your hand. You cried, and he slapped you, called you a girl. Told you if you wanted to be a man like him, this was what you had to do. I left and called the sheriff, hoping to save that horse’s life, but the sheriff told me to shake it off because no one crossed the Meyers, especially a nobody like me. You liked whipping that horse, didn’t you? Felt real powerful—just like your daddy.”
Junior leapt to his feet. “I hated doing that. Dirt Devil was my best friend.”
Vaughn set his palms on the table and pushed to standing. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re daddy’s puppet through and through.”
Junior kicked the leg of his chair. “I am not!”
“When I told your old man you could help me find the kidnapped woman, he said, ‘My son, the screw up? No way.’”
Something triggered inside Junior. Shaking, tears sprang to his eyes. He looked like a kid again—the scared, angry son of a monster. “He doesn’t know anything about me. He only sees what he wants to.”
“He doesn’t see how smart you are.”
Junior whirled around and glared at the mirror. “He never has.”
“He thinks Elias is in charge. He figures you’re too stupid to run a business. Daddy’s puppet—you’re probably Elias’s puppet too.”
“That’s bullshit. I’m El Diente. Just me.”
“A fucked-up daddy’s boy like you? If you’re El Diente”—he added air quotes to the name—“you need to prove it to me. I want to see this jar of teeth. Tell me where to look.”
Junior turned away from Vaughn and stalked to the mirror. A growling rumble emanated from his throat, then he spit a gigantic wad of phlegm at it. He stood, watching it drip, sneering at his reflection. “Corner of Troy and Allison. In Devil’s Furnace. Used to be a Laundromat. The teeth are in the dryer nearest the back door. Elias will be there too, if he took the girl.”
There was nothing left to say. Vaughn shot toward the door. He had a hand on the knob when Junior asked, “I get to plea out, right? That was the deal.”
Vaughn looked at him over his shoulder. “Sure. You can plea out on the Parillas Valley charges. That was the deal. Then again, my deputy’s going to arrest you right now for Gerald Sorentino’s murder, so we don’t care so much about the other charges anymore.”
He hustled into the hallway, his walkie-talkie at his lips. Before he could signal Stratis on where to meet him at Devil’s Furnace, Meyer intercepted him, his expression pained. Vaughn had to give him credit; at least he had enough humanity to look disturbed by the revelation that his progeny was a mass murderer.
“Change of plans, Meyer. I’m not resigning.” He kept moving, thumping Meyer’s shoulder hard with his own as he ran past. He turned and walked backward, affording Meyer one last flinty look. “Oh, and congratulations on singlehandedly creating a sociopath. Way to go, Dad.”
Meyer stared after him with an expression of utter despair. Vaughn turned forward again and sprinted to the exit.
Rachel, I’m coming for you.
The crumbling Laundromat in which Rachel sat, her wrists tied behind the chair back, was coated in a thick layer of yellowish dust, most likely from the shredded insulation spilling from the ceiling. The dust swirled through the air like toxic snowflakes as her captor paced. She recognized him as one of the four who’d shot at her—Elias Baltierra.
Hard to say what part of her hurt the worst. Her skull throbbed. Her arm was wet with blood. Somewhere along the line, the scab from her bullet wound had ripped clean off. And her heart ached so bad she couldn’t see how it was still beating. Amy might well be dead. Kellan, Sloane, and Ben too. With a house as old as theirs, who knew how fast the frame and roof would burn? At least Jenna and Tommy lived far enough away to escape the blaze. That is, if Baltierra hadn’t paid them a visit first.