PsyCop 5: Camp Hell Page 2

  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 wo
uld 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.

  I felt encouraged by the sound of him jerking off. I fucked myself deep with my own fingers, and he gave a low growl and dropped to his knees behind me.

  Jacob grabbed my wrist, pulled my fingers out of my ass, and sucked them into his mouth, first one, then the other. My free hand clenched and unclenched next to my face as I pressed my forehead against my arm harder. I’d fallen on that arm and sprained it a few days ago, and the pain that throbbed in my elbow intensified everything else I was feeling. I closed my eyes, and lost myself to the slippery headiness of Jacob’s tongue.

  He went down on my fingers until he’d sucked all the margarine off, and then he took my ass in both of his big, strong hands and spread it wide open.

  He sighed as he buried his face in my ass. His tongue slithered into my hole. “Damn, that’s hot,” I said.

  Jacob grunted and kept fucking my buttery hole with his tongue. His lower teeth raked my taint, and my cock bobbed. I ran my hand over the shaft. Hard. I could bring myself off fast, if I wanted to. But I didn’t. I wanted it to last.

  Jacob trailed his tongue lower, and used his hand to push my balls into his mouth. He sucked one, then the other. I bit down on my lower lip. He kissed the inside of my thigh and stood, and I let out a breath I’d been holding. It shook.

  I felt his cockhead slide over my hole. I spread my feet apart even more, tilted my ass up. He took my hip in one hand and his cock in the other, and he pushed in.

  “Fuck, yeah.” I arched my back, tried to get a feel for the angle. Jacob took the first few thrusts slowly. I wished we had a light. I wished we had a mirror. I would’ve loved to have seen him there, knees slightly bent, burying his cock deep inside my ass. I could hear it, though, squelching through the margarine I’d shoved inside myself.

  He reached around, and I put my hand over his. “Not yet. Draw it out.”

  The fingers of his other hand dug deep into my hip, and he thrust hard. “Feels dirty,” he said, and yeah, I knew what he meant. There was something a little too greasy about it. And then there was the smell. He pulled out and jammed his cock home again. “Real dirty.”

  Oh. He meant in a good way.

  He let go of my cock and took my hips in both hands, pressing new fingermarks over my old, faded green ones. He started pounding me.

  Pain jolted from my elbow and shot down toward my hips, and my ass felt like it was being split open. My breath huffed out of me, and I felt the warm slide of a bead of precome that rolled down my shaft. “Harder,” I said.

  He didn’t just fuck me harder, he grabbed me harder too. I clenched up all over just trying to keep upright, and that made my ass tighten around his cock.

  “I’m not gonna last,” he said under his breath, so softly that the sound of our balls slapping and his cock squelching into me nearly drowned out the words.

  “Do it,” I said, and I took hold of my cock and stroked it. “Fuck my ass. Come inside me. Come hard.”

  I peaked in just a few strokes, and his cock slammed into me while I shot. My orgasm forced a wordless noise up from my throat, and Jacob fucked me harder still, grunting every time his cock slammed home.

  I was reeling by the time he finished, so limp that his grasp on my hips was the only thing keeping me up off the floor. He slung an arm around my stomach and hugged me against his chest. He was sweating. His jiz crawled over the backside of my balls and ran down one leg. An aftershock rolled through him, and drew an answering shiver from me.

  He kissed me gently between the shoulder blades, and his goatee tickled my spine. “I love you so much,” he whispered. I felt his lips move against my back.

  I made a noise in reply, something like “Mm,” and I hugged his arm against me. My elbow ached, and my hips smarted, and now that I was no longer climbing toward the Big O, it felt less like kinky fun, and more like garden-variety pain. I turned so that we were facing each other and gave Jacob a slow, easy kiss.

  The light beyond the glass block windows had paled, and I could see a little more of the kitchen now, and of Jacob. He held me against the fridge with his body and took his time trailing kisses over my jaw. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  My ass felt like it was on fire. I’d be feeling it for days. “It was good.”

  “Maybe we need a code word—”

  “No we don’t. That’s for serious kinkhounds in nipple clamps and horse costumes.”

  Jacob laughed—silently, but I felt his chest move against mine. “It doesn’t have to be something silly. It’s just…I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  When we were in the thick of things, I loved the idea that Jacob had the strength to snap me in half. But talking about it afterward was a big wet blanket. “How about ‘ow’?”

  “You seem to enjoy it while it’s happening.”

  “I do, okay? Do we really need to discuss it?”

  Jacob didn’t answer. He pressed his lips against my neck and stroked my hair. My bare foot touched something slimy on the floor, margarine or jiz, or maybe both. I wondered if Jacob was going to stand there and kiss me until we had to leave for work. I wanted him to leave so I could grab my cell phone. But the longer things coagulated on me, the more my attention wandered, and guarding the fridge took a back seat to parking myself under a hot shower.

  -THREE-

  I passed Betty’s desk on the way to Sergeant Warwick’s office. Betty kept about nine hundred pictures of her grandkids on her desk, and several of her cat, too. She had on a Pepto-Bismol pink sweater, as if she could make spring come early just by dressing brightly enough. Her smile was as bright as her sweater.

  “Good morning, Detective!”

  Betty had been distributing the confidentiality paperwork that everyone I knew had been strongly encouraged to sign. She’d never mentioned it to me. And yet, there she was, with her chirpy voice and her great big smile, and I couldn’t bring myself to be a dick to her about it. She was just the middleman, after all. It wasn’t as if she was a member of the F… what was it? The FPMP.

  Bob Zigler cleared his throat behind me. I guess I’d been staring. “Hey, Betty, how’s it going,” I mumbled, and I squeezed my way into Warwick’s office.

  Now, Warwick? I could be mad at him.

  I sat in one of the two chairs that faced his beat-up metal desk, and Zig sat in the other. I slouched a little, since I was feeling like a surly teenager, and I squinted at him.

  Warwick didn’t notice, but my attitude made me feel better.

  Zigler covertly kicked the side of my shoe. Warwick was typing something on his computer, and since he hadn’t bothered to look at either of us, he didn’t notice that, either.

  “I got a call from Sergeant Owens last night.”

  Jacob’s sergeant. I squared my shoulders and eased out of my slouch.

  “Seems his PsyCop team over at Rosewood was a little heavy on the Psy.” He glanced up from his laptop and met my eye. “Good work. But you take it upon yourself to do something like that again, you clear it with me.”

  “Why? So you can arrange for my babysitters to be there?”

  Zig made a weird noise in his throat. I could tell he wanted to give me another good kick, but since Warwick was now looking right at me, it wouldn’t have been much of a warning. He probably would have enjoyed it, though.

&n
bsp; Warwick didn’t miss a beat. He must have been expecting me to figure it out for, what, years now. “I’ve got security on you. Is there a problem?”

  Warwick was bigger, and older, and meaner than me, and he was accustomed to bossing hot-headed cops around. I swallowed. “I want to know. If it has to do with me, I want to know.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “So you’re not really the one calling in the guards. It’s someone else.”

  Zigler stomped on my foot.

  Warwick’s suitcoat strained around his broad back as he planted his elbows on his desk. He laced his fingers together, he looked at me over the tops of his bifocals, and he said, “I can’t say.”

  All these years, I thought I’d been answering to Ted Warwick. I was sideswiped by the realization that I hadn’t.

  “Since you seemed comfortable enough to carry out an investigation at Rosewood Court,” Warwick went on, as if nothing had just happened, “I’ve got some deaths at LaSalle Memorial Hospital that I’d like you to look into, see if we’ve got a Kevorkian on our hands, or if certain shifts are just really unlucky. Go down and take a look at the building, see if you’re up to working in it.”

  Zig stood up and headed for the door. I stayed put and stared at Warwick. He’d already dismissed us by looking back down at his computer and starting to type. He had to know we were still there. How could he not?

  Lisa had told me that he didn’t actually know all that much, that Roger Burke was the one who could point fingers and name names. I wanted something more from Warwick, but it didn’t seem like I would get it. Not now, not today.

  “C’mon, Vic,” said Zig. “They’ve got a pretty mean cherry turnover in the cafeteria at LaSalle.”

  Zig drove us over to the hospital. I was quiet and moody, and he was just quiet. The police scanner crackled with distorted words buried in a rise and fall of static. He parked as close as he could to the entrance without blocking an ambulance.

  “Who d’you suppose is watching us?” I asked as Zigler killed the ignition.