Wink of an Eye (26 page)

She glared at me. “Please tell me you've never actually
used
that line.”

“It was pretty bad, wasn't it?”

“And you've used it, haven't you?”

I opened my mouth to defend myself but couldn't find the words.

“Oh my God … you have. You've used the worst pickup line I've ever heard!”

I threw my hands up in surrender, confession, whatever she wanted to call it. I was at her mercy. “Maybe once. I might have used it once. It does require an enormous amount of alcohol for it to work.”

She gazed at me a moment and shook her head, trying hard not to grin. Leaning forward, she propped her arms on the dashboard and stared out the windshield at the picnic shelter. “You really think he's here for sex?”

“Well, it's a little late for a picnic, don't you think?”

She scrunched her lips, then nodded slowly in defeat. “Suppose it's more likely he's here for sex than drugs.”

“Have you ever heard anything about the park being a local pickup spot?”

She shook her head. “Odessa PD runs a raid every now and then at an underpass near Austin Drive. But I've never heard anything about the park.”

The back of my shirt was drenched with sweat. My hair was damp and I was suffocating. I scanned the area around the picnic shelter for any sign of life other than Denny's. He hadn't moved from the front seat of the Cadillac. His green ghost image was still behind the wheel, scrunched down in the seat. From what I could make out, both palms were on the steering wheel so at least he hadn't taken business into his own hands yet. I took a couple shots of Denny behind the wheel, then zoomed out for some shots of the car.

Sophia leaned in, watching the camera, then followed the direction of the lens to hopefully see what I saw.

“Can you see him in the car?” I asked.

“I can see a figure but it's too dark to make out any features,” she said, breathy and soft.

I handed her the camera and leaned back so she could get a better look. She tried from different vantage points but still couldn't get an unobstructed view. She was all but sitting on the center console, leaning forward, leaning back, leaning to the side—every way she possibly could—but it was hard to see anything through the windshield. The heat outside and sweat inside joined forces to layer the windshield with a thin fog. I leaned farther back, pressing my wet shirt against the seat, trying to give her more room. She handed the camera back, then, to my surprise, swung her leg over mine and slid over onto my lap. She took the camera and focused it on Denny. “Wow,” she whispered.

I couldn't agree more. The scent of her took me to places that reminded me of fields of wildflowers. Deep, strong scents mixed with soft and delicate, like the spot on a woman's neck, just below her ear. I felt her breathe, slow and steady. Watched the back of her shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Slowly, she lightly pressed her back into my chest, my stomach, lightly pressing her ass into my crotch until the tightening in my shorts became almost painful.

I gently took the camera from her, reached around her, and laid it on the dashboard. Her hand remained there, suspended in midair, suspended in the moment. I lightly ran my fingers up the length of both her bare arms, moving so slow and light, she shivered under the touch. She arched her back, dropping her head backward until it rested at my shoulder, offering me the sweet spot of her neck. I tasted her sweetness, tasted the sweat beading around the collar of her shirt. She moaned lightly and I softly whispered “shhh.” I moved my hands up her arms, barely touching her, lightly brushing across her breasts. I ran my fingers along the outline of her waist, of her hips, moving them so slowly to the tops of her thighs, then to the insides, then inside the openings her shorts offered. I gently moved her legs apart while running my tongue softly up the length of her neck, to the sweet spot, just below her ear.

Then a car door shut. I jolted back to reality and scrambled, reaching around her for the camera. She leapt out of my lap and back over to the passenger seat, staring straight ahead out the fog-covered windshield. I aimed the camera at Denny's Cadillac and clicked off several shots before it dawned on me what I was taking pictures of.

It wasn't Ryce McCallen who had a fondness for teenage boys.

 

CHAPTER 23

It was after midnight when I pulled the van into Rhonda's driveway. Sophia and I sat in silence for a while, staring at the house. It was past Rodney and Rhonda's bedtime. Gram had probably gone to sleep hours ago so there were no quick peeks between the blinds. The house was totally dark. I wondered if I should wake Rodney to show him the fruits of our labor. Or the spoils of one man's life would probably be more like it.

“What now?” Sophia asked.

I was pretty sure she was referring to the situation with Denny and not our own almost-front-seat action. “I'll print a couple of the pictures, then pay him a visit tomorrow.”

“I'd like to go with you.”

I grinned. “Enjoying my company that much, huh?”

She glared at me a moment with her brows lowered, perfect lips fighting back a smile. “Um … no. My editor's given me a deadline.”

“Deadline? You can't—”

She held her hand up to shush me. “I'm not going to jump the gun. But writing about it was kind of my purpose on this whole thing, remember?”

I sat back in the seat and nodded. It seemed a little strange knowing this investigation might be over in a few days. “I'll probably be ready to turn everything over to the Rangers' office by the end of the week. I'll show you what I've got if you'll show me yours.” I looked at her and winked.

She tossed her head back and laughed. “I have a pretty good idea what you've got. I could feel it through my shorts.”

She laughed again, then climbed out of the van. I hurriedly caught up to her as she was reaching for the door of the Mercedes. I blocked her with my good leg from opening it, then wrapped my arm around her waist and turned her toward me.

“Gypsy…” She whispered so softy I wondered if I imagined it.

I lightly kissed her chin, then her cheek, and when she didn't resist, I kissed her lips.

“Gypsy … I can't.” She was saying one thing but her body was telling me something different. She brought her arms up, wrapping them around my neck, digging her fingers through my hair, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth. “I have a partner,” she said between gasping breaths.

Jesus. Another freaking husband to deal with. She kissed me again hard, biting at my lip. I'd worry about the husband tomorrow.

Hands started moving so fast it was hard to keep up with who was doing what. We moved backward toward the van, stumbling over each other's feet. I would have died before screaming out in pain when she stepped on my snake-bitten foot. We crashed noisily into the side of the van with me on the outside pressing her hard against the closed door. She ripped open my shorts as I worked the button on her own. A few weeks ago, prior to a Western Diamondback trying to take my foot off, I would have lifted her, balanced her legs on my hips, and drove it home. But things being what they were, it wasn't working out that way. Dammit! This gimpy foot was cramping my style.

“Shit!” I pulled her away from the van and pushed her toward the Mercedes.

There wasn't much distance between the van and her car but when you're trying to get there with your pants around your ankles, it's a wonder we got there at all.

The back of the van was still loaded with my case files. Her Mercedes was a sharp-looking little car but had no backseat. And there was no way in hell this was going to happen in the front seat. I lifted her onto the shiny red hood. It was the perfect height. She'd lost her shorts somewhere in the shuffle and all was right with the world.

If there had been a soundtrack, just about the time the music swelled into a crashing crescendo threatening to send us both into another hemisphere, I moved my foot a fraction of an inch and stepped on her shorts, smashing the keys in the pocket into the hard ground.

A prison break alarm couldn't have caused more noise. There were so many bells and whistles, I didn't know if I was having an orgasm or if I'd won the grand prize at the county fair.

A woman can stop at any time. A man's different. A man reaches a point, come hell or high water, bells or whistles, there just ain't no turning back. Not even when the floodlights in the yard come on, every light in the house flashes on, and your brother-in-law barrels through the front door with his service weapon drawn wearing nothing but tight white briefs and cowboy boots.

“Gypsy? Ah, Jesus … Christ Almighty! What in the hell are you doing?” Rodney shouted over the alarm. He paced in small circles in the dirt yard, one hand on his head while the other partially covered his eyes.

Rhonda was on the front stoop, arms folded tight across her chest. “Can you at least shut the alarm off?”

I jerked my shorts up and was trying to get them fastened while Sophia was dancing around trying to get her shorts back on. She finally snatched her keys up and hit the right button and the little car fell silent. It was like someone had pressed the mute button on the whole world as there wasn't even a cricket chirping. After a short spell of dead silence, the screaming resumed.

“What the hell were you doing?” Rhonda screamed, arms flaying about.

“What the hell do you think he was doing?” Rodney asked.

Gram joined Rhonda on the stoop and peered out into the yard. “Why's your husband out here in his drawers?”

“Everything's fine, Gram. Go on back to bed.”

“Gypsy finally get some from that cute little Mexican?”

“Gram, please go back to bed.”

Sophia jerked the keys from my hand. “I'll meet you at the sheriff's office in the morning. Tenish?”

I quickly nodded and helped her into the car. I was going to kiss her good-bye but she had already backed out and was moving at a quick clip down the road before I had even bent over. Given the way the night had gone, maybe a good-bye kiss wasn't necessary. At this point it probably wasn't even desired.

Rhonda threw her arms up in the air. “And what the hell were you
doing
out here? Jesus! Why didn't you get a room?” She spun around and pushed past Gram. “I'm going in. Rodney, come in before someone sees you standing out here in your underwear. Geez.”

Gram chuckled and followed Rhonda inside. Rodney stomped up the steps. He made sure Rhonda was safely inside, then turned and glared at me. “Yeah, why
didn't
you get a room? You've gone and ruined every fantasy I could have ever had.”

“What? How'd I—”

“Sophia. You think I can ever fantasize about her again without seeing your shiny white ass banging her?” he whispered.

“Oh.” We stood there for a moment with neither saying anything. Although I didn't understand why, I felt the need to apologize. “Sorry, man.”

He shrugged. His lips were knotted in a silly-looking pout. “S'okay. Probably would have done the same thing if I'd been given the chance. And if I were single.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly then sighed. “It's getting late and you're still … standing out here, in your underwear. And that's not exactly a pretty sight, either. Much longer and I'll be traumatized.”

“You want to talk about
traumatized
…”

 

CHAPTER 24

The next morning, after I grabbed a quick shower, I set up office at the kitchen table. I hooked up the camera and photo printer to the laptop then loaded the glossy paper in the printer.

Gram was sitting at the table slurping her morning coffee, watching me through her thick glasses. Her bony shoulders' sharpness were visible through a bathrobe older than me. “Did you at least use a rubber?”

I pulled my attention away from a shot of Gaylord Denny with his tongue halfway down a kid's throat and glared at my grandmother. I wasn't going to even humor her with an answer. I went over to the coffeepot for a refill. When I returned to the table, Gram was scrutinizing the pictures. “Looks like you weren't the only one getting some action last night.”

“Let's just forget about last night. It wasn't one of my better moments.”

She chuckled. “Probably what she was thinking, too.”

“Thanks, Gram.” I turned my attention back to work. I printed four glossy five-by-sevens of various actions, then saved the pictures to my hard drive, then to a flash drive. The pictures were graphic, leaving little room for misinterpretation. I was curious if Mark Peterson had similar pictures.

Rhonda came into the kitchen, hauling a laundry basket full of dirty clothes. Gaylord Denny's world was about to come crashing down around him, and life went on. “Gram, how many times have I told you not to stuff your dirty clothes under your bed? Takes me forever to dig 'em out.” Rhonda dropped the basket at the laundry closet. “Tatum called last night, Gypsy. He wanted to know if you could take him out to the sinkholes tomorrow.”

“I did tell him I'd do that, didn't I?” And hopefully, by this time tomorrow Tatum could rest easier knowing someone was finally going to be held accountable for his dad's death. I stuffed the pictures of Denny into an envelope, then slipped it into a folder I had made containing copies of the files I wanted Denny to see. “Tell Tatum I'll pick him up around ten tomorrow morning.”

I snapped a micro-mini video recorder onto the outside arm of my sunglasses, looked at Gram, and told her to smile for the camera.

“Who are you, James Bond?”

“Wow … that's really cool,” Rhonda said, her face within inches of my own as she stared directly into the camera.

“Can you see the camera? Are there any lights flickering?” I asked.

“You mean that light glowing beside your head?” Gram asked.