Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (13 page)

Scott’s brow had ruffled painfully at
that.

Of course, I was talking about anal—don’t
pretend you just give that up without bargaining. I’ve always held off until
the last possible moment and used it as my trump card. “Let’s go to Hawaii. No?
Is that a no? Well, if we do go I’ll probably be so glad and warm in the
tropical heat, I’d let you explore deepest darkest Amanda.”

“You’re considering it,” Thad said, his
voice reeking of roadhouse whiskey, the back of his hand brushing my thigh.

   
Entwined in each other’s arms, Thad turned me
and used my back to push open the fire exit. We burst onto the smoking patio of
the roadhouse and settled onto the bench of a nearby picnic table, both of us
straddling it, legs scissoring together awkwardly as we kissed, zippers
grinding.

I caught the scent of cigar smoke and
without extracting my tongue from Thad’s lips, I glanced to my left and into
the toothless grin of a regular to both the bar and the smoking area. The man’s
head bobbed drunkenly and his teeth were flecked with tobacco from the stub he
chomped.

Pushing back, I reached up and turned
Thad’s head toward the audience.

“That’s the Beetle Man,” he said,
shrugging and returning his attention to my mouth, his hot hands kneading my
hips, tugging at my shirt.

Startled, I gave his lip a nip and pushed
away once more. “He’s watching us,” I hissed.

The Beetle Man continued to gaze dreamily
in our direction, no question in my mind what he was thinking about, either. He
pulled a wad of handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the corners of his
lips.

“And that’s the end of anything sexy.” I
tried to pull free from the tangle of Thad’s legs.

“Oh, come on.” He pulled at me, forcing
me close once more.

I rested my cheek against his and said, “If
you want to keep those arms, you’ll let me go.”

Thad threw up his hands and bit his lip. “We
can go anywhere you want. Totally up to you. We could go back to Mrs. Winterford’s.
Get comfortable. Get you out of those tight clothes. So constricting.”

I debated whether Thad just didn’t have
any concern as to whether we were being watched, as though it simply didn’t
matter. Big fish myopia. The biggest, probably. The rest of the men at the bar,
the Beetleman included, were no more than scavengers. He barely noticed them.

He led me past a smattering of cars
huddling around the single column of light shining from the front of the bar
like a drunken beacon, and out onto the slimmest definition of a path possible,
differentiated from the road by a few tufts of grass and an occasional brick.

“Is your place close by?” I asked,
stopping to remove my shoes again.

He winced. “Yeah, just up here. But don’t
expect much. It’s more of a place to store my clothes. I spend most of my time
in the water. I guess you could say that the sharks call me a wereman for the
amount of time I’m on two legs.”

“Sharks talk?”

“Well, it’s more of a scent thing. It’s
carried in our byproduct.”

“Do you mean pee?”

“I was trying to be delicate.”

“That’d be a first.”

He pulled me into a rough embrace. “And a
last. I’m going to tear you up.”

“Way to make it sound romantic,” I hissed
against his cheek. “I would appreciate an attempt at gentleness. I’m not
porcelain, but I’m not all that sturdy.”

“Naturally.” Thad’s grip softened, his
lids drifted to a half-mast and he reached for my hand, clamping it between
both of his. “I’ll treat you real good.”

“Spoken like a true one night stand.
Though you could have slurred more, from that salty dog to remind me that you
won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

“I’m going to remember this for hours,
days maybe.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Fucking
asshole.”

“I’ll let you touch that, too.”

I shook my head. “Not with these hands.
Do you happen to have a fireplace poker?”

Thad nodded, grin gone sinister. He
pressed my hand to his tenting crotch, what struggled behind that cotton twill
wasn’t entirely familiar, but it was big and hard as stone. “Enough banter.”

He pulled me tight again to his frame, an
embrace at once sexy and uncomfortable, what with his hard-on digging into my
stomach. He was about Scott’s height, which, of course gave me nostalgic pangs
for my big hairy wolf. That probably should have stopped me from doing what I
was most certainly about to, but, well, my morality has always been
suspect—if your expectations of a man-eating zombie are that she’d always
make the best decisions, then that’s on you.

I’m not fucking Mandy Moore. I’m a monster.

He pulled me down a path toward a jumble
of plywood and corrugated metal more suited to a Mexican border shanty town
than anything in America—I’m exaggerating obviously, the tent cities of
Seattle wouldn’t be making the Condé Nast Traveler Gold List anytime soon. At
least at Thad’s place I wasn’t teetering on two by fours bridging pools of
sewage. If that were the case, I’d lose my lady boner quicker than you could
say three-day pay or vacate.

He shouldered us into the hut, his tongue
darting into my mouth. I hesitate to call it a kiss. He was tasting me,
searching inside my mouth in a way that was less passionate and yet more erotic
than just about anything I’d experienced.

Just about.

His tongue was long and the tip of it
rolled magnificently across mine as he moaned, his weight falling against me
like he might pass out. I jerked my hands up to steady him and as we broke
apart I saw his eyes rolled back in his head and remembered a television
program about great white sharks and how they seemed to be lost in ecstasy as
they devoured their prey, a sensation most humans will never understand, until
they eat Filipino, which is a burst of flavor sensation like no other—I’m
talking about the people not that vinegary chicken shit or pancit. Gah. Though,
I do miss Lumpia. Those little deep fried wonders are the king of egg rolls.
Just saying.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He groaned beneath a smile broader than a
normal human’s but somehow contained, not slipping into an aquatic gray grin,
toothed with more rows than a movie theater. This wasn’t his first time at the
buffet.

Thad’s passion was bordering on frenzied
and you know what that means, time to start worrying about whether he’ll turn
landshark on me and gnaw off a leg. I’ll be damned if I have to pay the Reaper
Clinic for another limb reattachment. His lips worked their way down my throat,
his big hands cupping my breasts, kneading them and then pinching the sides of
my dress and lifting it, he sank to his knees. His eyes filled with blackened
lust and he rose between my legs as though up through the depths of a murky
ocean to chomp on my wet seal—or you know, my snatch.

If the Shark Week references get too much
for you feel free to skip ahead.

Your loss.

My ex—let’s call him that now, I
think we’ve established that I’m moving on, at least while I’m getting head
from a shark in a shanty—needed careful instruction in regards to the
female anatomy. Not so, Thad. He pushed my panties aside like flotsam and dove
right in licking at my lips, tugging them gently between his. Fluttering his
tongue over my clit.

Good shark. Good. Shark.

It occurs to me that men who are good at
eating pussy must keep it a secret from their buddies, because most assholes
don’t know what the fuck to do when faced with ladyparts. There’s really only
one instruction that they’ll understand (and ladies, take this note), do unto
others as you would have them do unto you. Go ahead and treat that clit like a
little dick, bitch. No teeth. Don’t pinch the tip. Keep it rhythmic. Nothing
too crazy.

Simple. Or at least that’s how Thad made
it seem as, without losing his stride, he wrangled me out of my panties and
tossed them next to my Louboutin Pigalle Platos.

“Just like that!” I cried out as he
gripped my ass and nuzzled his nose against me as he threaded his tongue
inside, twisting, thrusting.

How long was that fucking thing?

Waves of pleasure washed over me, the
kind that would’ve brought a rare blush of warmth to my skin, if I weren’t, you
know, dead. I found myself pushing against him, working my cunt against the
whole of his face, his jaw, his brow. I was so into it I’d have ground against
a damn ear. And then he was almost there. Lapping. Thumping his tongue rapidly
against my clit, his fingers on either side of the little nub, pressing into
me, vibrating the root of my sex.

And then he stopped.

“Shit!” I screamed. “What the—”

He turned me roughly to face the shelves,
stacks of fisherman’s sweaters, baby fresh and neat in cubbies. His breath was
hot on my cold skin and as he rose up behind me, I felt his thick member brush
against my calf—that’s when I remembered Gil’s story from Davenport
magazine and terror filled me.

“You don’t have two dicks, do you?” I
asked, panting.

Silence.

I spun around, and against my better
judgment glanced down at his throbbing cocks—even just thinking those
words hurts all of my orifices. Thick individually, Thad’s manhoods were doubly
threatening rigid and tight against each other. Words caught in my
throat—for once—and Thad seemed to notice my fear.

He winced, worried that I might deny him.
But he’d worked me up so far that I probably would have impaled myself on a one
of the buoys dangling from the shack walls.

“I’ll take it slow,” he said and reached
beneath a stack of jeans to produce a bottle of lube.

“Alright, but don’t even think of
tackling both holes. I’m not one of the drunk bitches you bring back here to
savage. I’m much more delicate and fucking dangerous so keep that in mind,
fish.”

Thad pressed himself against me,
whispering into my ear. “Now you’re just trying to turn me on.”

“Fuck if that’s not full mast, then you
can find yourself another dead girl.”

“No no. It is. I promise. No bigger.”

He pressed it against me, slipping it
between my lips before testing the waters, dipping one head in, then the other.
He must’ve separated the two because as he pushed himself deep inside me I felt
the rigid pleasure of the second dick sluicing between my lips. The thick cock
head rubbing over my already tortured clit.

“Oh fuck!” I yelled out.

And he did. He fucked me so hard and that
second dick did a trick that had me coming over and over until the two of us
lay coiled on the gritty floor of his beach closet. Stricken. Done.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You win, buddy.”

After a quick extrication, I pulled on my
panties and lingered at the door. It occurred to me that I might not want to
expose Thad just yet. He certainly came in handy—so to speak. But I’d
need to find another patsy.

I dug out my cell and pressed and held
the number two, speed-dialing Marithé. She answered on the third ring.

“Allo?”

“Listen,” I said. “Track down the cell
phone number of the first runner-up to Miss Sandflea. Not the current runner-up
but the one that had to take on the job since Miss Sandflea was massacred in an
alley. Get it and text it to me pronto.”

“Got it.”

I hung up and noticed Thad’s eyebrow arch
in judgment—more of a brow ridge than anything with hair on it. In fact,
there wasn’t a square inch of exposed flesh on the wereshark that had a single
hair. I wondered if that trait carried over to his male area. Trimming is one
thing. But no one wants to go downtown and come back up with hairy
souvenirs—but for Christ sake, leave a little something so that I don’t
feel like I’ve just lured a twelve-year old into my car with a six-pack of
beer.

“I’m going to need you, again,” I said.

He grinned. “You know where to find me.”

And with that, I made my escape.

The
walk back to the Dunes of Hazard was eerily calm, the breeze off the ocean
stilled to a whisper. As far as walks of shame go it could have been a hell of
a lot worse, shaky knees aside. I’ll say this just the once, I hardily endorse
wereshark sex. If you have the opportunity and your partner’s been fed.

Go for it, I cannot stress this enough.

The thrill piggybacked on the adventure of
the hunt. I had no intention of actually finding the killer before, but now I
was getting a taste for it.

I walked barefoot on the sandy road, the
crushed seashell path on either side was like walking on razor blades and it
seemed I’d found a situation where a Louboutin heel was simply not the right
shoe—hard to believe, I know—I figured it was a sign that we needed
to get the hell out of there.

And fast.

What started as a faint crackling ended
up a revving nightmare straight out of a Russ Meyer film. Women in chains. If
the women were gay go-go dancers and the chains were uncomfortably tight gold
lamé hot pants—I swear to God I saw a nut hanging out of one, not the
whole sac, just one.