Talking Dirty
Authors: Cheryl McIntyre
Dirty
3
Talk
ing Dirty
By Cheryl McIntyr
e
Dirty 3 Talking Dirty
Copyright Cheryl McIntyre 2014
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without prior written permission by the author except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real persons, events, or places are used fictitiously. The characters are the work of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or deceased, events, or locales are coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status, as well as ownership of products referred to in this work of fiction. The uses of these trademarks have not been authorized, nor are they associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover photo from Shutterstock
Cover design by Joe Handlon
Edited by Dawn McIntyre Decker
April 2014
Table of Contents
Link
I’d like to believe I would have let Aaron drink only enough of the
sleeping pill cocktail to knock him out. I’d like to believe I’m better than to patiently watch him kill himself.
B
ut I’m not.
I knew I wouldn’t allow him to live when I crushed the first pill. I knew it as I watched the cloudy powder slowly dissolve into the amber liquid. And I knew it as I poured him the first shot.
Even choosing to serve the laced Jack Daniel’s in a shot glass was premeditated. Shots are quick. I knew a guy like Aaron, one who is no stranger to alcohol, could throw back several before the effects would catch up. By then, I knew it would be too late for him.
I knew.
And yet, I sat here, in this very chair, and I
watched
him chug drink after drink until his puffy, bruised eyelids began to flutter. I encouraged another drink as his words of apology began to slur beyond comprehension. I poured him another as he slumped in the chair, his chin tucked to his chest. And yet another as he leaned heavily on the table, unable to pry his eyelids apart.
I sat here, and I watched the life slowly seep out of him. He went peacefully, falling into a deep sleep. His skin paled, the bruises standing out
, dark and evident, on his flesh. And then he took on an almost waxy appearance, as if he weren’t real.
I can pretend that’s the reason I continued to allow it to go on. Because it wasn’t real to me. Because
he
was no longer real to me.
But
Aaron has always been
very real to me
. He took someone real from me and caused me real pain. And he deserved real punishment.
Eventually his breaths became sluggish and shallow, spaced too far apart
, until they finally just ceased.
That was several minutes ago, but I haven’t moved from this chair. I haven’t allowed my eyes to leave his sallow face. I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t think it would sit this heavy on my shoulders or ache this badly in my chest.
I should feel some sense of relief.
One down
.
I should be satisfied.
Three to go
.
Not this. Not this anger.
This weight. This…
lack of deliverance
.
Where is my redemption?
Where is it?
I tear my gaze
away from Aaron’s lifeless body and stare down at my hands, lying flat on the table. I turn them over, my eyes trailing each crease. I flip them back and forth. Searching. They’re just hands. Callused. Bruised. Knuckles large. Nails short.
They’re just hands.
Solid.
Steady
.
Hands powerful enough to take a man’s life. Capable.
My teeth are locked so tightly my jaw hurts. I can feel the muscles there throb in time with my pulse. I yank the wallet from my back pocket and pry it open. I need to see her. I need to look at her face.
I need to remember
.
The picture is crinkled, creased to the point of flimsiness. I’ve folded and unfolded it more time
s than I can count. My fingertips move over her face in soft strokes.
These hands were once kind. Gentle. They caressed
this very face with tenderness. Held her hair when she was sick. Memorized every inch of her body when she was healthy. Learned what she liked, what she craved more of. They embraced her. They loved her.
She is why. I can’t forget that. I do this for her.
Aaron didn’t live like the man he died as. He was cruel. A rapist. A murderer. He needed to die. He deserved it.
I did the right thing
.
He went peacefully.
Livie went screaming and crying. Defiled and defeated.
This was better than he deserved.
I did the right thing
.
I push the chair back. The scrape of the wooden legs against the concrete floor echoes loudly, breaking the silence and reminding me how long I’ve sat in this basement with a corpse.
Everything I need is lined up across the workbench along the back wall. I wonder if Aaron noticed it while he drank down the whiskey. I wonder if he knew what was ultimately in store for him.
I drag the large trunk over. He’ll be leaving my house the same way he came.
I pause, the large, vinyl tarp in my hands forgotten.
No. He’s not leaving the same way he came. He was alive then.
I close my eyes for just a moment as I realize that isn’t true either. He was a dead man when I followed him into his apartment. He was a dead man the moment he hurt Olivia.
Rocky
I notice moisture on the glass of the double doors as I open them. The familiar scent of sweat and vinyl fills my senses as soon as I walk in. The air is humid. Warm and sticky. Though I don’t immediately see anyone, I know somebody’s working the punching bag hard. I can hear it. That recognizable whack of leather.
The hits are quick. Firm. Precise.
I round the corner, heading to the office. My feet stop abruptly, rooting me to the floor. Link’s naked back is to me. Toned and solid. The muscles twist and ripple with each coiled strike he lands on the bag. Sweat glistens on his skin. And though it’s a beautiful sight, none of that is responsible for my acute attention.
Scar after scar line
s his back. The skin is puckered, shiny. Some are a dark shade of pink. Others much too white against his golden skin. My eyes trail his form, from the base of his neck, all the way down to where his basketball shorts hang around his hips.
There are so many scars.
He told me there were eighteen. It seemed like a lot at the time, but I didn’t understand. Not until now. Seeing it with my own eyes.
I don’t wear my scars on the outside. Garrett didn’t leave any reminding marks on my skin. But I imagine that’s what I look like on the inside.
Link continues to batter the bag. I’ve never seen such ferocity before. He’s attacking it almost savagely. The floor around him is damp with his sweat. It’s obvious he’s been at this for a while. I remember from my days tagging along with Dad and Joe to the gym, bag work is draining and only meant for short periods of time.
I can tell from the humid air Link hasn’t slowed since he started.
I clear my throat, letting my presence be known. His hand reaches out to still the swaying bag. He peers at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark, cheeks red. He turns toward me, brushing the moisture from his brows with the back of his wrist. My gaze lowers, following a bead of sweat that falls from the tip of his nose and lands on his chest. I watch as it slides down between his pec muscles, mixing with the dampness there, and continues trailing down his abs.
I follow the path back up, coming to rest on the tattoo over his left pectoral muscle. In a swirl of black script is Olivia’s name.
“What are you doing here?” Link asks, his voice hoarse from his excruciating workout, I’m assuming.
“I work here,” I reply lightly, finally tearing my gaze off of his body and focusing my attention on his face.
His eyes narrow as he comes closer. His stride is swift and fluid. Graceful. The angry observation, the shimmering dampness of his skin, the huskiness to his voice—it’s all so damn appealing. I know this man is twisted and damaged, and probably the worst thing in the world for me. But aren’t we all twisted in some way?
I imagine
myself running my fingers over his chest, sweeping my tongue across his sculpted stomach, and falling to my knees, freeing him of his shorts.
Goose bumps prickle my arms as I envision what a gorgeous sight that would be.
“You were attacked last night,” Link says, pulling me away from all my wicked thoughts. “You shouldn’t be here.” And then, as if just realizing it, he looks over at the door, and then back to me. “Did you walk here? By yourself?”
His words are the equivalent to being doused in ice water. “I don’t need the reminder,” I murmur, “or the lecture.”
He cocks a brow as he stares at me. The muscles in his jaw start their usual dance and I stifle an eye roll, anticipating a scolding. At least he’s shirtless. It will give me something to look at while I tune him out.
“I’m not going to lecture you,” he says quietly. “I was just going to tell you to call me. I’ll give you a ride anytime you need one. You don’t have to walk by yourself.”
I’m caught off guard and not sure what I should say to that. So I don’t say anything.
“And if you want to take the day off—which I think you should—then you can.”
“I don’t want the day off,” I reply. “I don’t want to sit in my apartment, by myself, thinking about shit.”
He nods tightly as if he understands. And he probably does. Isn’t that the same reason he was just destroying a punching bag? We all cope in our own ways.
“I’m going to take a quick shower before we open. Just yell if you need me.”
I press my lips together, watching him
bend over to grab a towel. The agility his body moves with is captivating. He’s just a foot away from the locker room when I call his name. “Link?”
He pivots on his heels, turning to face me.
“Yeah?”
“Define need.”
His lips quirk at the corners. His eyes brush over me slowly. “Requiring something important,” he drawls, his voice low and sexy. His tongue sweeps his lower lip languidly. “Do you require something?”
I require that tongue
.
The main doors open bringing a rush of cool air into the building. I glance up at the clock on the wall.
We’re just minutes from being officially open. When I look back to Link, his searing gaze is locked on my face. His hungry stare makes my belly muscles clench and an ache form between my legs. I think his need might be as great as mine.
“Soon,” he mouths before gliding through the door.
Link
The shower spray cools my heated skin, calming my racing thoughts for the first time since
I poured Aaron a shot. I rake my hands over my head, letting the water rinse it all away.
I
need to make a choice.
I need to decide what to do with the other names.
I need to, but I don’t want to. What I
want to do
is bury all this shit deep down inside, and forget about it for five fucking minutes. I press my palms to the tile, watching the liquid trails race down my body.
My hands ache. Even wrapped
, I still managed to tear them up. Once I started hitting the bag, I just couldn’t stop. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to. But no matter how hard I went at the bag, that release I was searching for wasn’t there.
I know what could give me peace, if only fleetingly. I know how easily she could erase it from my mind for a few blissful minutes. I remember her taste, hot and sticky on my tongue. And the husky tone to her voice as she moaned my name. I ca
n almost feel her fingers grazing my back as she guided me closer.
My eyes close and I stroke my hardening
cock. I want to jerk off—pump one out just for my sanity’s sake—but I don’t. I grab the body wash and soap up. I don’t deserve to feel good. I don’t deserve to forget.
Tha
t’s the difference between Aaron and me. I didn’t kill in cold-blood. It wasn’t a choice I made lightly. And I won’t allow myself off easily.
I murdered a man. I killed him and I shoved his body into a trunk that I purposely drilled holes in. And then I watched it sink beneath the cold, murky river wa
ter as the sun rose.
I hate myself for it.
As I should.
I hate myself more for the shame and guilt ripping me apart inside. He deserved it. He deserved to die. I did the right thing. I did it for her. I did it for Livie
. I did it for all the Livies. All the Rockys. All the Links.
I should feel justified.
Instead I feel vacant.
And it shouldn’t be any other way. Life is sacred. It should be cherished. Destroying it should not be easy.
At the same time, I know I’m not done.
I’ll do this again. I have to. My whole life has revolved around this for too long. It’s the only path I know.
***
I’m sitting in my car, parked
across the street from Anthony’s insurance agency. But unlike my other visits here, I’m not watching him. I’m not waiting for him to slip up. I’m staring at my phone.
It’s amazing what information social networks offer.
Finding Steve Morrison was easier than I thought it would be. I was prepared to hire a private investigator, but a few clicks on my phone, and there he was.
This is something I should include in my classes.
Always keep your social media pages private. Or hell, just stay off of them altogether like Carter Bates. Apparently he doesn’t have a Facebook page and I can’t find shit on him. But Steve Morrison—he’s an open book. All laid out in one place. The jackass even has a picture of his home—house number included. Locating him isn’t going to be difficult at all. Especially since he’s gone out of his way to make it so unbelievably simple by geotagging his photos.
I stare at Morrison’s profile picture. I look into his cat-like eyes, and I force myself to recall the details of the night he hurt Liv. How he held his hand over her mouth. How he stood behind her, his arm pinning her to his chest.
I see his face next to hers. Her eyes wide with fear. His unfocused and glossy. He held her so tightly, imprisoning her. If he had just let her go…
Maybe...
Just maybe...
I try not to allow that thought to surface. There are too many maybes. The list is endless. But once it takes hold, its grip is unmerciful.
Maybe if I hadn’t insisted on the movie.
Maybe if I had taken her to eat before the movie. Or taken her to a different place. If my phone had been charged and I called the order in. If I had taken my car.
If I had just stayed in that night.
If I was stronger.
If I had never insisted she follow me to college.
If I had never dated her.
If I had never met her.
Mayb
e I hate myself because I know I’m just as responsible for what happened to her as the men that killed her.
