The Cost of Commitment - KJ2 (26 page)

“No, I’m happy with May. It will mark our one-year anniversary, and I like the symmetry of that. Don’t you?”

“Yep.” Kate peeked into the suitcase. “Are you really taking all that?”

Lynn Ames

Jay blushed. “I have no idea what I’m going to need there, so I’m bringing a little bit of everything.”

“I can tell you what you won’t need.” Kate reached in and pulled out a business suit that Jay had just packed, holding it up so Jay could see it.

“But I don’t want to disrespect them by dressing down.”

“Honey, if you wear that, it sets you apart from them and highlights the cultural differences between us. Casual but professional is better, trust me.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. So, are you excited about the assignment?”

“God yes. Time to spend learning ancient tribal ways, immersing myself in their way of life. It’s fascinating. Thank you so much, Kate, for making contact for me and setting this up.” Jay zipped the suitcase and placed it on the floor.

“It’s my pleasure, honey. I think you’ll find the Hopi and Navajo to be honest, straightforward, wary of the white man, and proud of their heritage.”

“The only downside is being away from you for so long. Ten days.”

Jay wrapped her arms around Kate’s shoulders. “I’m going to miss you terribly.”

“Me, too, love, but it’s worth the sacrifice to see you back doing something you enjoy so much.”

“I think I was taking my professional life a little bit for granted, you know? This was a heck of a wake-up call for me. How many people get to travel around the world, doing what they love to do all the time and getting paid for it?” Jay shook her head. “I almost lost all that.”

Kate put a hand on her arm. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. Still, it’s not a lesson I’m likely to forget any time soon.”

“I suspect not.”

Jay sat down on the bed. “I really want to make this story something special, you know? I want to justify Standislau’s faith in me.”

“You don’t owe him anything, Jay. You already paid the price, and you managed to exonerate your bosses in the process. That’s a pretty impressive bonus.”

“I still feel so bad about the whole thing, though. The magazine and its management would never have come under fire in the first place if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Just think of all the free publicity they got out of the deal.

Appearances on a prime-time news magazine and three network morning shows. That’s a viewership of several million. I’m willing to bet subscriptions will go up this month.”

“Really?”

The Cost of Commitment

“Absolutely. There are a lot of people out there, Jay, who are of the opinion that any publicity, even bad publicity, is good. As someone famous once said, ‘Just as long as they spell my name right.’”

“Do you believe that?”

“No. I think that negative notoriety is bad, period. You get name recognition out of it, but name recognition alone isn’t sufficient, in my mind, to justify taking a hit.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Well, there are a lot of seasoned PR veterans out there who disagree with us, sweetheart.”

“I’ll take you over them any day.” Jay reached over and tweaked Kate’s nose.

“I sincerely hope so, honey, because you’re stuck with me.”

“I like it that way.” Jay’s eyes softened, her pupils growing dark with desire, as she regarded her lover. Reaching out with one hand, she ran her fingertips lightly over the chiseled planes of high cheekbones, up over eyebrows, down the side of Kate’s face and along her jawline, her fingers memorizing each smooth inch of skin.

She tangled her hands in luxurious, long strands, the texture reminding her of the finest satin. With a small tug, she pulled Kate to her, exploring the warm wetness of her mouth with reverence.

In a husky voice Jay said, “I am constantly astounded at just how much I want you. I could kiss you a million times, and still, each one feels like the first time.”

Her mouth returned to Kate’s, seeking the softness of her lips, the welcome brush of her tongue, the sensation of coming home that washed over her as it always did when they kissed. She caressed the exposed skin at Kate’s throat and collarbones and released the top button of the blue silk blouse to reveal the tantalizing curve of breast beneath. Even as her mouth continued to explore, her fingers brushed over tender skin.

Pop, pop, pop. Jay undid the rest of the buttons, leaving the blouse to fall open completely. She ran her fingers over warm flesh, stroking and caressing ribs, stomach, back, and navel. With practiced ease she found the clasp on the front of Kate’s bra and undid it, moving the material to palm the softness beneath.

Her fingers closed on hardening nipples, her lover’s gasp intensifying her need to devour. She swept the blouse and bra from Kate’s shoulders, the clothing pooling around her waist, her arms still bound by the sleeves. Still without breaking the kiss, Jay pushed her onto her back.

Kate shuddered as Jay peeled off her pants and panties, leaving her naked except for her constricted arms. Jay inserted her jean-clad thigh between her lover’s, noting the wetness that soaked the denim immediately. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling of power as the
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sound of a whimper reached her ears. Rocking forward, she ran her tongue down the center of Kate’s body, her fingers leaving goose bumps in their wake as they blazed their own path along oversensitized skin. She watched as Kate’s hands grasped at the bed coverings convulsively, her arms visibly straining within their silk bonds.

When she both heard and felt a deep, plaintive moan, Jay brushed her fingers over Kate’s clitoris, paused as she arched up off the bed, then stroked her lovingly as she continued to rock against her.

Kate’s orgasm, when it came seconds later, was so forceful that it nearly consumed them both, fire racing through their veins, their hearts pumping wildly.

Before her breathing had even settled, Kate was in motion. She managed to free herself from her sleeves, then used her superior strength to flip Jay over. She tugged off her cotton turtleneck, taking the lace-and-satin bra with it. As she devoured already-aroused nipples with her hot mouth, she unfastened Jay’s jeans, pulling them off along with a pair of red lace panties and flinging them away from the bed.

With single-minded intent, she pinned Jay’s hands to her sides, greedily sucking and biting slick flesh, pleased at the reaction as Jay writhed in anticipation beneath her. Unable to wait any longer, she lowered her mouth to Jay’s center and tasted her pleasure, her tongue exploring every crevice, her lips sucking the distended clitoris with a fierce longing.

Jay cried out her release, her body shaking with the effort. Pulling Kate up and on top of her body with a strength born of desperation, she wrapped her arms and legs around her long torso, squeezing as tightly as she could.

They stayed like that for a moment, suspended in time, their passion and love for each other boundless, before both collapsed, falling together in awe and wonder.

It was a place he didn’t have much need for these days, but David Breathwaite continued to lease a dilapidated apartment in Arbor Hill, an area widely considered to be the most crime-infested section in the city of Albany. He didn’t rent it himself, naturally; he had it rented for him by one of his many shadowy contacts.

At the moment he was busy pacing across the rotting wooden floorboards, reading from a file he held in his hands. Timothy Rundoon, given the street name “Basher” based on his penchant for bashing late-paying drug customers over the head with blunt objects. Age thirty-six, incarcerated four times since the age of thirteen, when he was sent to a juvenile home for raping his babysitter. He was subsequently bounced
The Cost of Commitment

from seven foster homes for deviant behavior before being arrested again at sixteen for breaking and entering, burglary, and resisting arrest. He served another two years in juvenile facilities until he was released on his eighteenth birthday. Within two months he was running drugs for the local kingpin. When he was busted, he was carrying five kilos of cocaine and $160,000 cash. That time he served seven years in one of the state’s medium-security prisons. He managed to last on the streets for three months before running afoul of the law again, at twenty-five he was convicted of first degree manslaughter for killing a rival drug dealer. He had been paroled six months earlier after spending ten years at Attica.

“Where is he?” Breathwaite asked nervously. There was so much riding on this plan.

“He’ll be here.” Kirk was leaning against a door frame that had seen better days, wishing he were anywhere but there.

“You’re sure you gave him the address and told him 7:00.”

“I’m positive.” Kirk sighed and pushed off from the molding. “Look, he’s an ex-con. You really expect him to show up exactly on time?” He shrugged. “For someone who’s spent as much time in prisons as you have, you don’t know much about the life, do you? If you show up on time it means you’re too eager and easy. It’s far smarter to wait the meet out a bit, make him sweat.” He laughed unkindly. “He’s sure got that part taken care of with you.”

As Breathwaite spun around to answer him, there was a loud knock.

“Yeah,” he barked loudly.

“It’s Basher,” came the muffled reply from the other side of the door.

Breathwaite stalked to the door and threw it open, grabbing the man on the other side of the threshold by the shirt and yanking him inside.

The man stumbled and lost his balance temporarily before recovering. He straightened up, intent on teaching Breathwaite a lesson, before Kirk intervened, putting a hand on his chest and shoving him back several steps.

“I din’t come here for ’dis bullshit,” he spat.

“When you work for me,” Breathwaite snarled menacingly, “you show up on time and straight. You don’t come here tripped out and late.

Furthermore, you’d better lose the attitude before I change my mind and have your parole revoked for violations.”

“Hey, man, you don’ have ta get all, like, stressed out or nothin’. I’s here, ain’t I?”

“Barely,” Kirk muttered under his breath. It was clear the man was high on something, most likely crack.

Breathwaite looked at his private investigator accusingly. “What did you do, give him some of the money up front?”

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Kirk snapped back, “How else did you think I was going to get him here? He sure didn’t come because he wanted to help you in your little crusade.”

Breathwaite’s face was nearly purple with rage, the urge to strike out almost overwhelming. Didn’t these idiots know what was at stake?

Couldn’t they see? Between clenched teeth he ground out, “I paid for someone who could get the job done. If he’s not in any condition to do it, then we’ve wasted time and money on him.”

“I can do whatever you wan’ me to. But you ain’ tol’ me nothin’ yet.”

Breathwaite was struggling with his decision, although he’d been over it a thousand times in the past week. If he gave this junkie any information that could be traced back to him, what was to prevent the ex-con from selling him out? On the other hand, Redfield seemed no closer to firing that dyke bitch than he had been three weeks earlier.

He
had
to get back into his rightful spot at DOCS, whatever it took.

He had been exiled to his current, useless position long enough. He was out of the flow and off balance, virtually extraneous to the media whose attention he craved. He needed to be needed by them—needed to control them and the currency of information—and he couldn’t from where he was at the moment. It was humiliating when they yanked him out of the hot seat to take a meaningless paper job. It was beneath him. His place was where the action was, in the prime PR seat for criminal justice issues in state government, and Katherine Kyle was standing in his way.

Mind made up, he turned to the man called Basher. “This is what I need. Make it happen for me, and I’ll see what I can do about getting your parole supervisor off your ass, in addition to getting you a lifetime supply of crack. Screw up or rat me out and I’ll make sure you never see daylight as a free man again. Do you understand me?”

Basher regarded him under droopy lids. “I unnerstan’ that you’s blowin’ a lot o’ hot air and ain’t said nothin’ real yet. Stop wastin’ my time and tell me what you want.”

“Very well,” Breathwaite said. “For starters, I want you to arrange a riot for me. At Attica. I understand you still have buddies inside.”

Basher snorted. “Yeah, I got buddies.” Warily he added, “You said for starters. What else you want?”

Breathwaite rubbed his hands together unconsciously. “There’s going to be a casualty during the course of the uprising.”

“How you know dat?”

“Because your buddies are going to make sure it happens. I want the DOCS mouthpiece taken out.”

Basher let that statement hang in the air for a minute, stunned.

“Lemme see if I got this right. You want to take out a hit on da
The Cost of Commitment

spokesperson fo’ da main man? That bitchin’ broad, what’s her name? I seen her on TV. Man, she’s one hot piece o’ merchandise.”

“I want her taken hostage and killed as part of the riot. Can you handle it or not?”

“Better question is why would my brothers want to do this fo’ you?

Me, I’m square with an endless river of blow, but the bros, man, they ain’t fool enough to mess wit’ nothin’ that stupid. Most o’ them hope ta get out someday. Pull some damn idiot stunt like that, you might as well kiss yo ass good-bye.”

“If they complete this assignment successfully, I’ll see to it that they’ll never be punished. In fact, they’ll have commendations in their files for their next parole hearing.”

Basher narrowed his already-slitted eyes. “You got the powa ta do dat?”

Breathwaite nodded.

Basher made a whistling sound. “What guarantee do dey got? If I’s gonna go to dem wit’ somethin’ like this, they’s gonna wanna see a show of good faith, if ya know what I’s sayin’.”

Annoyed, Breathwaite asked, “What would convince them?”