19 Souls Page 4

  The waitress stopped by and filled the water glass in front of Cynthia. “You two okay?” The waitress cleared the plates.

  “One more?” Cynthia asked.

  Jim felt the back of his teeth. His litmus test for years had been to stop when his top front teeth felt a little numb. They were still there and still hard. That little exercise was pretty danged effective. No need to worry. No driving tonight, as the saloon was attached to his hotel. All he needed was to stumble up the stairs to his room. She was buying and he was beginning to enjoy the company. “I think so.”

  “Good.” She turned to the young girl. “I think I’ll have a different glass of wine.” She picked one off the small list she was handed. “Well, Mr. Bean. What’s your story?” she asked when the waitress was out of earshot.

  He let out a laugh that sounded a little too feminine in his head. “It’s long and sad and I’m in no mood to go down that road right now.” And he wasn’t. He was feeling light. Happy. Strange.

  “Okay. Life history is off limits. How about music? I’m guessing this country music is not your favorite.”

  She hadn’t pushed. He liked that. “I’m a classic rock guy. Grew up with it in the house.”

  “I would have guessed that.” She tossed her hair off one shoulder and scooted around to his side of the booth so she was sitting next to him. She pulled out her phone and tapped into the music section. “Love the classics.” The play list was rather fuzzy but he made out ZZ Top and CCR.

  With a little twinkle in her eye, the waitress set down their new drinks. The night was looking more and more like a first date. He took another drink. A big one. He needed to back away from his client. Cynthia got her lipstick out of her bag and touched up her lips.

  No need to waste the good stuff. He would finish the drink and be on his way.

  “Not so fast, big guy.” She grabbed the glass and pushed it away from him. “We should have a toast before you slam that down.”

  Jim looked from the glass to her face. His head felt like it took too long to make that short distance. He blinked. Also sluggish. Travel must be kicking his ass this trip. Not usual, but the bed in this joint felt like sleeping on a fresh doughnut. Soft and unsupportive. He’d tossed all night. “What toast?”

  “Here’s to you bringing Dan home to me?” She pushed his glass back to him. Then she let her pretty nails trail up over his fingers oh so slowly. The delicate movement mesmerized him.

  His gaze took the path up her arm, across that sexy spot just where her neck curved into her shoulder, and then found her recently re-

  reddened lips.

  “You are amazingly pretty in this light.” The words were out and he hadn’t even thought them. He chuckled to himself. It should be embarrassing. Inappropriate. Client. Bad juju.

  Her hand slid over this thigh.

  But …

  “You’re very handsome yourself.”

  Client. Stop. His thoughts spun to the toast. Dan. “I may not, you know?”

  “You may not what, Jim?”

  “Find … find him.” His lips felt dry. Licking them only seemed to spread the condition to his tongue.

  She inched her fingers up the seam inside his jeans along his thigh. It tingled, burned. Nails grazed over his zipper. “You will.”

  For a moment the sexy smooth lines of her face hardened. She gripped his package. He sucked in a larger than normal breath of scotch-flavored air. Her touch seemed hot. His body jumped to react. “Yeah.”

  The waitress slipped the bill down. Cynthia opened the vinyl folder and signed it, all with her right hand. Her left was working him through his jeans. He was melting to her touch. His bones had deserted his being. The music in the room picked up in tempo. He felt the melody twisting and turning around his head like he could visualize dancing notes. Humming. He felt like that when he’d had a contact high at his tech guy’s house once. Ely was a Viet Nam vet and prone to smoke without thought or care of who was around. He felt that way now. Like he’d been too long in front of Ely’s computers while the man puffed away. Floaty. Comfy.

  Her hand changed pace. He liked the rhythm.

  “What’s your room number?”

  8

  Cynthia watched as Jim worked diligently at his jean button. He pulled at the fastener with the finesse of a man wearing mittens. The continued failure to achieve his task didn’t appear to upset him in the slightest. Rather, he seemed amused by the activity. How long would it continue if she didn’t intervene?

  Tonight’s little game wasn’t the first time she’d used GHB. The first foray had left the man vomiting and completely unwakeable. She read on the Internet the next morning that he’d died. Number Four.

  She didn’t get upset because the experiment failed. The supplier had warned her that the date rape drug produced a very ugly overdose. He was correct. No real loss, him being an over-cologned stranger from a sleazy bar. He was already falling-down drunk and in horrible shape when she’d found him.

  She shuddered at the thought of the unappealing naked man on the lime green motel quilt and took a sip from her wineglass.

  The fourth time she’d played around with this shit, she managed to overdose another one. Not to the point of danger or passing out, but he couldn’t maintain an erection or concentrate on the task at hand. Dead weight. And he remembered too much the next day. She’d messed up that time. Picked a target who was too close to home. And, as should have been expected, it turned into a big mess. That experience cost her a great job and she had to change towns again.

  She slipped off her shoes as Jim chuckled at his efforts. He looked younger without all the stress. When she’d first approached him at the bar, he’d looked beaten down. Maybe even sad. Now, playing with his zipper like a nervous teenager, his gray eyes danced with delight.

  Sophie tossed away the memory of that past faux pas. Now she had a better job, made more money, and had greater flexibility with her schedule. She was ready for Dan. The house was ready. The plan in place to find him was moving along nicely.

  She eased up and kissed Jim’s neck. He froze for an instant. He left off working on the button and slowly responded with a deep, if sloppy, kiss. She enjoyed the scotch on his lips and the rough feel of his hands as he dug his fingers hungrily into her hips. Now, this was workable. The mix of GHB to alcohol was perfect. The experience would be useful research for when she got Danny to the house. He would need some coaxing the first time or two. Until he understood.

  She let her hand slip back down to the PI’s crotch. He was still as hard as he’d been in the bar. The drug was lasting. Maybe he was even harder now. But his rugged breathing worried her.

  “How does that feel?” She wasn’t sure the cause was the drugs or his excitement.

  “Amazing.” That sounded strained as well, but she was vigorously stimulating the man. She was sure he would deny her without the drugs. Not because of her looks—no, she had that covered—but because she was a client.

  Yet here he was with his baser needs overriding rational thought. She’d provided the catalyst for his actions, but men were low-minded animals, really. They all turned on her eventually. They used her. Always had. Starting with her foster father and all the way through her life, until she got older, smarter. Not soon after she was out of that fucking house, Sophie started turning the tables, using men how she pleased. If she could gain something from it or if she thought they would wound her or detract from her mission, she’d use the blade. Simple plan.

  But right now she was enjoying the outcome of this spur-of-the-moment party. Risky in that he might remember, but she felt this one wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. He had far too much pride to whine about a drunken sexual encounter with a client. Men rarely cried rape.

  He staggered back a little as she twisted the fabric around the metal button. He looked down at the jeans as if she’d accomplished
some huge physical feat. His smile was boyish, even charming. Caution tingled her senses. Maybe she shouldn’t play with someone she knew again.

  She supposed he could get upset and stop looking for Danny. Then she’d have to start over with another PI. But she’d decided on this course as she watched him stalk into the restaurant and pull himself up to the bar. He was a good-sized man. His muscles thick and powerful and he wore a kind of arrogance mixed in with his confidence. He may not know how appealing his masculinity was. But maybe he did outside of work. Maybe he played games with women. Probably did. She liked to take men like that down a notch.

  “Take it out.”

  “Huh?” He pulled his T-shirt off with only a minor amount of flailing and unsteadiness. Jim stood before her bare-chested, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. His balance seemed to disappear and he stumbled backward a few steps. Fortunately, the bed was there to stop his progress and catch him before he hit the ground.

  This was perfect. He was happy as pie to be there. To be with her. And she was sure there was some rule in his profession that said don’t sleep with clients. One he clung to. One she was able to strip away with ease. She could see it on his face just after she’d put the GHB into his glass. Mr. Bean was not happy to be joining her for dinner. Not that she’d given him a chance to argue. In such a short time, he was very happy to pull his penis out of his pants for her.

  She chuckled to herself as she stalked closer to the bed. In this state, the PI was compliant and excited.

  “Come to papa.” He propped up onto his elbows. “Did I just say that?” His brows drew together.

  She slipped off her shirt and apparently all thoughts of his last comment were washed away. Simple. Base. Flash a smile and bit of flesh and they fall all over themselves to give her what she wanted.

  She’d managed to accumulate a small fortune with that tactic, conning and stealing and killing. Three pimps died when she’d hit Dallas with her plan to get off the street. Not that anyone missed them.

  The plan had been to kill the lowlife fuckers for seed money. Maybe save a working girl’s life in the process. Then she took the money, the drugs, and the guns they all hoarded. It was easy enough to sell the stolen shit to make a nice profit. Sophie thought of herself as an entrepreneur, after all. Hadn’t taken more than a couple months to get where she didn’t have to sell her own body or take out the drug dealers or pimps anymore.

  She reinvested almost every dime into the plan. Hard work and savings paid her way through school and earned her a degree. Back then she’d had more money in the bank than any two people her age. Over time she bought several sets of identification. All with real social security numbers. She was smart. Determined. Danny would be impressed.

  She eased to the edge of the bed and tugged on Jim’s jeans. He did his best to lift his hips and she slid him out of his pants. Commando. “Yay me.” She was getting excited as well. Jim Bean was a very nicely built man—defined muscles, nice abs, all without looking vulgar. She liked it. Big and just enough body hair to accentuate his physique. Reminded her of an Italian model she used to drool over.

  Jim was mumbling, shaking his head. He’d lost his ability to voice his opinion on the upcoming amusements.

  The thrill of taking someone against their will was almost as good as a kill. It was best when she could see the aftermath. The anguish that men suffered at having been violated. It was usually a woman’s territory to be used. It gave her such a jolt to turn those tables. No one used Sophie Evers anymore.

  She crawled up Jim’s naked body, touching and teasing as she went. His muscles flinched and skin twitched as she tickled or stroked. “Are you always this sensitive?”

  9

  “Usually when a guy looks as bad as you, he’s leaving Vegas, not heading into the party.” The man’s voice was at least one octave higher than Jim’s current tolerance level.

  Jim nodded but didn’t respond or look his way. No way he wanted to chat with the high-talker for three frickin’ hours.

  “I take this flight a few times a month,” the guy went on as the plane finally settled into its course and quit floundering around the airways like a wounded bird doing its best to make Jim hurl. “These nonstops are hard to get. Sure am glad to have it today. It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”

  The rumbling of the jet engines was like a team of Clydesdales running a long-distance race in Jim’s head. He leaned forward and used his thumbs to hold pressure on his temples, hoping for some relief. Nothing. His eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the morning light. The closed plastic window shade wasn’t cutting it. Too many others in the cabin were wide open. He hoped this man didn’t request that he open it back up. Jim needed what little respite from the glare he could manage. Might have to punch the high-talker in that flapping piehole if he didn’t shut up.

  Fuck, he didn’t remember drinking that much. He couldn’t remember drinking enough to feel like this in years. Maybe ever. Not that he remembered much after his client had started rubbing his junk while he stared at the taxidermied buffalo ass. He eased his thick head against the seat back as the plane banked north to head away from Dallas and toward Nevada. The sensation and a tiny bit of turbulence made him swallow hard. Bile. How the hell did he manage to get himself into these situations? Do the job and get paid. Easy. No need to add a fat layer of drama on top. Women. Of course it was a woman. He had to have the world’s worst luck when it came to the fairer sex. Maybe he should consider only taking cases involving men.

  Those cases would all be men looking for proof of cheating or lying wives. Although, he made a good bit of cash from women looking for proof of cheating husbands.

  Behind his closed eyes he saw choppy images of Cynthia in the dark. Flashed moments of the night. The restaurant. His hotel room. Her bare shoulders looming over him. Long red hair in his face. Soft thighs pressed against his. Her breasts caressing his chest as she moved. The silent mental video of her talking to him as she dressed. But those memories were as cloudy as an abandoned fish tank. Hazy. Green. The sound dampened.

  “You visiting Vegas?”

  He shook his head. “Local.”

  “Me too. I’m in poker table sales. I’ll be glad to be back home. A lonely casino out in the Texas sun was not for me.”

  The plane jumped again. Usually, turbulence didn’t bother Jim much. Hell, he’d jumped out of planes a couple of times, but this time his stomach felt as though the big plane had taken a five-thousand-foot drop in altitude. He swallowed hard. Fighting what quickly was becoming a losing battle. Maybe that famous rare steak was bad. Could have been actual buffalo butt for all he knew. Food poisoning. Maybe that would account for his memories of Cynthia naked. Could it be hallucinations? Fantasies? He hoped so. There had been no real evidence of her stepping foot in his room this morning. No abandoned underwear or lipstick stains.

  He searched the seatback pocket for the airsick bag. None.

  “Jesus … here man.” The high talker shoved the bag from his seatback pocket into Jim’s hands. Just in time too. Fortunately, it was just bile. The tiny bag was enough to manage until he shuffled down the aisle to the lavatory. Many eyes on him as he went. He had to stop himself from planting his fist into the face of one guy who gave him the you pussy smirk. Then again, the constant throbbing in his head egged on a burning desire to punch everything. He tried to think back on his anger-management class. They hadn’t covered anything about working through the world’s worst hangover.

  The cramped quarters made it hard to puke into the metal john. He was listing back and forth with the sway of the plane. Public restrooms suck. While he balanced, he considered the thousands of bare asses and men with bad aim who had come before. His best hope was that the minimum-wage cleaning crew did a decent job before he boarded. No other choice.

  Fuck. He hated being sick. Felt weak. Out of co
ntrol.

  It ended.

  His shoulder banged the wall as he splashed water on his face. He paused to consider the state of his innards. No rumbling. No cramping. All seemed calm. For the moment.

  He pushed the door to the side. “Not feeling so good this morning, Mr. Bean?”

  She was standing right there. A foot from his face. The shock of seeing her made him almost stumble back. He had to catch himself on the folding door. Her voice echoed around in his skull. “No. Seems not.”

  With a little pout, she handed him an opened bottle of water. “Drink this.”

  He choked on the first swallow. Bitter. Fake limes and something spicy. He inspected the half-empty bottle. “What the hell is it?”

  The plane bounced over another air pocket. He fell against her. His body responded to the feel of hers even though his head felt like it was being melted by sulfuric acid. Dammit. He hated this situation. No denying it. Hated himself for breaking his own code of ethics. Bright eyes and an impish flash of her dazzling smile convinced him the snippets were memories and not hallucinations. At the moment, drunken fragmented fantasies would have been much better.

  “It’s aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, and a secret ingredient. Family recipe. My college friend called it the Wings of Angels.” She turned to walk back up toward the front of the plane. “Drink it, Bean. You’ll feel better by the time we land. Trust me.” She glanced over her shoulder and winked.

  He watched her walk past his third-row seat, back to first class, and slide in. Right-hand aisle seat.

  He took another swig. It was horrible, but what the hell? The only other choice was scotch. The stomach did a little complaining at just the thought of it. He waited another few seconds before making his way to his seat. This time he passed pity-filled faces. The contempt had felt better.