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Chapter Fifty
ROGAN
Dipping my brush into the paint, I lift the bristles and drag them across the canvas. I’ve been at it for hours now, creating a work of art in Rory’s likeness. It’s not hard to dive into my mind and remember how she looked that day in the trailer when I draped her body across the wall, or the many times I’ve tapped into the cameras planted in her apartment and on her computer, seeing her at various times. I love when I catch her being vulnerable, because there’s something so effortless and sweet about her face.
This painting calls to my soul, to the connection I feel with this incredible woman. With Beethoven playing in the background, I create this image. It’s taken me several glorious hours to perfect it. I haven’t eaten, and I barely even drank the water Alistair brought me. This painting…it’s consumed me.
Stroke after stroke, I watch her come to life on the canvas. She sits naked on a plush, red couch. One foot is flat on the floor, while her other knee is bent and her thighs are spread apart. She nibbles on a painted red nail, her eyes are hooded, and her rosy nipples are pebbled as her delicate fingers dip between her legs.
Her body came to me easily, as I’ve made it a necessity to memorize every contour and every beauty mark on her skin. But her eyes were a challenge to capture. How do you portray such a soulful gaze? One that holds such hope and intense anger. Her eyes tell the story her lips refuse to tell, even when she tries to keep secrets.
Speaking of secrets…
My little hellcat has killed…twice.
Why am I so fucking aroused by that?
My cock thickens as I stare at the image before me, swiping my brush down the swell of her heavy breasts as I remember the soft mewls and intense cries she made when I took her. I’ll have to do better next time and make her scream louder, until her voice becomes lost to the euphoria.
Images of her body bathed in blood have me grabbing myself through my sweats and stroking the length. Growling in frustration, I set the brush down and step away for a quick shower. It’s almost nine AM, and there’s so much work to be done.
I used to paint as a way to relax and escape my reality, but since Rory came into our lives, I haven’t had much time. That needs to change. We all need a release, a way to wind down and do something just for ourselves.
Locking the bathroom door, I strip down and step under the hot shower, letting the water cover me as if I were the medium for a new work of art. I imagine what it would be like to paint Rory in person as my hand works my cock. How would it feel to lather my hands in paint and cover every inch of her body?
Would she cry out when I circled her nipples and dove my fingers between her legs? Could she hold still as my hands worked their magic on her body, caressing every intimate place with an artist’s gentle touch?
Probably not, and I’d punish her for it by pounding my cock into her sweet cunt. My balls tighten at the memory of being inside her, of her cunt gripping me, and with a grunt, I spill my cum down the shower drain.
Feeling relieved, I quickly wash myself in the same routine I always do—hair, body, hair again—and then I step into a warmed towel and quickly dry myself.
Rory…
She consumes me. After learning about the second murder, her pulling away makes so much more sense. She was afraid of what we’d think of her, or at least that’s what she told us, but for some reason, I think there’s more to it.
Just when I think I’ve learned all of Rory’s secrets, another pops up. Is there no end to the mysterious woman that is Rory O’Brien?
Doesn’t she realize we’d do anything for her? That we don’t give a fuck about the past or what she’s done? She belongs to us now, and Dixens protect what’s theirs.
After dressing in jeans and a silk T-shirt, I head to the computer room off of my bedroom, refusing to go into work on a Sunday. For the past two days, I’ve been trying to hack into the Boston Police Department’s computer system, but I found they’ve boosted their firewalls. Frustrated, I had to step away and do some research. But after relaxing into my art and releasing some pent-up sexual aggression, I feel like a new man.
Cracking my knuckles, I grab my mouse and move it, pulling my computer from sleep mode. Utilizing a new technique, I manage to get into their secured database with ease. My fingers dance across the keys as I look for the file containing information about the murdered motel bastard who thought he could lay his grimy fucking hands on Rory. He deserved to die, and I’m going to ensure Rory doesn’t take the fall for it.
I swiftly read everything in the homicide report, then switch over to evidence. They have hair, fingerprints, and two types of blood on file.
“Fuck,” I grit out, knowing she’s had a tough life and might already be in their database. If she is, the moment they upload this case, Rory will be taken into custody. It’s only a matter of time.
I refuse to allow that to happen or even consider the notion that she could ever exist in a world without us.
Opening my email, I send off an encrypted message to a contact I have at the station. Since we’re involved in nefarious businesses, it pays to, well, pay off someone who works on the inside. My patience wears thin as I wait for him to respond, but a few, long minutes later, my email dings with a reply.
He’s going to bring me the box of evidence tomorrow. I wire him a couple grand as a deposit for his troubles. I’ll hand him the second half in cash once he delivers it. Not once has he ever failed me.
After replying, I lock my hands behind my head and think about the condemning evidence of multiple people I have in my own safe. I could plant some and frame them. Kill two birds with one stone… Maybe it’s time for the ultimate fall—Charles fucking Fletcher III.
I’ve been waiting for this moment, collecting what I could—business cards, fingerprints, even hair all belonging to him. That man has been sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and if he’s not careful, I’m going to cut the fucking thing off.
I won’t be able to sleep tonight, anxious for my contact to meet me at the office tomorrow. BPD probably thinks they have this case solved, but they have another thing coming.
No one fucks with my hellcat, not if I have anything to say about it.
