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"Assholes," I told them.
As if that was somehow an invitation, they both ground into me harder than before. Faster. Deeper. I wanted to scream.
"Okay," Jake said after another minute or two. "You can come now."
I came oh, so, fucking hard I saw stars that were probably from another universe, or some shit. I didn't care. I rode the wave to the peak and screamed my throat raw as my blood thundered through my body.
Both guys came at almost the same time, a few seconds after me. The whole world became a chorus of grunts, groans and panting. Sweat, cum and racing pulses.
The high was so delicious, it took time to come down from. That was fine with me. I could have stayed lost in it for days. Weeks. Forever.
We sagged down onto the bed together and panted, spent and messy in the most perfect way imaginable.
15
Ben stuckhis head into the bar manager's office on the first floor. "Boss, there's a couple of cops here to talk to you." The expression on his face clearly said what he thought of that. If it was up to him, he wouldn't let them in. Truthfully, that would have been my preference too, but it was easier to deal with them and their suspicions than to brush them off and have them sniff around later.
I nodded. "Show them in." I wished they would call ahead so I could wear something more… distracting, but a deep red, silk blouse with a plunging neckline, and a black skirt with a slit halfway up my thigh, would have to do. Yeah, sometimes I wear colours other than white, and this outfit would make most guys’ eyes pop out.
The male cop who stepped inside was evidence of this, but of course his partner was a woman. She had that 'I am not going to be so easy to impress' expression on her face. So many people looked like that when they first met me. Like the rest of them, she would learn.
"I am Detective Ian Gilbert, and this is Detective Fiona Singh." He was at least in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and faded blue eyes. To his credit, he tried to keep his eyes on my face. Every so often, they would want to down to my cleavage and linger there for a few moments.
"We’d like to ask you some questions," Singh said. Her gaze was firmly fixed on my face, eyes narrowed like she thought she knew what I was up to.
She didn't have a fucking clue.
"Of course." I rose and shook both of their hands, but took just alittlebit longer with Gilbert.
His cheeks flushed.
"Please, take a seat." I sat and waved toward the chairs on the other side of the desk. "Whatever you need, I'll help as much as I can." And if I couldn't, I could always help them to the bottom of the harbour.
"You were a witness to an explosion." Singh crossed her arms over her chest.
I kept my expression icy calm. No wonder they struggled to solve cases. That was three fucking days ago. If I could, I would laugh.
Instead, I sighed. "I was near the newspaper stand when it blew up. It was terrible. I've never seen anything like it." Not onthatday. I've witnessed plenty of carnage in my time. This one barely rated a mention.
"Why have you not come forward to give us a statement?" Singh asked.
I feigned ignorance. "Oh. Was I supposed to?" And say what, exactly? The stand was collateral damage in a pack war? They wouldn’t buy it, even though it was true.
"You want to help us find out who did it, don't you?" Gilbert asked. He was obviously trying to appeal to my sense of justice, but he wasn't going to achieve it by talking to me like I was a kid.
I gaped at him. "You mean it wasn't an accident?" Like hells it was. I put a hand over my mouth. "How awful. Why would anyone do that?"
Because Alistair Dagen was a motherfucking piece of shit, that's why.
"That's what we'd like to find out," Singh said. "We're trying to get to the bottom of it. That's why we need statements from everyone involved."
"Involved?" My eyes widened. "You don't think I have something to do with it?" I looked toward Gilbert as though pleading with him to believe me.
"No," Gilbert said quickly, his hand outstretched toward me. "But we need to find out who was. You want to help with that? Right?"
I wanted to stab him in the eyeball with a fork if he kept being so condescending.
"Of course I do," I said honestly. "All those poor people. They deserve the truth. Their families must be beside themselves wondering what happened. And why." I thought back to the hours, days after my parents were murdered. I thought I knew the answer to those questions, but the more time passed, the more I realised the situation was much more complex. It was about so much more than just my parents. Power struggles were rarely about individuals. People like me just got caught up in them.
