He knew he shouldn't drive; the doctor hadn't cleared him for it yet, but Sam Vartann gritted his teeth and kept going. The Ford 250 wove in and out of afternoon traffic under his steady but urgent control as he increased his speed, and he kept an eye out for cops as he did so.
Sam growled to himself. Bad enough that he'd finally remembered where he'd seen Rafe before, but the sudden realization that the man now had both Portia AND Reggie with him was maddening. He swerved, going for the right lane and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself; flying off the handle never did a damned bit of good for anyone. Grimly, he slowed and looked for the Mesa Mall exit, trying to make himself relax.
Not really possible.
Sam's big hands clenched the wheel until his knuckles went white, and he thought back to the day Portia Richmond hired him.
Three years ago, he'd walked out of the Las Vegas Police Department, literally, his arms wrapped around a junky cardboard box full of his desk stuff. The back of his truck already held his locker gear and one lonely barrel cactus in a clay pot. Sam remembered feeling a quiet anger deep in his gut; the sort of resentful emotion that rises when you know you're right and the entire world is wrong but there isn't a damned thing you can do at the moment to change anything.
Sam Vartann had four commendations, ten years served and no job, all because IA had finally decided that while they couldn't prove that he was the one responsible for the thefts from the Evidence Locker, he'd been the last person there according to the paper trail, and the sheriff wanted a scapegoat to close up the investigation. Hell, he'd probably been ORDERED to wrap it up, and if that meant cutting the youngest detective from the squad, so be it.
And now all Sam had was an armful of office goods, a cactus and no clue about what to do next. He'd loaded the rest of his crap in and pulled out of the station, wondering if there was enough beer left in his fridge for a decent buzz. He'd gone nearly a mile on the highway and then the accident happened, five cars ahead and one lane over from him. An orange Chevy Impala had sideswiped a BMW while misjudging a lane change, and both cars had gone skidding to the shoulder. Sam's instincts took charge before he realized belatedly he had no authority; nevertheless he'd pulled up behind the two cars and climbed out.
Ugly scene. The Impala driver was swearing in Spanish, his machismo in full confrontational mode, his ego as scraped as the mural on his side door. Sam noted the man had welded a bowling trophy on the front as a hood ornament and the gaudy gold statue looked ridiculous.
The BMW driver was an elegant older woman who looked slightly alarmed at the man's blustering accusations. She was trying to talk him down, her fragmented Spanish clearly not up to the job.
For a moment Sam wished he had Vega with him—that guy could talk an earthquake out of shaking; in Spanish OR English. Moving quickly, Sam had stepped up and assessed the damage.
"Anybody hurt?"
That brought on a new barrage of accusations from the Impala driver, and it was only when Sam had moved to stand between the woman and the other driver that all of them had calmed down.
"Since you don't speak English sir, I'm going to request a bilingual officer. Ma'am, are you hurt?" It all came out instinctively, and Sam remembered the woman looking up at him with those bright green eyes.
"I'm a little shaken up, but fine, officer."
"Then it would probably be best if you sat down in your car while we wait for the police. Sir, are you injured?"
More Spanish, and this time Sam caught a hint of fear in the bluster. The man moved to climb back in his car, and Sam intercepted him; blindly the man threw a punch that missed.
Sam ducked and grabbed the man's wrist, spinning him around and managing to lock his arm behind his back.
"Sir, that wasn't too smart. Calm down—"
By then a black and white had rolled up, and two officers were out, moving towards them. One called out, "Geez Vartann—not even a day off the force and you're already assaulting people?"
That stung, especially coming from a lazy donut gulper like Mahoney. Fortunately Sam felt better when they searched the guy's trunk and found the four assault rifles and bags of pot. Not a major bust, but significant enough for the two patrolmen to give him grudging credit.
And later, when he went to check on the BMW driver, she'd looked at him forthrightly. "Am I correct in understanding you are retired from the police force?"
Warily Sam nodded; no point in explaining the difference between dismissed and retired. "Yes ma'am."
"Is it due to an injury or mental condition?"
God she was ballsy, and Sam fought a humorless chuckle. Whoever this broad was, she had nerve, that was damned sure. "No Ma'am."
"Good." And she'd handed him a card. He'd taken the thing and felt the weight of it, looked at the embossed letters in elegant gold script. Not a business card he realized; a calling card, like the old-fashioned ones his grandmother had. He looked at the name on it: Portia Richmond.
He blinked, feeling stunned. Everyone, EVERYONE in Las Vegas knew who Portia Richmond was. When he looked at her again, she winked at him.
"You're going to work for me, young man."
And that had been it. He'd been hired as her bodyguard that afternoon, given time to study and procure a concealed weapons permit and had been with Portia ever since. They'd gone to Ste. Moritz and the Virgin islands and Paris; he'd watched over her while shopping and dining and picking out tulip bulbs. Portia was smart and thoughtful, with a truly rude sense of humor at times, and Sam wasn't quite sure when she'd become more than just an employer to him, but she had.
And then there was Reggie, oy!
Sam remembered the day SHE had been hired with perfect clarity. He'd been shaving when the doorbell rang, and because Dolores and her sister never remembered their keys he'd stomped through the mansion to open the door, ready to launch into the familiar, exasperating argument.
He'd yanked open the door, his face covered in lather, his bathrobe barely secured. "You know, Dolores, if you can remember the code for the main gate, then it really shouldn't be that damned hard—"
"E-excuse me?" she'd asked, startled but after a second, amused. Sam remembered gaping at the Rubenesque, Titian-haired goddess standing on the doorstep. (He knew precisely what she was—Portia had insisted he take night classes to broaden his mind and Art Appreciation had been last semester.)
"Oh. You're not . . . Dolores. Or her sister," Sam remembered mumbling, caught between embarrassment and fascination, taking in the ample charms and graceful confidence of the young woman poised before him. She had a dimple on her left cheek; a perfect little dint for a kiss.
"Mr. Richmond?" she asked tentatively, to which Sam had shaken his head hard enough to send some shaving foam flying.
"No."
"Forgive him please—this is Samuel Vartann, my bodyguard. I am Portia Richmond, and you must be the candidate the agency sent over. Ms. Owens, I believe?" came the amused voice over his terry-cloth covered shoulder.
"Yes Ma'am."
Sam had made himself scarce from that moment, but the memory of Ms. Regina Owens's sweet smirk had been in his thoughts ever since.
He caught the exit and ruthlessly cut off a taxi, weaving ahead of it with barely any bumper space to spare. The garage was full, but as luck would have it a space opened up just outside the Macy's entrance and Sam took it, squeezing the truck in and parking it quickly. Startled shoppers along the thoroughfare moved out of his way, not wanting to get run over by the spiky-haired man with the big nose and the wild look in his eyes.
Sam thought hard over the itinerary—Portia was a woman of schedules, and if today was Wednesday, it meant she'd gone to the bank and the bookstore. He sped up, swinging towards the escalators, feeling his throat tighten a little at the thought of Rafe, or as he first knew him, Raymond. Thick-necked enforcer for Bruce Eiger, questioned once in the suspicious death of a couple of mid-level bookies six years past, never arrested.
Those bookies had gone out a fifth story window at the Tangiers, and the window had been closed at the time, Sam remembered grimly.
He looked up, to the second level and the top of the escalator, spotting a few clusters of people starting down the slanting ride to the ground floor, and immediately spotted Rafe with the two women. Sam ran, recklessly plowing through people, trying to keep his gaze upward as a numb fear blossomed in his gut.
As Sam watched, he saw Rafe motion Portia ahead of him and in that action understood exactly what the thug was about to do. One push, one hard shove and the brittle-boned woman would tumble fifty feet over the sharp-edged escalator stairs to land on the granite floor. At the very least Portia would have a broken hip, but it was far more likely she'd snap her neck, and the entire incident would all be chalked up as an unfortunate accident.
"Hey! Portia, get BACK!" he shouted, reaching the foot of the escalator, and frantically climbing the up the rising one. Annoyed riders glared at him, but Sam kept taking the steps two and three at a time. Rafe froze for a moment, then lunged. He pressed his big meaty hand between Portia Richmond's thin shoulder blades and shoved; she tried to grip the handrail, but the power of the man's push was too much.
She tumbled, her body clanking against the metal steps, and her startled cry echoed in the mall. Sam grabbed the rail and with a quick heave, jumped the handrails to land in the descending escalator. He ran up the ten steps and scooped, his big frame stopping her fall as he braced Portia against his arms and shins. She looked at him dazedly, and Sam saw the beginning of a black eye on her thin face. He crouched over her and drew his weapon, looking up to the top of the escalator, new fear in his gut.
Reggie!
Jesus, if he did anything to Reggie—
Rafe had one huge hand around her wrist and was trying to force her down the elevator too; people all over the second floor were frozen, watching the struggle. Sam helplessly tried to keep Rafe in his gun sight, but the escalator was still bringing him down, and Reggie kept shifting into the line of fire. Her hair had come out of its bun, and she was struggling hard.
"Let me GO!"
Rafe smacked her with his free hand, and the force of his blow made her head rock back; Sam growled. Suddenly, Reggie lashed out, kicking hard and when her high-heeled foot made contact every man in the mall watching winced. Rafe folded like a cheap briefcase, clutching his crotch and dropping to his knees. Reggie waited until he was nearly down to knee him in the nose for added measure.
Sam felt like cheering, but the escalator had reached the ground floor and Mall security flocked over to him, their radios out, along with the nightsticks. He bent and picked Portia up, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder as he did so; the frail woman clung to him, her expression frightened for a only a moment. Then she drew a shaky breath and spoke up. "Oh Sam! This is going to throw off my schedule completely, won't it?"
He grinned at her. "'fraid so, Ma'am."
Then Sam looked up to Reggie.
"I LOVE you!" he shouted. She blushed as shoppers on both the second and ground floor broke into spontaneous applause.
00ooo00
Maynard looked from one person to the other, his expression seriously confused. "So lemme get this straight . . . " To Miss Chocolate he murmured, " . . . you're not Macy Macdonald, " and to Grissom he continued, " . . . And you're not a cameraman—" looking over at Licorice and Jaw Breaker he finished, "—And they're not stagehands. Okay, so are you guys cops or something?"
"Or something," Miss Chocolate nodded reassuringly. They were all crowded into one of the dressing rooms, anxiously waiting for Licorice to finish connecting the camera feed to his laptop.
"So why don't we go LOOK for William?" Maynard demanded plaintively.
"Because first of all we don't know that he's missing, Maynard. Secondly, let's just say our . . . jurisdiction is a little different than that of the local law enforcement, " Grissom sighed. "Before we start breaking down any doors it might be worth a minute to see if what we're looking for is actually behind them."
"Can I ask you something, Donovan?" Maynard requested. Grissom arched an eyebrow and shook his head; the other man nodded, satisfied. "Yeah, it figures. That's going to break Shaft's heart you know—he was working up the courage to ask you out."
"Some things were never meant to be," Grissom sighed, not daring to look at Miss Chocolate. Jaw Breaker shook his head, trying not to grin.
"Maybe in the next incarnation, dude—we got a feed yet?"
"We've got . . . something," Licorice agreed, trying to lighten the screen a bit. The picture focused on a view of basement stairs, dimly lit. He nodded. "That's the view from next to the hidden door. Let me see if I can move the camera . . . "
It shifted downward, and Licorice focused the lens once more, making the smudgy footprints jump into focus. "Those big prints again. Looks like the roll of plastic's been moved, too."
"That's not good," Miss Chocolate murmured anxiously. Before she could say anything more, a shadow flickered along the picture and everyone leaned closer to look.
"God, you guys are like . . . FBI, right?"
"Not quite—" Grissom muttered. "That's someone toting a camera case. Okay, new plan, because now I don't think we have enough time to do this one by the book. Who's carrying?"
Licorice and Jaw Breaker nodded; Miss Chocolate did too. Maynard blinked, looking around, and Grissom drew in a breath.
"If we go in, they're either going to give up, or fight—we have them trapped to ground with no way out but through us. Given what we've seen, unless we can intimidate them from the first moment, we could be in for a fight. Against machetes."
Licorice cursed, low and heartfelt; Grissom nodded regretfully. Miss Chocolate perked up.
"That same factor could work in our favor. We've got enough chemicals here to make up a quick tear gas. Or a smoke bomb. That could give us the edge---some potassium nitrite and a fuel of some kind; sugar maybe--"
Grissom looked at her, feeling a rush of admiration and lust surge through him. Miss Chocolate caught his wide-eyed adoring glance and the hint of pink on her face was answer enough.
Licorice and Jaw Breather, who were still staring at the computer screen, missed the exchange entirely.
"That might work, yeah. Do we have any of that stuff around here?" Jaw Breaker murmured.
"The potassium nitrite's not a problem—There's a special effects lab over near the main office, and I'm sure they've got some. It's the sugar that might be hard to get in bulk," Grissom muttered.
Licorice glanced up at Jaw Breaker and the two of them grinned, then turned to look at Grissom. Licorice spoke up with a hint of embarrassment. "Oh, I think I know just where we can find mondo sugar, Griss."
Maynard blinked. "Now we're going to make smoke bombs? Just who ARE you guys?"
Miss Chocolate reached up to pat the gorgeous Viking on the cheek, her bracelets jingling. "We're the ones with the white hats, May. Let's go get some potassium nitrite, okay?"
He nodded and followed her out; Grissom spoke up. "If they're getting the potassium, then you two need to grab the sugar. I estimate it's going to take Steve and his buddies another fifteen minutes or less to get the camera ready and the set dressed for a slaughter. We have to move, guys—"
Licorice and Jaw Breaker were already at the door before he finished speaking, and Grissom turned back to the laptop monitor, sighing.
00ooo00
The phone rang and absently Catherine answered it as she cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear, trying to find a place to set the cookie tray down.
"Hello?"
"Hey Muggs," came the mild rebuke from her father. "Good to finally hear your voice . . . when are you coming home, honey?"
Catherine froze, biting her lip. She shot a furtive look around the kitchen, even though she knew she was alone, and sighed. "Hi Dad, good to hear you too . . . ummmm, I'm not sure exactly when I'll be back in Washington . . . Lindsay's having a good time here, and her next semester doesn't start for a while . . . "
"Really? That's funny, because I got the notice from Butterfield that classes begin next Monday, and the tuition was due at the same time. Anything you want to tell me, hon?"
"Dad . . . " Catherine began, and stopped. She set the tray down and gripped the little cell phone with both hands, feeling her mouth dry up a bit. "Right now . . . I just don't know, okay? Washington's been wearing me down . . . frankly I don't know how you keep up with it all."
"I keep up with it because I've got my best girl right by my side, helping me," came Sam Braun's mellow voice. "We both know that. Now if you need time, then take it, honey. I understand how stressful things can get, yes I do. But I've got a dinner party scheduled for next week, and if you're not here to give it that extra sparkle, then I'm going to be mighty disappointed, Muggs."
"That's . . . not a lot of time," Catherine replied numbly. Sam Braun chuckled softly.
"Oh you're resilient, hon. I'm sure all the shopping out at the Forum is keeping you in shape."
Catherine tried not to draw in a breath, and shifted the cell phone to her other ear. "You keeping tabs on me?" she asked, trying to sound light. For a moment the line was dead quiet.
"Oh Muggs, you know the answer to that. There isn't anything you and Lindsay do that I don't find out about . . . eventually."
"That sounds like a threat—" she blurted before she could stop herself. Sam Braun chuckled again, but this time there was a chill in it.
"Now, now—you're just overtired, Cath. Tell you what—I'll come on out to see you, Lindsay and Lily, and we can all fly back to DC once the weekend is over."
"Dad—" Catherine interjected, but the line went dead. She pulled the cell phone from her ear, gripping it hard. For a second, Catherine stood there, frozen . . . and then threw it, hard. The cell phone flew across the room, hit the far wall of the kitchen and cracked, the pieces scattering across the brick floor in a cascade of metal and plastic. Catherine bit her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting panic.
Moving quickly, she reached for the house line, but as she picked it up, she stared at the receiver and gently set it down again. For a moment she wavered, then carefully picked up the phone once more and quietly ordered a taxi.
00ooo00
Maynard watched in fascination as Sara deftly poured the sugar into the paint cans as Mr. Peppermint measured out the potassium and Jaw Breaker hefted the mini blow torch. Licorice had a cell phone out and was talking to someone in a low and serious voice.
"So what do you want ME to do?" he asked quietly, making it clear that non-participation wasn't an option. Sara looked up at him from through her safety glasses and sighed.
"Do you know first aid?"
"Yeah. Enough to get people stabilized, if that's what you're asking," he told her. Sara handed the two cans to Mr. Peppermint; he looked at Maynard appraisingly as he handed out bandanas to everyone.
"Good; we'll need you," he told him before covering his face.
They moved quietly down the stairs after Licorice picked the lock again, and this time there was more visibility. Voices carried in the stuffy storage area, and there was light shining from under the false door. Mr. Peppermint swung the two buckets and set them under the water heater, then motioned to Jaw Breaker with his chin.
The younger man lit the blow torch, knelt down and began heating the cans. Within a few seconds, thick strands of white smoke began to trickle out. Sara fanned, along with Maynard, and the smoke moved under the door; slowly at first, but in thicker tendrils as the cans of chemicals melted down.
Sara waited on the hinge-less side of doorway.
"What the fuck!" echoed through the thin plywood clearly, and a few seconds later the door burst open, making the water heater on it rattle when it hit the cans and knocked them out of the way. The first man out tripped over Sara's outthrust leg and fell, hard. Licorice leaned over him and dragged him out of the way.
A second later a familiar figure stumbled out, and before anyone could stop him, Maynard grabbed Steve Steele by the back of the neck and steered him in a hard arc against the wall, pushing him along, making his face collide with the bricks. Steve hit the wall with a solid 'thunk', groaned and slid to the floor in a greasy, sweaty pile. Smoke drifted everywhere now, thick and heavy.
From behind his bandana, Mr. Peppermint looked at the unconscious man briefly and then at Sara, who winked. Jaw Breaker was tying up the first man, and Licorice and Maynard were on Steve. Sara yelled into the darkness, her voice muffled by the cloth over her face.
"William?"
A very weak 'Yo' sounded back, followed by a groan. Mr. Peppermint rose and stepped in cautiously, Sara on his heels.
She could smell old blood in the darkness, a dank rotting scent, and bit back a gag. Mr. Peppermint was brushing the wall, looking for a light switch. He found it and flicked it on; instantly a sickly yellow light filled the small room, exposing the scene before them.
William Shafter and a young stranger were hanging by their wrists, the crudely knotted cotton rope looped through hooks on the ceiling. They were naked, and under their feet, plastic lined the floor. A camera had been knocked over, and the mechanical sound showed it was still running. Sara darted over the William and began to tug on his bonds.
"Mmmmmacy. Oh mmmmann my head hurts—" William whimpered. She noticed the thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and the dazed look in his eyes. The stranger shifted, his voice slurry and slow.
"¿Dónde está esto? Quiero ir a mi casa," The boy muttered. Mr. Peppermint had a knife and cut the rope as he slipped a supportive arm under the boy's bare shoulders.
"Come on, let's get you out of here—" came his quiet reply.
00ooo00
Steve Steele wasn't cooperative. He sat on an office chair with his hands cuffed behind him, openly sullen and silent. Mr. Peppermint sat across the card table from him with Jaw Breaker behind him; Licorice stood guard at the studio door, and Sara posted herself behind Steve Steele.
Maynard had taken William and the boy over to the First Aid station near the main office; he'd been told not to tell Fran the true situation just yet.
"Who are you making the movies for, Steve?"
"Nobody. I don't have to talk to you."
"Yes you do, Steve," Mr. Peppermint replied in a light, slow voice. He took a breath and asked again. "Who is paying for the snuff films?"
Steve rattled off a string of profanity that Sara stopped with a hard smack to the back of his head; infuriated, the man turned and glared at her. "That's fuckin' brutality! I want my lawyer to sue this bitch's ass right now! I know my rights, and you cops can't TOUCH me!"
Mr. Peppermint smiled, and instantly the room grew a little colder. Seeing his expression, so mild and merciless, made Sara shiver. Even Jaw Breaker shifted in reaction, though he stood behind Mr. Peppermint.
"We're not the police."
Steve blinked, uncomprehendingly for a moment. Mr. Peppermint leaned forward, his gaze bright under the studio lights.
"What the fuck—"
"We're not the police, Steve. We don't have Miranda Rights or the ACLU or IA holding us back." Very deliberately, Mr. Peppermint reached into his pocket and pulled something out, setting it on the table; a small Swiss Army knife. Carefully Mr. Peppermint opened it and unfolded the corkscrew from the collection of blades. He held it up and let the light glitter on the twisted curl of sharp metal.
"So if I decided to start twisting this into say, your ear . . . or maybe your nose . . . or right into the slit on the head of your worthless dick, there wouldn't be a damned thing you could do about, Steve."
The man blanched, his eyes locked on the corkscrew. He swallowed hard. "You're bluffing man . . . " came his uncertain voice.
"I wouldn't do your tongue until last," Mr. Peppermint pointed out softly, "Because I want you to be able to talk. Scream, actually. I need to know the name of the person you're so willing to take this incredible pain for, Steve. They must be paying you a lot. I hope they aren't going to let you suffer in vain."
"You're fuckin' inSANE!" Steve moaned, his eyes wide. He glanced at Jaw Breaker and then over his shoulder at Sara. "You can't let him do that shit to me!"
Sara forced herself to grin.
Mr. Peppermint was slowly stroking the corkscrew with thumb. "We could start with a few practice twists under your fingernails. It will bleed a lot, but we've got plastic down."
"Fuuuuucccck!" Steve sucked in a terrified breath, "Who the fuck ARE you maniacs?"
Sara held her breath as Mr. Peppermint gave a regretful little sigh. "Turn him around and get his hand on the table. We'll do this the slow way."
"No, No!" Steve yelled. Sara grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face her.
She bent down and gave him a pitying look. "At least you won't see it going in under your fingernail. Will that make it hurt more, or less?"
Steve struggled, and his words bounced around the room in sporadic blurts. "No! Don't know the dude's name! I swear, I just have a phone number, two oh two area code man! I get money transferred into my account and I DON'T KNOW THE DUDE!"
"Number?" Mr. Peppermint asked patiently. Steve blubbered out the phone number and his account number at Mesa West Bank, then trailed off, his expression wary. Mr. Peppermint nodded, and picked up the Swiss army knife again, folding the corkscrew closed.
He sighed. "So now comes the fun part, Steve. You're going to be held for a few days while we see if your story checks out. If it does, then we can let you go, with a few qualifications. If it doesn't . . . well, in that case there is a grieving family in Tejana Mexico who require justice for the murder of their son Esteban."
"Fuck," Steve moaned.
00ooo00
Later, much later, she found him stretched out on the bed in his room, arms behind his head, his gaze on the water spotted ceiling. He was in semi-darkness, and Sara paused in the doorway of their adjoining rooms, looking in on him.
"Hey," she murmured softly.
"I'm unclean . . . you may be better off avoiding me," came his soft, sad sigh. For a moment Sara hesitated, then she glided forward and came over to the bed. Gently she reached down and took his hand, tugging it.
"Come with me—" she whispered.
Sara brought him into the bathroom and carefully undid his shirt, not ripping buttons this time. Drained and still, he let her, standing forlornly there, bare-chested. She held up a tube of lipstick.
It was red; a luscious shade, a little darker than most. The shade of a cherry, rich and glossy. Very carefully Sara twisted and the peg of color rose up. She waved it to catch Mr. Peppermint's bleak gaze.
"You need an exorcism, " she murmured. "A little purging for that melancholy, and I'm just the woman to do it."
"Exorcism?" Mr. Peppermint echoed, the faint beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth. She nodded.
"Yes. You need kisses. You need proof of those kisses."
She slowly applied the lipstick, sweeping it over her mouth with casual expertise and the bloom of cherry on her mouth made Mr. Peppermint sigh. Sara coated her lips thoroughly and smiled as she set the tube down on the bathroom counter.
"Come here—" she smirked gently. Mr. Peppermint slid closer, but she ducked out from the embrace of his arms and stepped behind him, gesturing towards the mirror. She waited until he looked at their reflections there, and then slowly pulled her top off, and dropped it to the floor with his.
His eyes widened, the pupils darkening. Sara stepped up behind him. "Look at us. I'm going to kiss you . . . everywhere. Put your hands on the mirror—"
Mr. Peppermint did, and Sara leaned over his shoulder. Deliberately, she planted her mouth on the rise of his shoulder, and the lipstick left a mark like a wound. Under her mouth his skin was cool, and he shuddered at the heat of Sara's lips.
"Ohhh—"
"Shhhhh—" she soothed, and moved up the side of his neck. These kisses trailed up, the tracks of red in a glossy red prints to under his ear. Sara draped her chest against his back, the press of her breasts against his naked shoulder. Her hands slid around his waist to caress his chest, and she could feel the hard thud of his heart under her palms.
Sara kept kissing, leaving her mark along his cheekbone, and at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Peppermint was tensing under her lips; in the mirror the reflection of the blots of red against his pale skin were shockingly sweet. He turned his head, striving to kiss her, but she laughed, a womanly, husky sound and shifted to the other side of him, dragging her mouth along his ribcage and leaving a streak of softer color there.
She nipped, just under his armpit and he growled helplessly, pulling his hand from the wall and reaching for her, catching her in his arms and pinning Sara against the bathroom counter. Mr. Peppermint's face was half-painted in red lipstick as he yanked her face to his and kissed her, hard.
Sara surrendered, wrapping her arms around his neck and opening her mouth under his, savoring the hard plunder of his questing tongue. And then there were more kisses, smearing red along her cheeks and chin and in between the giggles and gasps and sighs of pleasure she felt Mr. Peppermint's hands cupping her bare back.
"I want to touch you—" he harshly whispered. "No, I want to taste you—"
"Unhhhhhnnnnn—" was all Sara could gurgle. The feel of his mouth along her throat had her quivering. Mr. Peppermint nipped under her chin, murmuring something and she nodded, eyes closed in bliss.
Carefully he tugged at her jeans, pulling them down in quick urgent tugs, shucking them from her hips and knees to pool at her slender ankles. He pushed her back a little, onto the counter and stroked her thighs. Sara looked at him as he began to kneel.
He should have looked ridiculous, smeared with lipstick, his hair tousled, but he didn't. Instead, the gleam of desire in his half-closed eyes, and the way he possessively stroked her bare hips make her moan. Sara reached for his thick grey curls as he parted her thighs to him.
Mr. Peppermint started his kisses along the insides of her knees and alternated them all the way up with excruciating slowness. Sara groaned again, and when his lips finally began to tease the downy softness between her thighs, she bit her lips, head lolling back against the cold tile.
It couldn't last, not with the tension that thrummed through her slender frame, not with the sweet slow licks and kisses driving her over the edge. Sara cried out, coming in tight delicious waves against Mr. Peppermint's tongue, her fingers gripping his silver hair hard, and her joy echoed against the old tiles of the motel, fading into the stillness of the desert night.
TBC