Evil to the Max (25 page)

She didn’t take umbrage; instead, she cringed inside. He was right. Bud Traynor had played her for all she was worth, pulled her strings like a puppeteer. “He knew I’d get to him eventually. But
why
did he want me to have that video?”

“You just witnessed a murder. All the evidence is there. Maybe he wanted to incriminate someone else.”

“Fat lot it tells us. They wore costumes and masks, distorted their voices.”

“There’s a helluva lot of answers there if you know how to look for them.” He tugged on her hand, forcing her to look at him. “They were women, Max. Couldn’t you tell by the way they moved? Two women killed Tiffany. They knew her, and she knew them. She recognized them the first time they spoke. You could see it in her eyes. They let the guy at her, but it wasn’t enough. They went for her themselves. This wasn’t just a snuff film; it was a malicious murder. Some psychic you are.”

So mild. So cutting. She deserved it. He had reached the end of his rope with her. Or perhaps seeing the aftermath every day didn’t compare with seeing the actual murder.

If he needed to take it out on her, so be it. She had the shoulders to bear anything. “We can turn it over to your buddies handling the case. Let them work with it.”

“We can’t do that.”

She trembled at the harshness in his voice. “Why not?”

“It’s not my case. You stole the DVD. If I turn it over to my so-called buddies, I can’t answer for what happens to you.”

The answer to that was simple. “Then I’ll break back in, put it back, and you can get a search warrant for it.”

“Go near the man again, and
I’ll
have you arrested.”

She bristled at his dictatorial tone. “You don’t have to know anything about it till it’s over. I’ll call you when you can move in on him.”

He slumped forward, his head almost touching his knees. She couldn’t be sure whether he laughed or cried. “You wear me out. This isn’t
Dragnet
. There’s the little problem of probable cause. We can’t get a warrant without a reason.”

It was like beating her head against the wall. She knew it all, had seen Cameron battle against the law’s protection of criminals. And Bud Traynor knew it, too. God, he had played her. But why had
Cameron
fallen for it? “Well, we can’t just let these people get away with it.”

Witt raised his head and stared at her. “Is that what you really think I’m going to do?” He sounded offended, as if she’d attacked his honor.

Well, she had.

He pushed the open button. The tray slid out. “I’ll take this to a guy I know. He’s an audio wizard. He’ll clean it up, and hopefully we’ll recognize those voices. At least we’ll know who we’re dealing with. I’ll evaluate where to go from there, maybe figure a way to give it to the leads without implicating you.”

He turned to look at her, chips of ice in his blue eyes. “And Max, from now on, stay the hell away from Traynor. Your obsession is fucking up everything. That man
will
get away with murder. And not in spite of you, but
because
of you.”

* * * * *

Baffled blue fabric walls. The salty taste of semen in her mouth. Max gagged where Tiffany had only smiled and asked for more. She opened her eyes, stared up at the Wolfman, and knew she was dreaming again. Ruthlessly, she went with it, licked her lips as Tiffany had done, smiled and assumed control, the way Cameron had wanted her to.

“Undo the handcuffs,” she purred.

He wanted to, she could see it in the slight movement of his body towards her and the glitter of his eyes beneath the hood. He wanted her, wanted more of her, wanted to bury himself inside her and scream out loud when he came. She had him right where she wanted him.

“Take off the mask,” she urged.

His hand rose to his hairy throat.

“No.” A scream pelted her.

She lost him. He moved away. The wolf’s head stayed firmly in place.

Something changed. Max watched, now as an observer. Something shifted, as if this was Tiffany’s version of what happened, as if, even in dying, she’d distorted reality.

“That’s enough. Get out. Now.” Dracula.

Tiffany had watched the figure from the corner of her eye even as she sucked wolf cock. Dracula. The one that needed to be unmasked.

Wolfman slinked away, tail between his legs, the heavy door closing behind him.

She didn’t expect the blow. Handcuffed, she almost fell off the seat. Rage, the same color as the blood that flowed into her mouth, consumed her. “You’ll pay fucking big time for this.”

Dracula laughed. “And who’ll make us pay?”

“Take the fucking mask off, you bastard.”

Dracula faded to the back by the wall, as did the laughter, and there was only Frankenstein to terrorize her. But she refused to be intimidated.

She watched the slap-slap of the baseball bat against its palm.

“Take off the fucking mask if you’re going to hit me with that thing, you goddamn coward.”

She didn’t scream with the first strike of hard wood across her chest. Pain exploded like hot flames, extending even to the nerve endings in her eyeballs. They pulled her upright. She didn’t scream with the second or third blow. She didn’t scream at all. She was stronger than that, stronger than they were.

Even as she died, she died without giving them satisfaction, without giving them her power.

But no one had removed their mask.

Max gasped, found she had not died with Tiffany after all, and drew a deep breath. She’d tried to unmask the killers, the way Cameron had told her. She’d failed.

Feeling came back to her battered body. The pain was gone; it had never really been hers. She was lying in Witt’s bed, his body nestled tight against her butt. Behind her closed lids, colors swirled in the darkness, a kaleidoscope of shifting, changing, bright and overwhelming colors.

Perhaps it was the colors that made Max think she was still dreaming, but it was the feel of his hard penis against her backside that made her decision. Fantasy, dream, reality, she didn’t care. She wanted Witt. Right here, right now. She’d let his dream touch wash away the visions of murder and the memory of Bud’s eyes on her breasts.

His hand was beneath the covers, outside her T-shirt. He swept fingers up, around, across, under her breasts. The bedclothes fell away from her.

“Ooh,” she murmured, making the throaty little noise he wanted.

“God, I want you,” he murmured into her hair. He fingered a nipple, the nub tightening beneath his touch. She burrowed against him, rocking gently against the hard ridge of penis.

“Make love with me, Max.”

She couldn’t say anything, because she’d have to tell him she didn’t know how. Instead, she showed him what she wanted. Taking his hand, she pushed it to the elastic of her panties.

He took it from there, slipping inside, running a finger across her belly. Tantalizing her. She lifted her leg and draped it across his thigh, opening herself to him. She almost came with his first touch on her clitoris. But she bit down hard on her lip, holding back, savoring the rough edge of his finger.

“Come for me, Max. Please.”

The hoarse quality of his voice reached inside her. She wanted him to want her badly, as badly as she wanted him. He gathered her moisture, then circled her clitoris. Heat welled up. Sensation climbed through her body. She reached back, pulled his head down, begging him without words to suck on her neck. His tongue stroked her, then the sting of his teeth. His finger never stopped as he swirled in her own wetness, driving her higher and bringing her closer. Her body moved against his, her backside caressing his cock.

“Do it again,” he whispered.

She knew exactly what he wanted. “Ooh.”

He arched into her, driving himself hard between her butt cheeks. His finger was relentless, the pressure, unceasing.

“Do it now. Come. God, please, I want you to come all over me.”

She was there, a hair’s breadth away, straining, moaning, rocking, wanting to go with him.

“Look at us.”

She opened her eyes to the mirror on the wall.

She stopped breathing altogether as she stared at herself.

Long, blonde hair spilled across the pillow and her breasts. Aqua eyes seduced with a look. Endless legs stretched against the length of his. She was beautiful.

Tiffany stared back at her from the depths of the glass.

She met Witt’s gaze in the mirror as his big hand moved inside her panties. She wanted to scream, to twist away, to hide. But Tiffany wasn’t done. She hadn’t even gotten started.

Fight her. Control your dreams. Rip their masks off. Cameron’s words echoed in Max’s head. And she wanted to, wanted to wish the mirror away, wanted to close her eyes and refuse to let Tiffany take over, to take Witt away.

As Max watched, Tiffany arched and purred like a feline, all the while smiling at the mirror, as if she knew Max was trapped inside. Her arm coiled around Witt’s neck, holding his face against her as he sucked on the flesh of her throat. Tiffany licked her lips, staring straight back into the reflection of her own eyes. Then she whispered, “He’s mine.”

“I’m yours,” he murmured back.

And Max lost the battle.

Tiffany rolled away, moved down to kneel at the side of the bed, and pulled him until she was between his spread thighs. “I’m the best you’ve ever had, the best you’ll ever have.”

Tiffany went down on him with a wide open mouth. He groaned. She triumphed. Another one bites the dust. He tasted like salted peanuts, and he was big. The longer it takes, the harder they fall, and he had taken such a long time to seduce. But in the end, she always won. He was hers now. He shoved his hands through her hair, swore and writhed beneath her hot, unrelenting mouth. She worked him, fingers on his balls, manipulating, massaging. She knew all the tricks. Knew how to keep them screaming for more until she tired of the game. Maybe it would take longer to get tired of this one. Oh my yes, such a huge one. Such fun. She felt his orgasm building, felt it in his harsh breath, the clench of his fingers in her hair, and the tension in his gut muscles.

Then he came like a power driver, shooting into her mouth, briny, viscous, lovely. She swallowed it all. It was power. It gave her strength. It weakened him.

He softened in her mouth. She let her lips slide along the length of him, tongued the tip, and felt him twitch.

He fisted his hands in her hair and twisted. Her scalp screamed at the insult. She heard him laugh. With his cock still in her mouth, her head immobile from his painful grip, she strained eye muscles to look up at him.

Bud Traynor laughed again. She saw her own reflection in his obsidian eyes. Tiffany was gone. It was Nadine Johnson who watched him with a wide, frightened gaze. “Bite me, bitch, and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

Max screamed, and kept on screaming even though one small part of her realized she was awake and lying on Witt’s couch.

She hadn’t heard him run down the hall, but his arms were around her. Her face mashed against his bare chest. Her mouth open, she tasted his salty flesh.

She wanted to scream again.

“It’s all right, baby,” he soothed, running his hands up and down her back. “It’s just a dream.”

Just a dream. A horrible dream. Chills raced along her body. Her fingers were cold and numb. She clutched him to her, weakened by the need to do so but unable to control it.

The worst part of the dream were the thoughts running through her head.
Do you want me? Do you want me more than her? Do you want me more than anyone you’ve ever wanted?

It was demoralizing. Pathetic. Needy. She’d have felt better, much better, if the part that bothered her the most was Bud Traynor’s black eyes.

Instead all she could hear was Witt’s voice telling Tiffany he was hers.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“No.” Fast answer. Very fast. Too fast.

“Might feel better.”

“I won’t.”

She wouldn’t admit to being jealous of a dead woman. Especially when Witt’s hands made her erogenous zones tingle. She pushed away, scrubbed an eye with the heel of her hand, and tried desperately not to look at his chest in the moonlight. “What time is it?”

Hand still on her shoulder, he flipped his wrist to look at the glowing dial of his watch. “A little after five.”

“Sorry I woke you.”

He trailed a finger down her arm, leaving a path of goosebumps. He definitely didn’t seem the least bit angry with her now. “I’m not.”

Uh-oh. Trouble brewing. She saw it in that blue spark in his gaze. She wasn’t in any shape to fight him off. She searched for a monkey wrench to throw into his thoughts. “There was one thing from the dream we should talk about.”

“Hmm?” He didn’t stop with the finger-trailing thing up and down her arm.

She knocked his hand away. “This is serious. It’s about Nadine.” As she said it, she realized it was true. Nadine in the dream
was
important. The most important thing of all. “At the very end, Nadine was with Bud Traynor.”

Witt, wearing a pair of black sweats, sat back on his haunches. “Yeah, so?” Off-hand words, yet his mouth tensed.

She turned on the table lamp. “Remember when I dreamed that other murder the night it happened, exactly the way it happened?”

He didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened. “How can I forget? It was only a couple of weeks ago, and at the time, it put you at the top of my list of suspects.”

“Yeah, well, I think this is another one of those dreams.”