CHAPTER 13

I stare at the dark television for ten minutes. This solves nothing. I check the sliding glass door that leads to my very small patio. It has a broken broomstick in the bottom rail so it can only slide open after removing it. The locking mechanism, which I check too, is a piece of crap. I head to the front door and lock it. I walk to my bedroom to go through my pre-sleep ritual. After a quick shower, I slip into one of my large shapeless tees. Brushing, flossing and moisturizer are next.

I lie down in bed and turn off the lamp. When I close my eyes, I picture Moon—his reticent smile, his intense eyes, and his sexy as hell bod. My girl parts are ramped up and it’s all Moon’s fault. With a groan, I roll over and grab the purple wonder from the drawer beside my bed. I hit the switch and then lift and spread my knees. I place the vibration against my clit. The purple wonder twirls and vibrates, hitting the spot perfectly. I slide it through my folds and back to my clit while imagining Moon doing this to me. I’m getting close and that delicious tingle centers between my thighs. The purple wonder slows. “No,” I groan. Then the damn thing dies. “Son of a bitch,” I yell in frustrated anguish. This seriously cannot be happening.

I hate Moon. Hell, I hate all men.

I hit the vibrator against the palm of my hand to try to shake the batteries into giving a bit more juice. Fuck, the damn thing is dead. I consider shooting it. “Okay, relax,” I say out loud. I place the vibrator back down against my swollen lips and think about Moon again. I’m wetter than shit, and a few smooth glides later—nothing. I’ve lost it and I was so close. I huff out a frustrated breath and then a groan.

I roll out of bed and head into the kitchen to search the junk drawer for batteries, muttering the entire time. “Fuck Moon. Fuck my vibrator, and fuck my life.” I pull half of the contents of the drawer out and can’t find a single fucking battery. I stomp to my desk and scrounge through each drawer. I find one triple A, but I need double A’s. I peer around the room in desperation and spy the two remote controls. The black plastic has a lip that says Press above it. I press. I slide. I break a damn fingernail before the back slides off. It’s the controller for the DVD player and of course, my bad luck holds because it has triple A’s. In a tantrum, I throw it against the wall. If the damn thing would have bounced close enough, I’d have stomped on it.

I eye the satellite remote. It’s my last hope. I pick it up and the back slides off easily. I strike gold, though it contains only two batteries. I’m a battery short, but this should work for one uncomfortably delayed O.

I insert the two semi-new batteries with one old. I lift my leg to the couch and bury all six inches of purple pleasure where I need it most before turning it on. I don’t fuck around this time. I imagine it’s Moon shoving his cock inside me while his fingers work my clit. I think about the fathomless pit of his eyes and the smile that stretches the scar on his lower lip. It takes two minutes before an orgasm washes over me. I stand with my leg hiked up feeling absolutely no shame that I was too frustrated to return to my bedroom.

My orgasm high cools down fast. Too fast. I’m hot and sweaty again, but too tired to take another shower. I am so pissed off at Moon. No man should bring you to losing your mind over dead batteries. I storm back into my bedroom and place Mr. Purple on the nightstand as I slide between the covers. He proceeds to roll to the floor, and I don’t even care. I fall asleep after a quick mental note to buy more batteries.

***

My head is pounding when I wake up. I barely slept. Worse, I’m horny, and I’ve decided that I’m not taking the risk of having the batteries expire on me again. Moon is turning me into a nympho after one short kiss. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sex. I just usually prefer the purple wonder over an actual man. Little mess and easy to walk away from when I’m satisfied. Add in no drama and my toy makes the perfect boyfriend.

In the light of day, I’m rather flustered that my orgasm didn’t rock my socks the way it should have. My sexual craving seems to be for Moon, but that is not gonna happen.

I decided sometime during my sleepless night that I was done with Moon and would stick to my guns this time. I’m behaving like a man and allowing a pretty body to keep my mind off the fact that he’s bad news. I laid awake with my mind on two things. One is dumping Moon’s ass before he gets any further ideas. The other thing I dwelled on is Moon’s first name. I racked my brain. I know someone mentioned it one day. It was an odd name for an odd man.

Now that I’m awake, I let those thoughts go. It’s more important to discover how Moon entered my apartment. If what I suspect is true and he duplicated my key, I need to change my locks. Regardless, there will be no more dates—forced or otherwise—with the incredibly hot thug who left me high and dry last night. This fixating on Moon will stop.

To take my mind off Moon, I work on my embezzlement case. I’m pretty sure I’ve found the guilty party; I just need to back up a few things first. I call my dad and ask if I can e-mail the spreadsheets to him. I’ve struggled through the numbers for days and think I finally found a pattern. Dad’s my ace in the hole and he’ll see it right off.

“Hey, Mak,” he greets me. Only my mother calls me Madison. Dad started the whole Mak thing when I was a baby. He didn’t like it when people referred to me as Mad or Maddy. He wanted a boy and says having me was the luckiest day of his life. Mak stuck.

I explain my case, ask about the Florida weather, and ask about Mom.

“You got time to talk to her?”

“No, tell her I promise to call in the next few days.”

Dad understands this because Mom harps on everything. She means well, but if you don’t have time to talk, she’s the last person you want to be stuck on the phone with. I disconnect and e-mail the documents to him. I take my shower and head out the door into the hothouse known as Phoenix.

I stop by the grocery store and pick up some dog treats and a pint of Jack. I also hit Micky D’s for two Big Macs before heading to Sunnyslope. Driving through the back streets where I worked patrol is hell. Melancholy swamps me. I miss the cop life so fucking much.

Within five minutes, I locate Cucumber Bill. One Big Mac and the pint of Jack is for him. I met Bill when I busted him for snagging a pint from the local convenience store. He did three months, and I felt so guilty about leaving Big without his owner that I decided to find a temporary home for him. Bill isn’t all there mentally and hasn’t been for a long time. I’ve seen shoplifters walk away from court with a slap on the wrist. Bill was one of the unfortunate ones who had a sucky lawyer and a prior.

Bill is sitting in the shade cast by the side of a building on a pile of flattened out boxes to keep his ass from burning on the hot pavement. Big is snuggled up beside him with his head buried between Bill’s shirt and the wall. An old filthy towel covers Bill’s head. He’ll go to the park in the late afternoon and stay there as long as he can. It gives Big a chance to roam. I’m catching them both at naptime.

I park about ten yards away and approach slowly. I disregard Bill’s stale scent. “Hi, Bill, how are you? Remember me, Mak, kinda like Big Mac?” He watches me from beneath the towel. I’m holding a gallon of water, the McDonald’s bag, and the plain brown paper bag all in my left hand.

Strong hand empty—always. I plan to never break the habit. I hold the heavy weight up with my good arm and get the, “Yea, yea, yea,” I desire.

I place the items on the ground a foot away so Bill can reach them. He decides when to look inside the bags, not me. He immediately scoops the bags up and moves them closer. I crouch down. “How’s Big?”

“Sokay,” he mumbles.

“One of those Big Macs is for Big and one for you. I hope you’ll eat it, Bill.”

“Sokay.”

“You want me to wet down the towel for your head?” I ask gently.

He takes it off and hands it to me. His arm is coated in filth, the skin rough and patchy. The towel smells worse than he does, but I expected that. I don’t see lice crawling on it and it wouldn’t matter if they were. It’s part of the job—never let them see your emotions unless it’s calculated. Keep a level tone and take disgust and fear out of the equation. I wet the towel with the bottled water and hand it back. Bill puts it over his head and peers from under it again.

“I’m looking for some street info, Bill. Have you heard about bad things happening in the neighborhood?”

His body goes tense. I wish I could see his eyes. I leave the question hanging without rushing him. Finally, he responds, “No good, yea, yea, yea, no good.”

This is actually more than he usually gives me. “What’s no good, Bill?”

“Bad, bad. No good. Yea, yea, yea.”

“What about Kennedy? You hear anything about Officer Kennedy?”

Bill moves fast. He picks up his items from the ground and places them in his shopping cart. He puts Big in the cart too. I don’t say a word when he takes the water, booze, and McDonald’s bag. I back up and watch him wheel the old squeaky cart away.