The Hard Bounce - [45]

Softly, she pressed her lips to my mouth again. Her kisses became firmer as she slid me back onto the bed. I moved my hands down to the small of her back and pulled her to me, pressed her tight against me.

She traced her hands under my shirt, fingers working their way up my stomach to the mass of scar tissue on my chest. I tensed self-consciously. She paused when she reached the lumpy concave over my heart.

I waited, eyes closed.

She didn’t ask.

Instead, she kissed me even harder as she pulled my shirt over my head.

My hands explored the soft skin under her clothes. For the first time in days, the rot in my heart and mind was melting away rather than building. The ache in my spirit washing away, overwhelmed by want… by my need for her.

No dead girls.

No knives.

No bad things.

The phone on her nightstand rang.

“Don’t answer it,” I said, hoping it wasn’t the booty call she said she was kidding about. When the answering machine clicked on, I almost wished it was.

It was motherfucking Junior.

“Boo? You there? If you’re there, pick up the goddamn phone. This is important. Kelly? If he’s not there, I apologize. If you’re there, pick up the fucking phone!”

I cursed and grabbed the phone before he could continue. “What?” I hollered into the mouthpiece.

“Ah-ha! Busted!”

I swallowed a big gulp of murderous intent. “Three questions, Junior. One, how did you know I was here?” I’d never said a word to him about the other night or the kiss. And bar gossip (Audrey leapt to mind) would only have taken him so far. “Two, how did you get this number? Three, you’re an asshole. And four, what the fuck do you want?”

“You said only three questions.”

“Three wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.”

“Okay, Mr. Grumpypants. One, you must think I’m a moron. Two, you left her card on the desk. Three, you wouldn’t have me any other way. And four, we might have the son of a bitch.”

Ice water trickled down the back of my neck I spoke very slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“I think we got him, Boo.”

“Please tell me he’s not at The Cellar.”

Kelly put her hand on my shoulder. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

I answered her with a quick thumb-to-forefinger okay, even though I was light-headed, near hyperventilation. “Junior, please, please tell me he’s not there right now.”

“Wouldn’t that be a kick in the nutsack? No, but we got a line, brother.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Get back here and find out.”

“Tell me, Junior.”

“I have to leave some mystery, don’t I, player? Stuff your blue balls back in your Dickies and get over here.”

Click.

The phone went dead in my hand.

I’m gonna kill that little Irish fucker one day.

All in one blazing series of motions, I called for a cab, apologized to Kelly, then kissed her with a passion and energy I didn’t have five minutes before the phone call. After the longest ride of my life, I threw some money at the driver and hustled myself, blue balls and all, into The Cellar.

G.G. stood at the door with Junior. When he spotted me, Junior grinned like the dog that ate the cat that ate the canary. He opened his arms wide. “We got a clue!”

Without breaking stride, I kicked Junior square in the nuts. The top of my sneaker smacked with a pop against his crotch.

Junior groaned and flopped over.

“Damn!” G.G. jumped back, reflexively covering his own junk.

Junior rolled back and forth on the ground in a fetal position.

“Help me get him downstairs,” I said to G.G. We each hooked an arm under Junior and dragged him down the flight. The bands were done for the night, so we had the space to ourselves.

I went into the walk-in beer cooler and cracked myself a Boddingtons can. I didn’t really want to drink, but I was cotton-mouthed from the adrenaline dump. I also hoped the frigid air would bring down my half-erection still clinging to life and repress any urges to kick Junior’s package again. G.G. knocked on the door.

“I think he’s able to talk now. He stopped dry heaving.”

I walked out into night air that felt hotter than before. Junior sat atop the bar, jeans around his ankles and a bar rag filled with ice on his lap. He scowled at me and inhaled deep, slow breaths. “That was low, man.”

“You know what’s low, Junior? That fucking phone call.”

“But I had a clue.” He really sounded hurt.

“A clue could have waited until morning. Or at least an hour.”

G.G. spat a sunflower shell into a barrel. “Have you hit it yet?”

“That falls under none of your goddamn business, but no.”

“Were you about to?” He spat another shell and raised an eyebrow at me.

I shot him a scathing look. “The only fucking I got was from Junior when he called.”

The eyebrow went higher.

Junior threw his hands in the air. “So no blood, no foul. Jesus, you’ve been a sensitive bitch lately.”

“How did you even know I was there?”

“What am I, an asshole?” I had an answer, but he went on. “Every time her name comes up, your brain drifts off into Loveland. Doesn’t take Spenser to figure that much out, jackass.”

G.G. chuckled. “You do get all sparkly-eyed and shit when her name comes up.”

“Shut it.”

Junior continued. “So when you wasn’t nowhere else, I figured I’d give her number a try. And I was right.” His smug satisfaction was irritating.