We worked all morning, stopped briefly for lunch, and got straight back to work again. Detective Dunham was peeling back layers of the case, and history was revealing itself, like layers of paint and ancient wallpaper. Just when he thought he had his client Sheri figured out, we switched to her point of view for a chapter.
Sheri's back story included a difficult childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother was smart and worked hard, but their hold on a middle-class life was tenuous. As I typed the words, I felt a lump rising in my throat.
I didn't know how Smith knew, but he was telling me my own life.
In high school, I/Sheri fell in love with a teacher. Sheri's was a gym teacher, mine taught math. She'd fallen for his cunning lies and sad story about how his wife was cold and uninterested in sex, and this caused him to have an unbearable aching in his loins—an aching only a woman's touch would heal. They met after school, once a week. He picked her up at a skateboard park a few blocks from the school. They'd drive to an industrial area and he'd tell her how special she was as she performed o**l s*x on him.
Once, she'd worn red lipstick on one of their “dates,” and he'd yelled at her when he realized she'd gotten the lipstick on his underwear. He called her a dirty little whore and slapped her face.
On the drive back, she cried and cried. Instead of taking her home, he kept driving. She wondered if he was going to take her to a forest and strangle her, and she didn't care. Without him in her life, her days had no meaning. She sobbed until she was gasping for breath.
Bright, neon lights shone overhead. He pulled into a fast food drive-thru and told her to order anything she wanted, his treat.
He smiled at her, and she felt special again.
She felt …
I stopped typing. There were no more words.
Smith was absolutely quiet. I turned to find him sitting on a chair just behind me, his chin in his hand.
My voice shaking, I said, “Break time?”
“I think that's enough for today.”
“Are you sure?”
He got up from his chair and helped me to my feet. My legs were trembling, my knees unstable.
“Low blood sugar,” I said with a laugh. “I may need a pre-dinner snack so I can make it into town for the real dinner.”
He rubbed his forehead and stared down at the carpet. “We don't have to go if you're not up for it.”
“Of course I'm up for it!” I started walking out of the room and down the stairs, my legs getting stronger with each step.
A hike seemed like the perfect end to a day of writing—some physical exertion to clear the mind and restore the soul.
We didn't hike down on the same trail I'd come in on—the one with the murderous moose—but in another direction. That trail was longer, but would take us right into town, as opposed to the shorter trail plus a hike along the highway.
The dappled sun felt wonderful on my face. I'd put on sunscreen, as I always do when venturing outdoors with my fair skin, and it was just enough sun to feel good without threatening to burn.
Smith reached into my pockets and helped himself to one of the granola bars I'd brought.
“Glorified cookie,” he said as he unwrapped the foil.
“I'd rather have real cookies.”
He slipped his hand into my back pocket and squeezed my buttock as we walked.
“What's this?” I said, removing his hand. “Are we that familiar with each other?”
He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “This ass is mine for two weeks.”
“Excuse me? That sounds like something your womanizing detective would say.”
“And what would Sheri say?”
“She'd tell you to solve the damn case.” I stopped and stood in front of him, blocking his passage. I looked up and down his body, stopping on the crotch of his khaki trousers, then I reached down and grabbed him by the balls as I stepped in close. “She'd say, 'I hired you, Dunham. Your ass is mine.'”
Within seconds, he was firming up in my hand. I squeezed and played with his package, allowing that thick sausage of his to plump with excitement. I stroked along the shaft slowly, taking my time.
He leaned down to kiss me, but I turned on my heel and ran down the trail. I heard a twig snap and realized he was chasing me, not allowing me to put distance between us.
Adrenaline surged through my body and I ran faster. I didn't want him to catch me—not so easily, so I ran as hard as I could, jumping across the occasional puddle or fallen branch. I could hear his running shoes pounding against the ground, not far behind me. He was gaining on me.
I dodged to the right, off the trail, ducking between trees and under branches. I was panting now, running for my life, an irrational panic in my throat. I landed awkwardly after leaping over a stump, and went sprawling, my hands breaking my fall on the dried leaves and pine needles.
I struggled to my feet, aware of him closing in on me, his breath audible. I took two steps and he had me, his arms as strong as tree trunks, restraining me.
Crying out, I struggled to wriggle free. Even as I fought, he gripped me tighter, making escape impossible. I whimpered as he lowered me to the ground.
He was on top of me, his erection pressing into my hip bone. He sought my lips with his mouth, both of us breathing heavily. My hands were free, so I slapped him across the cheek.
His eyes widened, and he grabbed my arms, pinning them to the ground.
I whimpered as he kissed me again, and I went along, sucking on his lips and tongue, but then I twisted my head and bit him on the jaw.
He cried out in surprise and pulled away.
“Sheri, I'm trying to help you,” he said, still breathing heavily. “Someone was after you, but I scared him off.”
“Detective Dunham. I thought … I thought you were someone else. I was so scared.”
“You're safe now.”
“I'm not so safe with you,” I said, tilting my h*ps suggestively underneath him.
Still pinning my hands to the ground, he crushed his lips down on mine, smothering my moans as I writhed underneath him. I had leaves and dirt in my hair, branches underneath me, and I didn't care.
I wrapped my legs around him, squeezing him hard, my thighs like a vice grip. He let go of my arms to pry my legs apart. I fought him, squeezing his waist even harder, until he grabbed the flesh of my thighs between his fingers and squeezed hard.
I cried out in surprise and relaxed my legs. Now my hands were free, so I slapped him again, but playfully, not hard.
He thrust his hard bulge against the crotch of my shorts.
He growled, “Slap me again.”
I slapped the other cheek, harder.