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I hand in my badge and Mary signs me out. Once in the vestibule I say goodbye to Fred and promise him a couple of signed paperbacks. Mary hands him the note Jennifer left me and orders him to send it on to forensics to check for prints. She’ll set up a case file tomorrow. Fred tells her he’ll take care of it right away.
Then he says, “Nice meeting you in person, Mr. Jordan.”
“Call me Martin,” I say. “We’re friends now.”
Outside, Mary and I get back in my truck. Again, she insists on driving which is just fine by me since she can legally speed while I drink another, pre-sex beer, which can be one of the best beers of the night. I pull one off the plastic ringlets and pop the top. Taking a deep swig, I feel the goodness of the alcohol going to work on my system right away. I also dig into the plastic bag for a now cold but still delicious wing.
Mary shoots me a look while we cruise through the night.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not touching any of yours.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she says.
“Then what’s the problem?” I say. “Besides the obvious Jennifer crap.”
She grins out the corner of her mouth and turns back to the road which is a good thing since a deer could pop out of the woods at any second and ruin my truck and the remainder of my night.
“It’s just that you seem to be having sort of a good time with all this,” she says. “Most people would not only be entirely annoyed over being stalked by an apparently deranged fan, but they’d be afraid. Paranoid even. For a man who’s been diagnosed with acute anxiety, you seem to be taking it all pretty well in stride.”
I’m done with the wing, having stripped it bare of all its delicious, tangy meat. I also wash it down with another drink of cold beer.
“You wanna know the honest truth, copper?” I say.
“The truth is what I’m all about,” she says.
I could mention something about her keeping our affair from her husband which sort of makes her a hypocrite, but I decide to let that one slip since we’re only about a minute from the farm and what I assume will be some much-needed physical relief.
“I really believe my writer’s block is over,” I say. “I think this whole experience is giving me the fodder I need to write a new, exciting, thriller. Something I can kick Stephen King’s ass with.”
She releases a chuckle.
“So, you want to kick Stephen King’s ass, is that it?” she says. “You want to know what I think, bestseller?”
“I’m your loyal servant,” I say.
I can see the exterior lighting that illuminates the farmhouse, but also the several buildings that occupy the property. The farm has really become a big part of my life over the many years I’ve owned it and written many stories and books there. It’s going to be a real shame when I have to give it up. What’s even worse, it will probably sell to the highest bidder who will subdivide the property and erect a couple dozen McMansions for some New York City transplants to use on the weekends. Oh well, the price of progress.
Mary taps the brakes and turns into the driveway.
She says, “I think when it comes to writing, it’s a zero-sum game for you.”
“What’s that mean exactly?” I ask.
“It means that in order for you to succeed, somebody else has to fail,” she says. “My guess is that being an author isn’t a zero-sum game at all. In fact, someone could read one of Stephen King’s books and maybe a bookstore owner, or a reader on Goodreads might suggest they also read your stuff.”
She pulls the truck all the way up the drive and into the barn. She stops the engine, and pulls the keys from the ignition, handing them back over to me.
“I guess kicking Stephen King’s ass is a bad idea,” I say.
“You’re not competing with him or any other author,” she says.
“How come you’re always going on about getting ahead of one of your colleagues in cop land?” I say.
“Cop land is different from the writing trade,” she points out. “It’s most definitely a zero-sum game. There are only so many positions to be filled, and I intend on climbing the ladder as far as I can possibly go.”
“And using your pert size Cs as a weapon,” I say with a wink.
“Grab the stuff,” she says, “and let’s head for the studio. I’m suddenly feeling very wet.”
“Like I said,” I say, opening the door, sliding out, then grabbing the beer and the take-out bag of chicken wings, “I am your humble servant who’s sporting a hardon that just won’t quit.”
Closing the door with my booted foot, we make our way out of the barn to the writing studio. I use my free hand to unlock the door. Once inside, Mary gets comfortable on the couch, while I set the beer and the wings on my desk beside the laptop. I immediately go to the stove, open the door with the metal rod, and toss in two more pieces of dry apple wood. The wood takes right away. Within two or three minutes the studio will be toasty. But Mary and I are already hot for one another.
I go to her and kiss her hard on the mouth. I pull off her leather jacket and start unbuttoning her blouse. She takes over for me, while I sit down beside her, and remove my coat, and my pistol which I set on the wooden coffee table. I undress as quickly as possible feeling the still cool air on my bare skin. When Mary is down to her panties and bra, she allows me to remove them, slowly, which provides me with real pleasure.
Reaching around her back with both my hands, I kiss her again and unsnap the bra, allowing it to drop from her considerably hard breasts. Her nipples are entirely erect and staring me in the face. I use my mouth on each one of them, nibbling gently with my teeth, but sending just enough pain throughout her system for her to begin moaning. Hurts so good, I guess you could say.
She takes hold of my hard cock and begins to stroke it slowly at first, but then faster and faster. She pushes me back against the couch and drops to her knees on the wood floor. She takes me in her mouth and begins to work me like a pro with her entire mouth, skillfully using her lips and tongue to make me absolutely crazy.
When she gets me to a place where I know I can’t hold out much longer, I lean up, grab her by the arms, and pull her up onto the couch. Laying her out, I place my face over her mid-section. When she spreads her legs, I go to work on her with my mouth. I lick her hot wetness until she is throbbing and thrusting her hips. She’s moaning even louder now as the fire in the stove erupts into a white-hot inferno. We’re both working up a sheen of sweat when she whispers, “Fuck me, Martin. Fuck me hard. Fuck me now.”
I don’t hesitate to place my body in position, allowing her to take hold of my hardness and carefully place it into her hot, heavenly space. I begin to work her slowly, thrusting my hips against hers. I place her legs over my shoulders, and enter her even more deeply, causing her moans to become gentle screams. We then begin to go faster and faster still. I kiss her hard and I can tell we’re both coming to that wonderful place together.
When it happens, we both release like nothing else in the world matters but that single moment in time. She and I are together and in love and holding one another so tight, I feel like our bones might break. I’m inside her and she’s inside me and we’re just one individual at that point. It seems so brief but also so very long. When we’re completely emptied and exhausted, we attempt to share the couch like it’s a bed, but it’s too narrow. I kiss her lips once more and stand.
Going to the desk I open another beer for me and one for her.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking, bestseller,” she scolds, but I can tell she’s not in the mood to argue her point. She’s too relaxed and in love for that.
Instead, I hand her the beer, then go to the take-out bag, and pull out both boxes of chicken wings. I pull one of the two black iron skillets hanging on the wooden wall, pour all the cold wings onto it, and set the blue cheese and veggies to the side. I then place the skillet on the wood stove’s flat top—an area designed for cooking food (I paid extra for this little rustic convenience since, at the time, I had a little more scratch in my pocket than I do now). Opening the metal door with the metal rod, I grab another piece of wood.
“Whatever you do, don’t burn your dick, Martin,” Mary says from the couch, where she’s now got a blanket covering her.
“I’m an expert at this, love,” I say.
“Oh, does that mean the cat plays when the cute little police mouse is away?” she asks.
“I think you know the answer to that one,” I say.
While the wings reheat and fill the cabin with a sumptuous aroma, I grab my beer and sit myself down on the couch beside the cop. Setting the beer on the wooden coffee table, I place my T-shirt back on, and my boxer shorts. Then, picking my beer back up, I raise it to make a toast.
“To the cop,” I say, “who cares deeply about my health and my well-being.”
She touches my can with hers.
“Just doing my job of protecting and serving, sir,” she says.
“You also give a mean blow job,” I say not without a wide grin.
“I’ll drink to that,” she says.
Together, we sip our beers like there really is something to celebrate.