Evil to the Max (Max Starr, #2) by Jasmine Haynes
Prologue
The music vibrated in her chest and puckered her nipples against the tight tank sweater she wore. She couldn’t hear herself think, didn’t want to. A gaggle of girls on the hairy edge of the legal drinking age passed in front of her. They pointed, giggled, and whispered. Like teenyboppers.
For a moment, she envied their innocence.
When she looked again, her quarry made his move. She turned, fingering the heart-shaped locket around her neck, and watched his approach in the mirror behind the bar.
“Wanna dance?”
His voice thrummed through her. Deep. Heavy with sexual innuendo. He smelled of soap, fresh laundry, and aroused male. Dark hair a month past the need for a cut, a week’s growth of beard covering his chin, and eyes the color of hot fudge. Mmmm. She licked her lips. She adored hot fudge sundaes.
Garth Brooks faded into a Brad Paisley ballad. Slow. Just what she’d been waiting for. She slid off the stool and held her hand out to him. Weaving through the tables with him close behind her, his touch seared her wrist. Promising.
The floor was packed with dancers doing the Drifter. They joined in, her back to his front, not a breath of space between their bodies. He was already hard. She was already wet. Looking over her shoulder, she slid her hips across his erection. His nostrils flared.
Undulating dancers brushed against her. Laughter, voices, and pounding music insulated them in the center of the dance floor. She followed his moves, let the rhythm of her breath match the pulse of the music. Fast. Hot. He caressed her without touching. They dipped, surged, and rolled with the beat. Then his hand wandered beneath her short black skirt, across her thigh, then slipped along her center.
She’d left her panties at home. “Do it now,” she whispered, and placed a hand on his zipper.
“Jesus,” he murmured on an exhale. “Christ. This isn’t such a good idea.”
“You have to.” She seduced with a flexing of her butt muscles.
His finger trailed moisture along her thigh as he withdrew. His arm tightened beneath her breasts. “Not here.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her from the dance floor. Dragging her down a short hallway ripe with the scent of sweat, he pushed open a door. Men. Lots of them. Bright lights. Stained white urinals. Shocked stares.
He pulled her into the second stall, closed the door, and backed her up against the cool metal. So good against her hot flesh. He sat on the toilet, shoved his hands roughly beneath her skirt, then rubbed his thumb against her clitoris. Looking down at him, she bit her lip.
Outside the stall, speech returned. Murmurs. A quick burst of embarrassed laughter. She fed on every sound.
He raised her skirt and put his tongue to her. She hooked a leg over his shoulder to give him better access, braced herself against the locked door, then moaned out loud.
Someone cheered.
He went down on her in earnest.
She came in a blinding flash. Crying out, she shuddered against his mouth, locking him to her with her hands in his hair.
A chant rose outside the stall, “Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her.”
He stood, turned her against the door, spread her legs, and took her from behind. She came again on the second thrust and didn’t stop until he’d unloaded deep inside her.
The riot started when she opened the stall door.
Chapter One
Max Starr stopped in front of his desk and planted her hands on her hips. “I think I know where another dead body is.”
Detective DeWitt Quentin Long laid his head on his folded arms and cried like a baby.
The clatter of computer keys stopped abruptly. A phone no one bothered to answer rang shrilly. Four pairs of male eyes bored into her back. Noisy hall traffic faded out.
“If you have to do that, can we go somewhere private?” she whispered. Max started to sweat in her black slacks and blazer. The embarrassment almost made her forget the horror of her vision.
Not.
She’d never forget the image of the couple in that restroom stall, the sound of men ranting outside, and then ... the woman’s pain, so thick Max could feel it tighten across her own chest and crush the bones of her face. She took a shuddery breath.
Witt didn’t look up. His broad shoulders shook.
The stuffy detective pen smelled like dirty socks, and the overhead lighting turned Witt’s blond hair a ghastly shade of yellow. Three of the suits had risen from their chairs, moving closer to eavesdrop. So close, she smelled their coffee breath blowing down her neck.
“Hey, this is getting ridiculous,” Max hissed.