Squatting, one foot slightly back to steady herself, her knees creaked as she went down.
She’d used Witt, gotten off on the power. He’d wanted her to touch him willingly, without an ulterior motive, and the first time she did, she sucked the power out of him. Oh yeah, she was definitely not at her best in backseats.
She should have told him how badly she wanted to do it all again.
Picking up the bills one by one, she then reached beneath the Lincoln for the last that had drifted there. She stretched, arched, skinned her knee, and put a hole in her stocking. A run raced down her leg, the trail of it like a finger. Then she rose, smoothed her skirt, her hair, and opened her bag for her lipstick and mirror. Crimson smeared on her mouth and below her lips. She did a repair job—like any good hooker would—then headed for the bank of elevators, ignoring the run in her stockings since she could do nothing about it.
She’d reveled in that momentary power boost, but that was thing about drugs. You always came down off the high with a slam.
The green carpeted lobby was almost deserted, populated only by two desk clerks and an old man crossing with his cane. A medley of music, laughter, voices and the chink of glass washed in from the bar. Max headed for it.
She saw Hammerhead first, at his usual table by the door. Seated in the center of the barroom, Angela had found herself a pigeon, a fat, middle-aged loser with thinning hair and, probably, good cash in his wallet.
Max had good cash in her purse. She sat in the nearest chair, only inches from Hammerhead. Sickened by his too-strong cologne, she counted out his share of the bills. Witt had gotten hundreds, but she’d taken twenties from the machine.
“Not here,” Hammerhead hissed, looking around.
“Here,” she answered. “I need change for a twenty.”
He hiked a hip, yanked out a thick black leather checkbook, and handed her two tens.
Max pushed him a stack topped with one of his ten-dollar bills and the keys to his Lincoln. “Two-fifty. That’s your half.”
Hammerhead dipped his head to peer into her lowered gaze. “I love that tear in your stockings. Really got down on your knees for him, didn’t you?” Silence, then, “Did you like it, Max Starr?”
“Fuck you, Mr. Hammerhead.” Then she rose slowly, left the bar without a single glance at Angela and finally pushed through the front doors into the cold damp night. Yeah, yeah, she should have gone back to Angela for her information, but Max found she didn’t have the energy. At that moment, she didn’t care who had killed Lance La Russa. Maybe tomorrow, after she’d slept. Maybe later tonight, after she’d brushed her teeth and extracted Witt’s taste.
A beefy hand grabbed her upper arm.
Witt. Trailing her like a hound dog.
No one stopped him as he half-dragged her from the Embassy’s entrance. A valet parking attendant glanced their way, but didn’t move a muscle to help her.
Witt pulled her deep into a stinking alley at the side of the hotel and shoved her up against a concrete wall. She saw his face for the first time. Lines marred his forehead and mouth. His true blue eyes glittered with intent. And heat.
“Now it’s just you and me, Max. Wanna blow me without the audience?”
Ah, his turn to extract the pound of flesh. “Didn’t you get enough in the car?”
“I’m thinking maybe you didn’t get enough. After all, I was the one who came.”
She didn’t tell him about her spontaneous orgasm as he filled her mouth. “Why don’t we talk about this at my place?”
“Here and now, or not at all. That’s your choice.”
She should have struggled as he lifted her and spread her thighs to accommodate his big body. Instead she wrapped her legs around his hips and let her purse drop from her shoulder. It landed with a loud plop.
“Fuck you,” she whispered, the venom in the words never making it to her heart. If he wanted a fight, she’d give it to him, but he could take her without it.
Witt rammed hard against her.
Moisture soaked the already damp crotch of her bodysuit. She put her arms around him. A urine-infested alley wasn’t the most appetizing place for what he had in mind, but he had a point to make. He said she never gave anything in return. This time she would give him what she thought he wanted.
“Tell me what you want? A cock in your mouth or a fuck.”
“Drop dead, Long.” She wouldn’t make his eventual victory too easy. Or he’d see right through it. He’d like it better if she tussled a bit.
He backed off enough to reach between them, turning his hand against her. The snaps of her body blouse tore free. He entered her with two rough fingers. She almost creamed all over him.
“It’s payback time, Max. How badly do you want what I’m offering?”
She rode his fingers, wriggling so that he slid across her clitoris. “I can take it or leave it.”
He looked down at her, his harsh breath caressing her cheek, his eyes suddenly a deep blue she could see even in the gloom. “Then tell me to stop, Max, and I will.”