She's Not There - Madison Marla (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗
After waiting in line an hour for the privilege, a man sat at the bar ordering a drink and thought it had better be worth it. Reflected in the mirror behind a bar running the length of the room, a face looked back at him—a face he’d yet to accept as his own. Sometimes it morphed into the old face—repulsively ugly.
He’d barely taken a sip of his drink when a red-haired woman leaned in and asked if he would call the bartender over for her. With no encouragement, she stayed glued to his side, boring him with idle chatter. Nauseated by the floral scent of her overpowering perfume, he had a mental flash of the bouncer tossing her out into the street where she’d land in front of a speeding truck. They should kick people out for being boring—or wearing tacky cologne.
Then he spotted her. At the far end of the bar, clutching a martini and swaying to the beat of the music, stood a woman he’d known in graduate school. And despised. The bitch had been one of the reasons for his intended life-ending plunge across the riverbank in the truck.
Nicole—hot, curvaceous and leggy in a shimmery blue dress. The dress and her long auburn hair lit up in flashes of color from the lightshow accompanying the band. He remembered the small bouquet of freckles adorning the bridge of her nose, delightful when she laughed. But she’d never laughed with him. Always at him.
Suddenly, she looked his way, smiling. He realized she had no way of knowing who she flirted with—would never recognize the man he’d become. An image flicked through his mind—a picture of her lying in the street next to the redhead—both of their bodies crushed, their lovely faces obliterated.
An urge to get her alone crept through him. He wanted to tell her things, show her things, do things to her. He wanted to fuck her so hard she’d scream for mercy. He watched as she went out on the dance floor, merging with the steamy mass of writhing bodies.
He ditched the redhead. And waited. He didn’t have to wait long before she approached. It had been so easy. Before he had time to buy her another martini she suggested they go to her place, only a short distance from the club.
Inside her apartment she put on music and poured them a glass of wine. As soon as he set down his wine glass, she was all over him. Within seconds, he’d grown hard, his breathing rapid. When she rose from the couch, leading him to her bedroom, he followed, practically panting. They had their clothes off in an instant. With none of the niceties of foreplay, they fell onto the bed and he pushed inside of her, thrusting with a frenzy of pent-up sexuality.
When he rolled off of her, he knew she hadn’t been satisfied. But before he’d caught his breath, she climbed on top of him, her breath hot on his chest as she nibbled downward. He gasped with exquisite pleasure when she reached her target. In the dim rays from a tiny nightlight, he saw her wild tresses drifting across his abdomen, her full lips making love to his cock.
Without warning, a hot, bubbling hatred invaded his ecstasy, curiously spiking his enjoyment. This woman would never have even spoken to his former, hideously ugly self, much less sucked his dick. She was a bitch who’d laughed at him behind his back—how could he have ignored that?
He reached down as if to caress her face. His increasing wrath nearly took on a life of its own as he pulled her off of him. She rolled onto her back, smiling wantonly as he pinned her to the bed. His hands reached for her throat, encircled it and began to tighten while her beautiful features became a mask of wild terror. She struggled against him, gasping for air as his fingers continued their vise-like grasp on her slender neck. His hands wrung her tender flesh until she no longer struggled beneath him.
He studied her as she laid there: a picture of serenity, hair a sunburst of curls on the pillow, her makeup worn off, the tiny freckles on her nose exposed. Death suited her; her beauty displayed in front of him like an opened rose.
He savored the memory of his hands on her throat, the feeling of ultimate power over her, and became aware of the huge erection jutting from his groin. Still gasping for breath, he took it in his hand.
5
Wednesday morning after Lisa finished with her early clients, she listened to a message from a troubled Jeff Denison. How had he managed to find her? The center wouldn’t have given out that information. Unsure how she wanted to handle his call, she left the office, confident that a noon-hour walk would give her direction. She’d enjoy the beautiful fall day, the trees brilliant in a full palette of gorgeous colors.
The mystery of the statistical increase in missing women and Jamie Denison’s disappearance weighed heavily in Lisa’s thoughts. She’d been trying to decide what to do about it. Amanda Hawkins, though alarmed, had only been able to tell Lisa she’d check into the numbers and get back to her.
The dilemma, though, had given her a welcome diversion from the breakup with Tyler. She’d arranged to talk with Richard Conlin, a homicide detective in Milwaukee. Maybe talking to the police would stir things up.
Her walk ended at a small deli, where she picked up a turkey sandwich and carried it back to the office. She decided to return Denison’s call. However he’d managed to get it, he had her name; she couldn’t un-ring that bell.
When he answered, Lisa introduced herself, and without giving him time to interrupt, launched into a speech about confidentiality, explaining to him she couldn’t discuss anything Jamie had told her in therapy.
As soon as she’d finished, he said, “I’d like to make an appointment with you—as a client.”
Before she could protest, he added, “I’m not asking you to tell me anything Jamie said to you. I know you can’t. I think therapy might make it easier for me to deal with this, especially if I can talk to someone who understands our situation. Whenever you have an opening, I’ll make time.”
Lisa, sympathetic to his anguish, knew seeing him wouldn’t be an ideal circumstance for counseling. But the man’s pain had come through during the obviously memorized speech he’d recited.
She wanted to help him. “How about tonight?”
Jeff Denison arrived at Lisa’s office promptly at seven. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He looked exactly how she’d pictured him—a serious young man in his late twenties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a well-pressed denim shirt and khakis. If it were possible for someone to look like an engineer, Jeff Denison represented the profession perfectly.
“Mr. Denison, after I talked to you this afternoon I double-checked your wife’s paperwork. Because Jamie felt confident you’d eventually be joining her in therapy, she signed a waiver giving me permission to talk to you. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to discuss anything she told me.”
Seeing his eager look she quickly added, “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be any help in finding her. She never told me she planned on leaving. I’m sorry.”
Jeff paled. “If she didn’t leave, what happened to her?”
“It’s possible she made an impulsive decision to leave, and didn’t plan it out at all.” She knew if she were to be of any help to him, it would be to ease him through his pain. His wife may or may not have met with foul play, but Lisa’s function would be to guide him through the aftermath of Jamie’s disappearance.
6
Enjoying a rare morning at his desk, Richard Conlin worked on an overdue accumulation of paperwork, although as a Milwaukee homicide detective he preferred action to sitting in the office. He’d been sipping coffee while he worked, and regretting his promise to meet with some shrink coming in to talk to him. Maybe he could finesse her over to someone else.
