Riding Dirty Page 11

  “Roughing up your informant isn’t the best way to gain his cooperation,” she said.

  “I suppose he claimed it was police brutality.”

  “No. He said he incited you, and deserved what he got.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s not stupid, just combative. Be patient with him and you’ll get better results.”

  Damon put his hands in his pockets, jangling his keys. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She nodded and left the office with him. They rode the elevator in silence. The day’s residual heat shimmered on the horizon and radiated from the asphalt. She disengaged the alarm as they reached her car. On Tuesday evening, she’d asked her neighbor for a ride back to Indio. The little old lady next door had been happy to help.

  She glanced at Damon, noting the dark circles under his eyes. “Get some rest,” she said, feeling a pang of sympathy.

  “Do I look like I haven’t slept?”

  She didn’t answer. He had recurring nightmares; he’d told her that once. But never what they were about.

  “That dinner invitation is always open,” he said.

  She made a vague promise to call him and climbed behind the wheel. She hoped he’d find someone else to have dinner with, to sleep with and sleep beside. He needed a woman to shake up his workaholic routine before he drove himself into an early grave.

  She didn’t allow herself to consider Cole’s offer until Damon was no longer visible in her rearview mirror. Then she gripped the cushioned steering wheel and let out a ragged breath, remembering what he’d said.

  Meet me at the lake again. We can both stop denying ourselves.

  I jerked off three times, thinking about your mouth.

  She’d touched herself after she’d arrived home that night, too. She’d ridden the bus for over an hour, lulled by the rocking motions, squirming with arousal. Biting her lower lip, she’d replayed every hot second of their encounter, over and over. She’d walked home from the bus stop in a sexual trance. As soon as she got through the door, she’d tugged her panties to her knees and buried her fingers in her pussy. She’d stroked herself to a mind-blowing orgasm, sagging against the couch.

  God.

  If the sex was half as good with him as it was without him, she’d be satisfied.

  Not that she’d planned on meeting him for sex. Or, she hadn’t planned on it until Damon asked her to step down as Cole’s psychologist. And just like that, she’d experienced a watershed moment. A watershed moment that had nothing to do with her sopping-wet pussy, and everything to do with her recently abandoned revenge plan.

  Dirty Eleven was working with White Lightning. What if the second perpetrator was a member of Cole’s motorcycle club? Maybe the “E” tattoo stood for Eleven. Dirty Forever, Forever Eleven.

  Damon had searched his database for “E” tattoos + wrist and came up empty, so Mia assumed this guy wasn’t in the system. She could ask Cole if any of his buddies had a tattoo like that, but he’d wonder why she wanted to know. It was too random a detail, too specific for an offhand conversation. She’d have to be subtle in broaching the subject. If someone in Dirty Eleven fit the description, and she could identify him, she’d tell Damon. Then Damon could pick up the suspect and play his favorite game: bad cop.

  If they were lucky, the mystery man would rat out Gordon Lowe, the president of White Lightning, and both criminals would go down. Justice would be served without vigilantism and illegal machinations.

  Well, fewer illegal machinations.

  And more fucking.

  Okay, so maybe this watershed moment did have something to do with the flood of desire she felt for Cole. He’d inspired her sexual awakening. She couldn’t go back to her empty apartment and dry, passionless existence.

  She needed him. Inside her.

  Justice wasn’t her main focus anymore. She’d broken so many rules that ethics didn’t matter. She wanted to be with Cole. She’d also like to see her husband’s killers behind bars, but she knew her obsession with them wasn’t healthy. She could live without vengeance. She couldn’t live without being touched.

  Cole wasn’t a good choice for a long-term relationship. She knew that. Sleeping with a client, even a former client, could destroy her career. The fact that he was a criminal informant made the situation more precarious. And she simply did not care. She didn’t care about the professional consequences or the potential dangers. It wasn’t just about sex, either. Her body burned with arousal, but she could endure the frustration. The thought of never seeing him again made her heart ache unbearably.

  She decided against driving straight to Lake Cahuilla. Cole’s ankle monitor made it easy for law enforcement to check up on him. If an officer noticed her car in the general vicinity and ran the plates, she’d be screwed. And not in the fun way.

  About a mile from the lake there was a golf course with an upscale bar and restaurant called The Quarry. She parked there, figuring she could walk to the lake. Before she started off, she went inside the restaurant and ordered a cheese plate to go, along with a half bottle of chilled white wine. Ten minutes later, she was ready for a stroll and a picnic. The distance was farther than she’d calculated. Her feet began to pinch in her stylish heels, and sweat slicked her lower back as she trudged along the dusty road at sunset.

  When she finally arrived at the rendezvous point, he wasn’t there. His motorcycle wasn’t in the parking lot or at the taco shop across the street.

  She sank to a concrete bench in dismay. She didn’t have his phone number or any other way to reach him. There would be no more counseling sessions. He’d continue to meet with investigators in the office building, but she couldn’t show up there to see him.

  She removed her damp shirt, revealing the lacy camisole underneath. The early evening breeze cooled her skin. She opened her satchel and found the wine. It was twist-off, thank God. She lifted the bottle by the neck and tilted it back like a vagrant.

  Classy, Mia. Real classy.

  She’d risked her career for sex with a parolee. She’d walked miles. She’d brought wine. She was tired and sweaty and desperate.

  Maybe it was time to rethink her life choices.

  First she had to finish this wine. Hiking was thirsty work, and it was a long way back to her car. In another hour, she’d be stumbling around in the dark. The thought was chillier than the pinot. She stopped chugging it and wiped her mouth, startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. They were coming from the campground, not the parking lot. There were a few RVs near the shore, hundreds of yards away. No one in the rest area or the visitor center. No one within shouting distance.

  She rose from the bench, alarmed. It was too late for her to gather her things or put her shirt on. She gripped the wine bottle in her sweaty hand, ready to wield it like a weapon. Then Cole walked around the corner of the building.

  Instead of wilting in relief, she stayed frozen. Knees knocking, heart in her throat. He looked the same as always. Edgy haircut, tattoos, leather vest. Pale-ale eyes. Handsome, sexy, larger than life.

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

  “Neither did I.”

  “You brought booze.”

  She looked down at the wine bottle. “Yes.”

  “Are you planning to drink that, or smash it over my head?”

  She set the pinot on the table. “That depends,” she said in a husky voice.

  “On what?”

  “How well you behave.”

  His gaze darkened, trailing down the front of her body. The camisole she was wearing had a built-in bra, but it didn’t cover her well enough to be mistaken for anything but lingerie. He closed the space between them in three long strides and gripped her upper arms. Her nipples pebbled against the lace cups and her breasts trembled, pushed together by the position he held her in. His eyes moved from her breasts to her mouth, but he didn’t kiss her. Perhaps he was remembering that she’d called a halt to their last encounter seconds before penetration.


  “Did you walk here?” he asked, glancing around.

  “From The Quarry.”

  He didn’t need her to explain why.

  Hauling her against him, he slanted his mouth over hers and plunged his tongue deep inside, kissing the hell out of her. His touch was rough, his chest solid. She reveled in his fierce possession, threading her hands through his hair. It was one of those dirty, openmouthed kisses with tongues all over the place. More porn-star than movie-star. He wanted this as much as she did, if not more, and that was a heady feeling. The two days that had passed since their previous make-out session seemed like two minutes.

  Her body was ready.

  So was his. She felt his erection against her belly, raring to go. His hands roved south and slipped under her skirt. She moaned as his calloused fingertips kneaded her soft flesh. His mouth was so good, so hot and hungry. He tasted like something dark and sweet and a little dangerous. Like black licorice or chili candy.

  He lifted her against the picnic table, and they were right back where they’d been before. Only this time, she didn’t panic. She wanted him this way, fast and reckless. She wanted him to rip off her panties and take her.

  Instead, he broke the kiss. “I don’t want to rush you.”

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingernails into his neck, encouraging him to continue. He’d proved that he would stop whenever she asked him to. She trusted him not to hurt her. “It’s okay.”

  “Anyone could see us here.”

  The thought was unexpectedly arousing. “I don’t care.”

  He laughed at this, seeming surprised by her honest response. “Does the idea of being watched turn you on?”

  “Yes.”

  The smile fell off his face. “You might be more woman than I can handle,” he muttered, glancing around. “As hot as that sounds, I’d rather go somewhere I know we won’t get interrupted.”

  She understood his reluctance. Their previous encounter hadn’t ended well. He was concerned about taking it slow and avoiding another frustrating experience. Anyone could pull into the parking lot and ruin their fun—including a police cruiser.

  “Across the lake,” she said. “Where you used to hang out with your friends.”

  He nodded his agreement and helped her up. Before they left the rest area, she stuffed her shirt and the wine bottle into her satchel. He adjusted the fly of his jeans. On the way to the other side of the lake, he stopped at one of the campsites, where he’d parked his motorcycle. He had a blanket stashed in the compartment under the seat. She smiled at him, imagining a sexy picnic. Maybe she could feed him grapes.

  “Why’d you change your mind about meeting me?” he asked.

  “I got fired as your psychologist. Investigator Vargas had concerns about my safety.”

  Cole’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his nemesis. “He’s jealous.”

  Mia didn’t argue.

  “So you’re free to do this?”

  “No. It’s career suicide.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because you make me feel alive.”

  “Crystal meth does the same thing,” he said, continuing forward.

  “Does it?”

  “Sometimes. It can give you energy and a powerful, confident feeling. Everything seems sharper and more exciting. Conversations are intense. But it also makes you crazy, paranoid, delusional and weak.”

  She considered his comparison. “Are you warning me away from you?”

  “I’m saying it’s no compliment to be your Russian roulette game.”

  She reached out to take his hand, her pulse racing. His brows rose at the gesture, but he didn’t pull away. His palm felt rough and warm against hers. “If I wanted to hurt myself, I wouldn’t choose you as the weapon.”

  Never mind that she’d chosen him as a weapon to hurt others. She felt guilty about that, even though she’d abandoned her plan.

  “Do you care about your career?” he asked.

  The thought of losing her job didn’t concern her as much as it should have. She’d switched to forensic psychology because she was obsessed with justice. Dealing with criminals and officers every day had taken a toll on her psyche. She wasn’t sure she’d fare any better with regular patients. Maybe she needed her own mental health break.

  “I care about my clients,” she said. “But I’m not happy.”

  “You’re good at what you do.”

  “So are you, I imagine.”

  They walked past the tent campground and RV hookup sites, where there were a few retired couples milling about. Mia felt self-conscious about her state of undress, but Cole seemed to find it amusing. He winked at one of the old ladies and draped his arm around Mia’s bare shoulders. The lady went inside, muttering something about hooligans.

  Mia laughed and reached into her satchel for the wine.

  “You’ve got a little outlaw in you,” Cole said.

  “Are you going to give me a little more?”

  He nuzzled her neck. “A lot more.”

  She took a healthy swig of pinot, giggling. Although her feet still hurt, she felt light as air as they strolled around the perimeter of the lake. Cole stopped on the opposite side of the shore, near a nature trail that led into the Santa Rosa Mountains. There was no vegetation, just sandy dirt and rocky hills in the background.

  “This is the box,” he said, patting a rectangle-shaped structure that housed some sort of backflow system for the manmade lake. It was about the size of an air-conditioning unit, covered by grated aluminum. “We used to have arm wrestling contests here.”

  “Who won?”

  “I did, mostly.”

  She sat down on the box while he spread out the blanket next to it. “Why are these pipes protected?” she asked, running her hands over the aluminum grate. “Do they think someone will poison the water?”

  “People steal the copper and sell it.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve done it myself.”

  Mia studied the surface of the box, which was riddled with graffiti. She found the names Shank and Roach in black marker. “Is this your brother?”

  He stretched out on the blanket, tucking his arms behind his head. “That’s him.”

  “Did he come here with you?”

  “All the time. When he was about thirteen, we sat on that box and smoked a whole joint, just the two of us. He got higher than a motherfucker.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “No one ever died from smoking pot. He liked meth better, anyway.”

  “Who introduced him to that?”

  “Me.”

  She didn’t have to ask if he was sorry about this choice. It was written in the troubled lines of his face. “Was he an addict, like your father?”

  “I don’t know. He was a casual user before I went to prison, but he got caught up in some bad shit while I was inside. That’s what I regret more than doing drugs with him or being a negative influence. I wasn’t there to protect him.”

  She stared across the lake and drank more wine, her heart aching for him. The RVs on the opposite shore resembled anchored ships, and the reflection of the desert-pink mountains shimmered on the surface of the water, as if someone had littered it with dusky rose petals. She noted the contrasts between the dry, desolate landscape and the manufactured lake. The mixture of industrialism and nature was everywhere in Indio. Lush golf courses were set against barren wastelands. Rich mingled with poor.

  She glanced at Cole, extending the metaphor. She was sitting on a graffiti-covered box in expensive lingerie, ready to have a fancy picnic with a convicted felon. When she offered him a sip of wine, he declined.

  “I brought snacks,” she said.

  His eyes traveled along the length of her legs, hungry for something else. “Tell me about this exhibitionist fantasy of yours.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

 
MIA’S PULSE THROBBED with renewed arousal.

  “Do you like to be watched?”

  She set aside the wine, glancing at the RVs in the distance. The inhabitants were probably too far away to see her. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’ve never touched yourself in front of anyone?”

  “Just my husband.”

  “What about a mirror?”

  “Yes.”

  Cole sat up and removed her high heels. He massaged her instep, making her moan with pleasure. Then he lifted her foot to his lips and kissed a tender spot by her toe. “Do you have any other fantasies?”

  She nodded, moistening her lips.

  “Things you’ve never done?”

  “Getting tied up,” she said. “Being with a woman.”

  He rose to his knees, wrapping his big hands around her waist. “I’d love to hear you describe that in detail, but I might come in my pants.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Groaning, he dipped his head to her throat and pressed his lips to the fluttering beat there. Then he pushed the thin straps of her camisole off her shoulders and peeled the cups down, baring her breasts. She shivered with excitement, her nipples puckered in the balmy air. If he didn’t touch her, she’d scream.

  He reached under her skirt and removed her panties. Tossing the damp scrap of cotton aside, he urged her thighs apart, exposing her completely. She kept her legs spread, her stomach quivering as he leaned back to examine her.

  At dusk, there was still plenty of light to see and be seen. His erection stretched to the side of his fly, long and thick under the denim. His eyes burned into her pussy, which tightened like a clenched fist. She felt slick and swollen and hot. She was probably glistening. Her nipples jutted for his attention.

  “I don’t know what I want to suck more, those pretty tits or your sweet little pussy.”

  She braced her hands on the box behind her, moaning. “Please.”

  Moving forward, he cupped her breasts lightly and bent his head to kiss her. Another dirty kiss, his tongue flicking out. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, teasing the pink nubs. It wasn’t the kind of contact she craved. She suspected him of toying with her on purpose. Trying to make her beg.