Read Online Lone Wolf #9: Miami Marauder by Mike Barry - Free Book Online

adjoining room where she could hear dim thumping as if Williams and his guard were doing calisthenics or beating one another up. Calabrese showed no concern. “He’s certainly no ace in the hole,” he said. “Wulff dumped him in Los Angeles. They had split up. Tell me,” he said, his eyes becoming quite intense, “what is it like to fuck him?”
    She said nothing. Certain questions were unanswerable. But she did not look away; she allowed that gaze to hold her and after a long, shuddering instant she felt her control dissolve. It was almost as if she had meshed into him. She began to understand the source of the man’s power. It did not merely have to do with position; power came first.
    “Tell me,” Calabrese said, “I want to know. I know what he was doing with you; I’m not stupid. Any fool would know what was going on. Listen, he likes to fuck just as much as anyone; his fiancée got herself killed in New York and I know that
they
were fucking. Tell me,” Calabrese said, “does he come fast or slow? What is it like, does he like to do it straight or does he fuck around? Does he get on top or does he like to be on the bottom, getting a ride, the way all those tough types really do? Did he suck your nipples hard? Did he hurt?” and then unbelievably he was closing in on her, his hands on her shoulders, digging in through the soft material of the sweater, the clothing insubstantial, the only reality the hard, biting contact of nails into shoulders, feeling the pain as he dug his fingers in deeper and then he was on top of her, grunting and struggling, his eyes at some weird off-angle looking at the wall as he stunned her with pressure, beginning to move on top of her.
    “I’m going to fuck you,” Calabrese said, “I’ve been thinking of it all the way for days, whether I should do it or not and I’ve got to do it. I don’t want his poisons but I want his slut, I want to do it to something that he has,” and she wrenched away from him desperately, shaking her head, screaming deep in her throat. “Don’t think of it,” he said, looking down at her then, “don’t even think of screaming for help because the only help that you’re going to get around this place, the only help at all, would want to watch me do it and make it a gang-bang. Do you understand?”
    She understood. She let that understanding grow from her stomach, come into her eyes and she looked at him then, seeing beneath the angry, fervid surface of those eyes to something much deeper, something hurt and fearful within him that if it had had voice would whimper. The thing that she saw was seventy-three years old and was trembling and it was that which she spoke to now.
    “All right,” she said, “I won’t make it hard for you. But I want you to know that it won’t make any difference.”
    “I know that,” Calabrese said, “I learned that a long time ago, that nothing makes a difference.”
    He was sliding from her, then he was on the floor standing, reaching for his belt, dropping his pants. “Nothing makes any difference but you’ve got to play the game as if it does, don’t you? Don’t you, don’t you, don’t you baby,” Calabrese said … and then shrieking, mumbling, biting hard he was on top of her, tearing at her clothing, ripping her apart, trying to move inside … but she was not surprised that at the center of all this desperation she felt not pain but merely a gelatinous substance which rubbed and rubbed against her thighs.
    And all around—everywhere—the sound of his weeping.

VII
    Williams remembered how it had been outside the methadone center. Activity on the street, something seizing his attention, then, before he could even see the assailant, the quick, plunging feel of the knife within him, the sound of the footsteps moving, the feel of the sidewalk as it had rolled up at him, caressed him like waves. Something almost purifying about the pain in his chest and side, a pain that he must have been waiting