Read Online The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) by Anthony Neil Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Neil Smith
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knees and not willing to watch over her shoulder. But then he was done and she realized what had happened and shit she hasn't been on the pill for so long, no need for it after Nate died and she hadn't been looking for sex in all this time.
Oh god. Oh fuck. This was. It was. Rape. It was rape. She sits with her pants pulled up, knees together. She stares straight ahead. The plastic trashcan beside her, empty when she came in, is now filled to the rim with tissues and toilet paper, trying so hard to clean herself. A scalding shower, still not enough to keep the chills and chattering teeth at bay.
It's not rape. You did this to yourself. You've been so stupid. You had a choice. You should have called his bluff. There's no way…he was just…no, you were in the clear. No one knows, not a one. And still, look at you, scrubbing yourself raw.
There's still steam rising from her hair. The make-up is gone. She pulls her hair tight and wraps the band around it, one two three times. Lips tight. She's not going to cry, fuck it, she's not. Lips tight. Breathe through her nose. Needs to get out and call Rome. It's not fair that he gets to mourn over there in the Minnesota woods, drunk off his ass while this piece of shit negro uses her as a cum dumpster.
She swears she's not racist. It's not that. Of course not.
The voice again, same one that tells her it isn't rape. Sounds an awful lot like Nate: Of course you're a racist. You know good and damned well and don't even try to deny it. This isn't about rape or race. It's about you getting in too deep. Let it go. Lafitte's life is already fucked. It always will be. Killing him just sets him free from Hell.
No, she thinks. Killing him sends him to Hell. A real Hell.
Get with it. What happened to you just now? That's Hell. And both you and Billy did it to yourselves.
Shit, why is Nate such an asshole now that he's dead?
Besides, doesn't matter if it was that fat nigger or a spic or a white farm boy redneck, it was still rape.
Except it wasn't and she hates herself for it, especially if it ends up to be for nothing.
On with the bra. The shirt. The jacket. She still feels filthy. Itchy all over, like she is after getting a flu shot. Creepy crawly.
You walk out of here and keep walking and tell Rome the deal's off. You go back to being a cop. You move on.
I watched you burn the fuck up . Right in front of me. Lafitte left me there to watch you burn. He didn't even try to help.
He doesn't have an answer for her. He never does.
She walks to the door, bangs on it with the side of her fist. She steps back. Within a few minutes, the same woman guard opens the door, stands aside. "Ready, ma'am?"
In the hall is a same male guard as before. They both know. It's beyond embarrassing.
Then why didn't you shout for help? You could've. You know it.
Almost hisses Shut up before remembering they would hear her.
Down the hall. Out the door. Hugging herself. Not a word. Not a thought. Long drive back, maybe, wonders if she can make it the whole way or if she'll need to find a room. An anonymous hotel room. A two, three hour shower or soak. She still smells whatever body wash Ri'Chess had slathered on himself. Gag reflex.
Past the visitor's waiting area, they're about to hit the final stretch to the doors when another guard steps out from around the corner, like he was waiting there for her. Hands behind his back. Slick, preacher-like hair.
"Excuse me, Miss…Hartle, isn't it?"
He shouldn't know that. Colleen's stomach tightens. "Who?"
"Hartle. Colleen Hartle, Minnesota Bureau of Investigations? This is you, right?" He hands over a printout from a printer that looks to be running out of ink. There's her ID photo, right next to a rundown of her personal stats. "I know you're in a hurry, but please, come sit and talk. I think we've got something to discuss."
"Really, she looks like me, but—"
"We know, Agent Hartle. We all do. So let's…" He ticks his head down the hall. "My office? I've
Oh god. Oh fuck. This was. It was. Rape. It was rape. She sits with her pants pulled up, knees together. She stares straight ahead. The plastic trashcan beside her, empty when she came in, is now filled to the rim with tissues and toilet paper, trying so hard to clean herself. A scalding shower, still not enough to keep the chills and chattering teeth at bay.
It's not rape. You did this to yourself. You've been so stupid. You had a choice. You should have called his bluff. There's no way…he was just…no, you were in the clear. No one knows, not a one. And still, look at you, scrubbing yourself raw.
There's still steam rising from her hair. The make-up is gone. She pulls her hair tight and wraps the band around it, one two three times. Lips tight. She's not going to cry, fuck it, she's not. Lips tight. Breathe through her nose. Needs to get out and call Rome. It's not fair that he gets to mourn over there in the Minnesota woods, drunk off his ass while this piece of shit negro uses her as a cum dumpster.
She swears she's not racist. It's not that. Of course not.
The voice again, same one that tells her it isn't rape. Sounds an awful lot like Nate: Of course you're a racist. You know good and damned well and don't even try to deny it. This isn't about rape or race. It's about you getting in too deep. Let it go. Lafitte's life is already fucked. It always will be. Killing him just sets him free from Hell.
No, she thinks. Killing him sends him to Hell. A real Hell.
Get with it. What happened to you just now? That's Hell. And both you and Billy did it to yourselves.
Shit, why is Nate such an asshole now that he's dead?
Besides, doesn't matter if it was that fat nigger or a spic or a white farm boy redneck, it was still rape.
Except it wasn't and she hates herself for it, especially if it ends up to be for nothing.
On with the bra. The shirt. The jacket. She still feels filthy. Itchy all over, like she is after getting a flu shot. Creepy crawly.
You walk out of here and keep walking and tell Rome the deal's off. You go back to being a cop. You move on.
I watched you burn the fuck up . Right in front of me. Lafitte left me there to watch you burn. He didn't even try to help.
He doesn't have an answer for her. He never does.
She walks to the door, bangs on it with the side of her fist. She steps back. Within a few minutes, the same woman guard opens the door, stands aside. "Ready, ma'am?"
In the hall is a same male guard as before. They both know. It's beyond embarrassing.
Then why didn't you shout for help? You could've. You know it.
Almost hisses Shut up before remembering they would hear her.
Down the hall. Out the door. Hugging herself. Not a word. Not a thought. Long drive back, maybe, wonders if she can make it the whole way or if she'll need to find a room. An anonymous hotel room. A two, three hour shower or soak. She still smells whatever body wash Ri'Chess had slathered on himself. Gag reflex.
Past the visitor's waiting area, they're about to hit the final stretch to the doors when another guard steps out from around the corner, like he was waiting there for her. Hands behind his back. Slick, preacher-like hair.
"Excuse me, Miss…Hartle, isn't it?"
He shouldn't know that. Colleen's stomach tightens. "Who?"
"Hartle. Colleen Hartle, Minnesota Bureau of Investigations? This is you, right?" He hands over a printout from a printer that looks to be running out of ink. There's her ID photo, right next to a rundown of her personal stats. "I know you're in a hurry, but please, come sit and talk. I think we've got something to discuss."
"Really, she looks like me, but—"
"We know, Agent Hartle. We all do. So let's…" He ticks his head down the hall. "My office? I've
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