"Psychic Detective" - читать интересную книгу автора (Archer Fletchina)

Chapter One

The few tables and all of the window counters in the brightly lit coffee shop were full. People hunched over laptop computers, spread newspapers over tables, and peered intently into books they had just taken out of the city library across the street.

The thought patterns that bombarded Angela Simmons from all directions as she approached the counter echoed the foggy mist forming in the darkening gray sky outside.

“French roast,” she said.

“Grandissimo, Supremero or Ventissimo?” asked the slight dark-haired barista.

“Big.”

The ring in the girl’s nose flashed as she pointed to the middle-sized cup with a questioning eyebrow.

Angela nodded.

She looked again at the tables, wishing someone would get up and leave. Frowning in concentration, the guy in the cardigan sweater leaned more intently over his computer. Angela’s mind was caught in the thick fog of mundane thoughts. The stock market is down, Jenny got her first period this morning, I need to get milk on the way home, the United Nations contemplates action to combat global poverty, the broccoli at the produce counter looked yellowish-brown, how will tornadoes in the Midwest affect insurance rates, was Sean doing his math homework, the car sounded funny, soy bean production is down in Brazil… Thought fog. She tried to tune it out.

“Do you want room for cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“One-sixty-five.”

A highway opened through the murkiness. Angela fumbled the two dollar bills she was taking from her purse when she looked toward the table to the right side of the counter. Five-eight, Angela guessed, mid-thirties, well-coiffed, close-cropped dark brunette. Loose tan cashmere pullover. Well-off, good taste. Oval face, sensuous lips, high cheekbones…

The woman looked up, her eyes fastening on Angela’s for a brief moment before they swept around the room and returned to the book in front of her. In that instant something…

Blue eyes. Lingered on me too long. Maybe because she was in the library when I was and thought she recognized me. But no, something else in that look. Something in the way she looked back to her book. You can never rely on things like that.

“One-sixty-five?” the barista repeated.

Angela handed her the two dollars and took her change.

The miasma of Brazilian soybeans, worries about kids, cars, supper and husbands descended over Angela’s awareness.

And there it was again, as clear as day, a pattern of thought. Different from Soybeans’ concerns with kids, business and domestic stuff. Not just one thought, but a pattern writhing with sensuality, slippery with anticipation, opulent and smooth to the touch, stretching like fingers reaching out of quicksand, hoping against hope for rescue from the insuperable, irresistible downward force. Alluring for its unbridled physical appeal that Angela felt herself responding to, but threatening because of its forceful, earthy-what was it-hesitation? Doubt? Suspicion? That feeling of being trapped, of wanting but lacking? She couldn’t name it.

The fog thinned with each step Angela took toward the brunette. The woman looked up from her book just as Angela approached her table.

“May I join you? It looks like all the other places are taken.”

“Yes, I was trying to read, but I can’t concentrate. Weren’t you just in the library? I think I saw you as I was checking out.”

“Yes, I was doing some research over there.”

“Oh? What kind?” she said, putting down the book.

“Corporate. Checking out who owns what.”

“Oh, are you a business researcher?”

Angela laughed. “Sometimes it feels like it. No, I’m a detective.”

“Police?”

“No, not that kind. I don’t find criminals. I’m a love detective.”

The man at the computer scowled at Angela but quickly turned his gaze to the woman at the window counter speaking into her cell phone. He snapped his computer shut and left. The woman with the cell phone continued chatting as she packed up her belongings in her purse and followed him out.

“A love detective?”

Two other people left the counter and the barista came around the bar and began cleaning the tables and counters next to the windows as the place emptied.

“That’s shorthand. People come to me with their relationship problems.”

“And that gets you into corporate research?”

“Sometimes, yes. That’s where it got me today.”

“Hot on a case?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about it.”

“Secret stuff?”

“Let’s just say confidential. If I worked for you, you wouldn’t want me telling everyone I ran into at a coffee shop about your life, would you?”

“There’s not much to tell.”

Angela smiled.

“What does that smile mean?” The brunette looked at Angela over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Everyone has something interesting to tell.” Angela sipped the hot, bitter brew in her mug.

“Well, suppose I wanted to hire you.”

“To find out about your husband?”

“You know?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. I observe the wedding band on your left ring finger. I observe a diamond ring. I see how you dress, your handbag, your hair, your manicure, and I conclude that you are well-off. You are here on a workday afternoon. If you are well-off, you do not freelance. You are here, so you are not working. Ergo, you may be an heiress or a beneficiary of a trust fund or you have a husband with a large income. Or all three, or two of three. But you were in the library to actually check out a book. A book a person of wealth would have purchased to put in the library at the house. Rich people have libraries. There is probably one in your house, but you are not accustomed to buying books. Ergo, you did not grow up with wealth. I conclude that your husband is the source of the wealth. If your husband were available, you’d be with him. Or, because you are a beautiful woman, he’d be with you. He is not. You are not. Ergo, he is not free. I conclude he is working. If that’s so, he’s probably working all the time, in meetings, traveling, and in contact with a lot of powerful and beautiful women. That’s enough to worry any wife. And the ones that are really worried find me and ask me to help them.”

“You’re amazing, Holmes,” she said leaning back in her chair. “My name is Ronda Moore.”

“Glad to meet you, Ronda, I’m Angela Simmons.”

Angela reached into her purse and extracted a card.

“Angela Simmons, Psychic Detective? What’s the psychic part?”

“That’s why I don’t do police work. That depends on proof. I need to know more than who did what with or to whom when and where. I need to know motives. Why they did what they did.”

“Does it matter?”

“It can.”

The barista returned behind the bar to polish her coffee-making machines as the last of the other patrons left.

“You read people’s minds?”

“Sort of…”

“I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. Can you tell me what I’m thinking?”

“You are afraid that at thirty-six your breasts are no longer perky, that you are losing your looks and that you are no longer attractive to your husband because he spends so much time apart from you and hardly touches you anymore. You suspect he may be fucking other women because you think he can have any woman he wants.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to read my mind to know that. You deduced it from my clothes and jewelry, right?”

“Okay, you think that you masturbate way too much, maybe excessively because you do yourself at least once a day and some days two or three times. You were in the library to check out books about women’s fantasies because you’ve become bored with your own. You are afraid of some of your fantasies. You fantasize about being tied up and taken, something you know you’d never want in real life. You fantasize about fucking a stranger in a public place like this coffee shop and people gathering around to watch and applauding when you come. You fantasize and sometimes think about being spanked, and you think it’s dangerous because if you enjoy pain, you might be a masochist and get caught up in the whole S and M thing.”

“Not much of a deduction, is it? Chances are any woman masturbates fairly frequently. At least a few times a week. And most more. Daily. And those are pretty standard fantasies.”

“But it’s not standard to worry about them.”

“Anything else?”

“When your husband is with you, which is much less than you’d like, you fantasize about other men.”

“That’s also usual. Anything that might be unique to me? Now?”

“Yes.” Angela leaned toward the center of the table and whispered. “When I was getting my coffee, you glanced up at me and you were wondering what it would be like to make love with me. For some time, you’ve been attracted to other women sexually, but you haven’t had the nerve to suggest it to anyone because you are afraid that you are strange to have those feelings. You worry that you might be a lesbian. Specific about you? You were having a fantasy about you and me in the sauna at your house and-”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. And knowing all of that, you still came over here and sat down at the table with me?”

“Yes, I did. Knowing all that. And the answer to the other question you didn’t say is yes, I would like to. That’s why you can’t hire me as a detective.”

He wants me ready by six so we can go to some fancy restaurant with some of his business associates for dinner. They’ll talk about stuff I don’t know anything about and I’ll feel stupid and left out. They’ll sit around drinking wine until eleven, then we’ll come home and he’ll go to sleep. Maybe if I put on something sexy, he’ll pay attention. If he doesn’t, maybe someone else will and he’ll be jealous enough to notice me.

The garage door slid into place with a soft thunk as Ronda got out of her expensive low-slung black sports car and went into the Frank Lloyd Wright house. Not a knockoff, not an imitation, but an original not that far from the architect’s own house.

She undressed in front of the full-length mirror in her walk-in closet.

They may not be that perky, but they’re still firm, she thought as she cupped one hand under each breast. She appraised her body critically. I could stand to lose a few pounds. But when was that not true? I’ve always thought I should be thinner than the one hundred forty or one hundred forty-five pounds I’ve always been. I’d look better at one hundred thirty-five. She ran her hands down her stomach and across her hips as her eyes dwelt on her smooth pubis. I thought maybe he’d notice when I shaved down there. But she had found that she liked herself smooth, so she began having herself waxed every couple of weeks to stay silky soft to her own touch even if Jeff never noticed. He doesn’t have that much chance to notice anything about me.

Sexy. Something short and black. Clingy knit. No bra. She opened a drawer and rummaged in it. Garter belt? No, I don’t want any lines. Nothing under. Sheer black stockings. Thigh-high to give it that tarty look. Closing the drawer, she took the short, tight knit dress from the hanger and held it in front of herself. Yeah, that’ll work. Tight across the butt and stomach, it’ll show off my thighs. Ugh, maybe not. Maybe they’re too fat. Oh well, best I can do. Some cleavage showing. If I lean down, a good view of my breasts to the nipples. It’ll do.

She laid the dress on Jeff’s side of the king-sized bed beside the stockings and went into the bathroom that was as big as some people’s living rooms, past the wooden sauna to a large sunken bathtub. She sprinkled bath salts into the tub and turned on the water.

As the crystals dissolved in the steaming water, Ronda stepped into the tub and lay on her back, letting the hot water cascade over her feet.

She stroked her nipples to erectness, and then pinched them both hard between her thumbs and forefingers, wondering what it would be like to be dressed only in a tight leather bra and thigh-length high-heeled boots and have someone turn her over their knees and spank her bare butt. Her butt warmed at the thought of the stinging of the spanking. I’m becoming a pervert.

She pulled her feet toward her butt and ran her hands down the insides of her thighs and opened her labia with the index finger of her right hand. She didn’t move her right hand as she leaned forward to turn off the water with her left hand. Relaxing on her back again, the aromatic hot water engulfing her, she reached down with her left hand to open herself to her own touch and began stroking the tip of her index finger around her clitoris.

She was trying to imagine what it would be like to be with another woman. To be with Angela. What would Angela do? What would I do? How does it work? Who does what? She knew the effect of every touch of her own hands on her body, whether it felt good or not. She knew when her vagina was wet and when her clitoris was hard. She had her body and her fingertips to tell her. But would another woman know? Jeff sure never did. He would stop just when he should be stroking faster or press too hard when he should be gentle or go too fast too soon. What was so simple to her was so impossible for him. Maybe he just gave up.

An image of Angela formed in Ronda’s mind. In a flowered one-piece bathing suit Angela walked toward the naked figure of Ronda and embraced her. Ronda stroked Angela’s bare arms, took the straps of the bathing suit between her thumbs and forefingers, and slowly peeled the suit down Angela’s body.

Angela smiled and stepped out of the suit as it fell to the floor. She reached for Ronda’s hand and placed it firmly on her bare mons. Or did she have pubic hair? Probably. Angela put Ronda’s hand on the coarse curls of her pubic hair and shifted her weight on her feet to open herself to Ronda’s exploring fingers. Angela tilted her head forward to invite a kiss and Ronda responded by leaning into the kiss, her mouth open, her tongue welcoming the other woman’s into her mouth.

Ronda stroked her bare pubis with her left hand as her right finger circled her clitoris, now large and hard with the excitement of the fantasy. She dipped her finger between her labia into the hot fluid that was flowing from her cunt to lubricate her clitoris. The hot water was interfering, diluting the moisture from her cunt. Ronda opened her eyes and reached to the drain to lower the level of the water. When the level of the water was lower, Ronda closed the drain, closed her eyes, and leaned back to start stroking the underside of her engorged clitoris. Her left hand squeezed her labia together to make her clit protrude and hold it in position.

Angela pressed her pubis hard against Ronda’s, rubbing her thick, almost bristly, pubic hair onto Ronda’s pubis, and with her hands on Ronda’s hips, pulled her closer as she started to thrust her pussy against Ronda. “That’s right,” Angela whispered hoarsely, “fuck me with your fingers.” Angela’s cunt was dripping and hot. “Now let me do something for you. Lay back on the chaise lounge. That’s right.” Angela guided Ronda’s naked form onto the chaise and knelt between her legs at the end. Angela’s tongue avidly sought Ronda’s clitoris and began stroking it hard and fast. The soft warmth of Angela’s tongue brought Ronda to the verge of cataclysm and then slowed.

Ronda’s finger circled her clitoris again as she strove to postpone her orgasm. She pulled her labia out and stroked down the length of the opening of her vagina before she returned to her clitoris.

A guy with an indistinct face approached Angela from the rear. His erect cock signaled that he appreciated Angela’s beauty. Angela sensed his presence and raised her ass toward him as she continued the fast-paced warm pressure on Ronda’s clitoris. The man knelt behind Angela and inserted his cock into her glistening cunt from behind and she began to sigh with pleasure.

Ronda’s view of the ménage shifted from overhead to side, then to rear, and to the other side. Ronda dipped her finger into her cunt again to prolong her pleasure on the edge of ecstasy, knowing that once she crossed that line the fantasy would dissipate.

The man knew what Angela wanted. He withdrew from her vagina and plunged deep into her anus causing her to wince with the pleasure of pain. Her tongue on Ronda’s clit stopped as Angela gasped. The man plunged his cock into her three times, four, five, and then withdrew.

Angela backed away from the chaise lounge half a pace, put her head down, raised her ass in the air and said “Spank me.”

At that image Ronda’s finger started a frenetic pace on the tip of her clitoris.

The man raised his hand and spanked Angela. The slap of the palm of his hand on the flesh of her butt was sharp and loud. Ronda masturbated as Angela looked up to watch. Another slap and another.

Ronda felt the vibrations start deep within her cunt, spread to her thighs, and overtake her stomach. She arched her back in the shallow water and heard the gurgle start in her throat and become a shout as her hand fell limp beside her and she lay exhausted in the water.

The water was cool when Ronda opened her eyes. She stepped out of the tub and rubbed herself with the thick softness of a bath towel.

But if she’s really psychic, then she would know how I was responding to her touch. She would know everything that I feel. I wouldn’t have to say anything, just relax and enjoy.

It’s not going to happen. I don’t know if I even want it to. I don’t want to be a lesbian. But I do want it to happen. I want her to do-what I was doing to myself. At least.

As she rubbed her breasts and stomach red with the towel, she once again imagined what it would feel like to have a woman go down on her. The few times Jeff had done it, she had felt more embarrassed than aroused. Embarrassed that she might smell bad, that he might not like the taste of her cunt.

Still thinking about Angela going down on her, Ronda walked into the bedroom. She unwrapped the towel and lay on it on her side of the bed with her legs drawn up, open to both of her hands as her mind opened up to all of the possibilities of a gentle woman who would know everything in her mind, making love with her. She would know when to stop and circle, when to be firm and when to be gentle, when to be fast and when to be slow, when to draw it out and when to make her come fast and hard.

Ronda turned over on her stomach and lifted her hips so she could rotate them around the bunched-up fingers of her left hand thrust between her labia into her cunt as she manipulated her clitoris with her right hand.

A montage of images of Angela flooded her mind, each overlaying the other as Ronda fucked her fingers and stroked her clit.

Angela’s head between Ronda’s legs, going down on her. Ronda opening her legs to receive Ronda’s hand on her mons. A faceless man fucking Angela from behind as Angela played with her own clit. Angela spanking Ronda’s ass. Ronda licking Angela’s anus and darting her tongue through the wrinkled tissue and into her asshole. Ronda playing with herself as Angela looked on in approval.

Not wishing to prolong the build-up, Ronda thrust down on her fingers as she began to come and the images of Angela became more vivid, more intense, and then faded into blackness as she heard herself sob with a deep intake of breath and then cry out as her orgasm overtook her whole body and she fell to her left side to sleep.

She dreamed that Jeff came into the bedroom to find her naked on the bed, hot and musty and slippery with come as she was now. Overcome with desire, he took off his clothes, throwing them on the floor in his haste, and fucked her hard and fast. She dreamed of lifting her hips to meet his every thrust and taking his hard cock deep into her until his passion burst through and he filled her with his hot come.

When she woke it was five-thirty and Jeff wanted her ready by six. She walked briskly into the bathroom and this time walked into the shower for a quick rinse, then sat in front of the mirror to put on sparse makeup. In the bedroom, she sat on the bed and pulled on one stocking imagining that her hands were Jeff’s as she smoothed it up her thigh. Then the other. She stood and pulled the dress over her head and stepped into her black six-inch fuck-me pumps.

She walked-maybe strode is a better word for her hips-forward gait-into the closet to scrutinize the effect. No lines. Before she started getting waxed, this dress even showed her pubic hair if she didn’t wear panties. The contours of her nipples showed through the drape of the top. She turned to look at her butt. She leaned in front of the mirror and looked to see just how far she would have to lean for someone to see down to her nipples. It was as she remembered, about one-third of the way would offer a view as the scalloped neck of the dress gaped open to any eyes that cared to see. Suggestive but unobtrusive unless she made it so. It was up to her. That was the way she wanted it.

Six o’clock.

She sat in the armchair beside the bed to read the book of women’s fantasies she had taken out from the library. Incest. She felt her stomach turn. Yuck. Rape. Even worse. Multiple partners. She began to read with interest. Fantasies. Nothing dangerous here. Just what other women think about when they masturbate. The mental pictures they make. Hers were pretty tame, she concluded as she read more.

When she looked at the clock again she had finished the book, at least all of the parts she was interested in, and there was no sign of Jeff. She knew his cell phone would be off. If he wanted her to know where he was, he’d let her know. Otherwise it was useless to try to find out.

She turned on the television and began to click through the channels. Blithering news commentators. Frantic newscasters. Calm weather forecasters. Inarticulate urban kids standing around yakking at each other. Cops looking for bad guys. Bad guys robbing a bank.

Finally the phone rang.

“They called it off. I’ll be a couple of hours late.”

“Late?” she heard herself almost shouting. “You’re already a couple of hours late. What the fuck do you mean late?”

“I’m sorry, honey, I was in a meeting, sweetie. I couldn’t get out of it.”

“You couldn’t pick up a fucking phone and tell me they’d canceled your precious dinner?”

“I’ll be home around ten.”

“Don’t bother.”

Still in her high heels, she marched into the kitchen. She felt the smooth fabric of the dress against her breasts, pubis, and butt as she reached up to the wine rack to take down a bottle of very expensive Pinot Noir from the rack.

She was aware that the fabric of her dress didn’t have its usual erotic effect. She slammed open a drawer and fumbled among the garlic presses, cheese planes, peelers, and ginger graters for a corkscrew. Not exactly a corkscrew. She hated them. They screwed violently into the cork and pulled it out against its will. This thing worked with the cork, penetrated it and puffed air into the bottle to pop the cork out of its own accord.

She filled a fragile long-stemmed glass with the dark wine and took the bottle with her into the living room. She set both glass and bottle down on the coffee table and put a k.d. lang CD into the player, turned the volume so it was just right and sat in her favorite leather armchair. She kicked off her pumps and curled up in the embracing chair as she began to sip the wine.