Page 54 of Rest In Pink
“GLADIOLA,”he said, and I pulled the ends of the socks to free his wrists, and he grabbed me and rolled me under him.
“I’m really grateful you drilled those holes,” I said.
“Oh, God, me, too,” he said and kissed me hard, several times, and then he started down my body and I knew it was going to be a long night.
God, I love Sundays.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I woke up just before midnight to the sounds of a siren in the distance and got out of bed to check my phone. I paused for a second and looked behind me. Liz lay tangled in my sheets, her lips curved in a faint smile as she slept, warm and round and loving and naked and sexy as hell. And mine.
That last bit was the new part.
Mine for right now, anyway.
I grabbed my phone, realizing I’d turned it off since I was off duty, it was Sunday night and Liz had had devious plans. As I powered it on, the siren got closer and I had that familiar feeling, akin to the one we got when boarding a chopper at the FOB, heading out into the badlands.
The siren cut off, and I knew it was where my drive met the road. I pulled my pants on and checked the window. I saw the lights still flashing and knew from the setup it was George’s big Suburban.
I made it to the door, yanking it open just as George’s big fist was about to pound on it.
“I tried calling,” George said. “You and your damn Sunday nights.”
“What happened?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t have come out if it wasn’t—
“Thacker’s dead,” he said. “A fire at the Shady Rest. I already called Rain. She’s on her way.”
* * *
I followed George to the Shady Rest. Our fire department’s two trucks were on site, lights flashing. A crowd of onlookers had gathered along with the handful of evacuees from the motor court rooms.
The Shady Rest was a line of small, grimy, connected one-room cottages with pitched roofs from the thirties. It probably would have looked cute as hell, like elf condos, if it had been painted sometime in the last forty years and wasn’t falling apart. The sign didn’t say motel or hotel, but rather Motor Court. I think that wasn’t paying homage to the good old days; it was because the sign came from the good old days and hadn’t been updated in decades. I’d never seen the NO on the VACANCY sign lit because who was going to stop in Burney when the Interstate and Cincinnati were a half hour away? Or perhaps it didn’t work? Which reminded me that Liz had once asked about turning on the Big Chef light. It didn’t work, either, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t fix it.
People were in various stages of dress and Good Samaritans from nearby houses were providing blankets, coats and hot beverages to the fools who had actually checked in there for the night. Steve Crider and a couple of other patrolmen who’d been called in had a secure perimeter. Raina was on her way. We weren’t going to repeat our Lavender debacle.
I walked next to George as we went under the tape where Captain Olson was standing in front of one of the units. The fire had been contained quickly.
“Otto,” George said as we joined him.
Olson glanced at him, then me, then nodded at the building. “It started in the room next to Thacker’s.”
The doors were smashed open to every unit in the place from the fire department checking every room. Over by the office Mac and his brother, Chris, were engaged with the owner of the place who I’m sure was bitching about the damage. If anyone could talk him down, it was Mac. The fact Mac was doing that also meant there was nobody else injured. Just Thacker.
“Come on,” Olson said. He led us into Thacker’s room, which, other than the door and the smell of smoke, was undamaged. Thacker lay on his bed, curled up. A thin blanket covered the body. I walked over and gently lifted it.
Thacker looked like he was asleep, except his skin was bright pink.
“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” Olson said.
Thacker hadn’t known he was dying. He’d gone from peaceful sleep to deep pink death without kicking or screaming. Lots of people think it’s a good way to go, but I’d rather go to Valhalla with my sword and axe in my hands, fighting the entire way. I want to look into oblivion and scream my defiance.
Great blowjobs evidently make me think I’m a Viking.
“There doesn’t seem much smoke damage in here,” George noted.
“The fire started next door,” Olson said. “Someone cooking in their room.” He led us to the adjoining room. The room was burnt out and a small, blackened grill was in the remains of a dresser with a melted TV next to it. The roof was mostly gone where the flames had burned through. The walls were scorched.
“Who the hell would use a grill in a room?” George wondered.