Макс Коллинз: No One Will Hear You

“Actually,” she said, “I’m not feeling so great... Not opposed to stopping over, but...”

“I understand. Could be the drinks — they don’t skimp on the alcoholic content at Kyuui. That’s why I held it to two.”

“I was stupid to have so much to drink. I’m really sorry, Louis. I don’t think I could give you much of a reading tonight...”

He helped her to his Eclipse in the parking lot.

“Maybe you’ll feel better after a little drive. It’s a delightful evening. We can put the top down and let the warm breeze roll through.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Give it a try. If you feel better, we’ll have a run at that script.”

“Maybe you could just take me... take me home...”

He started the car and they were moving. She tried to focus on where they were going, but the more she tried to settle her eyes on something as they sped past, the worse she felt.

Finally, she just gave up and shut her eyes.

When she finally opened them again, the car had stopped and Louis had the rider’s side door open to help her. He’d already removed her seat belt and was half lifting, half dragging her out of his car.

“Where... where are we?” Her voice sounded strange and faraway in her own ears, her tongue dry and thick.

“My place,” he said, getting her on her feet and putting an arm around her as he helped her walk from the driveway to the house.

Her vision was blurry, like a soapy film was over her eyes. Just a bungalow. Nice lawn. She could smell fresh, clean air. Were they in the country?

“Your place?” she asked.

Her legs felt weighted down and her brain felt fuzzy.

“You said take you home,” he said. “This is my home. You wanted to go over that script, remember?”

“Did I say that?”

“If you meant I should take you back to your apartment, I can do that. You fell asleep. Are you feeling better?”

His arms felt so good, supporting her, holding her up. Some citrus-scented masculine cologne. Nice. He was warm, gentle.

Next thing she knew, they were in the house. The lights were out and she’d never been here before, so she just went with it as Louis guided her.

“I think you need to lie down for a little while,” he suggested.

“Yeah, rest a little while,” she managed. “So sorry about this. So sorry.”

He guided her to the bedroom, her feet dragging more with each step, and she still couldn’t figure out why she was so darn drowsy. Oddly, though, a mild euphoria had come upon her. And she felt safe with Louis. Secure. He had been such a perfect gentleman...

He sat her on the bed and, when he suggested that she remove “her lovely dress so it doesn’t get wrinkled,” she had no argument.

The euphoria shorted in and out with another feeling, the sense that she was sitting on the edge of a black abyss and the more she tried to rear back, the more the abyss beckoned.

When she finally forced her eyes open again, she realized she was naked, Louis next to her, kissing her breasts in a sweet, loving way, and the lights were on in the bedroom, not bright, fairly dim, but on... and despite a sense that she really should protest, it felt nice...

She didn’t dispense sex like so many actresses, and she was never a one-night-stand kind of girl. She’d had regular boyfriends though, even lived with a few, so sex was nothing unnatural to her.

But she had never been casual about it... Was this a shameful slip? Was she trying to buy a role from a film producer? Was he just another asshole who had gotten her tipsy and was taking advantage?

None of that seemed to matter, because his kisses soothed her, and when his lips moved down her belly, she didn’t resist. She felt something within her heating up, though drowsiness still flirted with her...

Then he was crouching between her open legs, his tongue finding its way inside her, the portal of her thighs widening.

Gently, he rolled her over onto her stomach, slipping a pillow under tummy, the satin sheets smooth against her erect nipples, the bed warm against her stomach. She was afraid for a moment that he would take her in her private place, but then he was inside her right where she wanted him, gently at first, filling her as no one had in a very long time, then with more force, but not rough. Not rough. Her hips rose to meet him, of their own accord.

His driving became more insistent, and she did her best to stay with him. She moaned, the feeling of him making love to her spreading through every nerve ending. He was good. Very good...

She was almost there, as he thrust ever faster; then suddenly the wave crashed over her and she involuntarily moaned and filled her fists with the sheets as she shudderingly came.

He held her as the waves of passion ebbed away; then she felt him withdraw. She purred with contentment and managed to turn onto her back and willed her eyes to open. The room was dark, and all she could make out beyond the bed was his silhouette and the outline of a vase of flowers on the night stand next to her.

Roses?

She wanted to kiss him desperately, and she tried to rise, but couldn’t seem to navigate the task. She slumped back to the bed. She tried again with even less success and simply surrendered to the afterglow.

He leaned over and brushed blonde hair from her eyes.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he said softly, and was gone.

She wanted to drift to sleep, but she also wanted to hold him first, and for him to hold her. When she opened her eyes, a figure hovered over her... Louis? Just a pale shadow really, in the dimly lit room. She looked up to see something metallic flash in the moonlight, filtering in through the curtains.

Something burned on the flesh of her throat and a quick, unbidden gurgling gasp escaped from her. She felt liquid spurting, then falling, like warm dark spattering rain, onto her face, shoulders, and breasts. There was a vague pain in her neck and she struggled to get her hand up to try and wipe it away, but her fingers only got wet, too.

She fought to breathe, worked to stay awake, not awake, conscious , struggling against an eddy of darkness pulling her down.

When the blade flashed again and again, sinking into her body as if it were mud, she felt nothing, her performance already ended.

The dead woman had long blonde hair, neatly brushed — remarkably pristine, as if she had been carried down from the top of the hill. A pretty face, eyes closed, Sleeping Beauty effect. Lipstick looked fresh, as if it had been applied after she got here.

Her carotid artery had been severed.

Seven jagged stab wounds in her chest and abdomen — the blood had been cleaned away, though; no sign of blood anywhere.

Amari frowned in thought. So she had been carried in and left here. Otherwise the ground would have been soaked with blood, and — unless the killer had washed the blood from her at the scene — she would be covered in it .

And she wasn’t.

Neatly draped over one arm, almost as if she were carrying them, were a dozen red roses — an actress at encore presented with a bouquet. A note protruded from the top of the gathered, still fresh-looking blooms.

That was one good thing about cop gawkers as opposed to the civilian variety — none of the children in blue had taken the note as a souvenir.

The dead woman’s body was white, lividity having taken the blood to the lowest parts of her body. Amari touched a finger to flesh — rigor mortis had set in.

“Probably sometime last night,” Amari said. “Coroner’s assistant can give us a better idea, when he gets liver temperature.”

They had a look at the surrounding footprints, but the police parade had turned the place into a mess, doubtful they would get anything worthwhile. She wanted to see, to read , the card on the bouquet, but had better sense. The crime-scene unit would have it bagged and tagged soon enough.