J. Robb - Creation In Death

But death isn’t sleep. It’s something else again.

The body opened its eyes.

I’m Corrine Dagby. I was twenty-nine. I was born in Danville, Illinois, and came to New York to be an actress. So I waited tables because that’s what we do. I had a boyfriend, and he’ll cry when you tell him I’m dead. So will the others, my family, my friends. I bought new shoes the day before he took me. I’ll never wear them now. He hurt me, he just kept hurting me until I was dead.

Didn’t you hear me screaming?

She stood in the morgue, and Morris’s bloody hand held a scalpel. His hair was shorter, worn in a neat and tidy queue at the nape of his neck. Over the body, he looked at Eve.

She used to be healthy, and had a pretty face until he ruined her. She sang in the shower and danced in the street. We all do until we come here. And in the end, we all come here.

In the corner, the big clock ticked the time so every second echoed.

They won’t come if it stops, she thought. Not if I stop it. They’ll sing in the shower and dance in the street, they’ll eat cupcakes and ride the train if I stop it.

But you haven’t. Corrine opened her eyes again. Do you see?

The faces and bodies changed, one melding into the next while the clock hammered the time. Hammered until her head pounded with it, until she pressed her hands to her ears to block it out.

Faster, faster, the faces flashed and merged while the seconds raced. So many voices, all the voices calling, coalescing into one, and the one cried out.

Can’t you hear us screaming?

She woke with a gasp, with that awful cry echoing in her head. The light was dim, warm with the fire simmering low in the hearth. The cat butted against her shoulder as if telling her, “Wake up, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, I’m up. I’m awake. Jesus.” She rolled over, stared up at the ceiling as she got her breath back. With one hand she scratched Galahad between the ears, and checked the time on her wrist unit. “Oh, crap.”

She’d been out nearly three hours. Shoving off sleep, Eve pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and began to push off the bed. She heard it then, the sizzle and pulse of the shower.

She laid a hand on the spread beside her, felt his warmth lingering there. So they’d both slept, she realized. Good for them.

Stripping as she went, she headed for the shower.

She wanted to wash away the fatigue, the grit, the ugliness of the past twenty-four hours. She wanted the beat of the water to push away the vague headache she’d woken with, and flood out the remnants of the dream.

Then, when she stepped to the wide opening of the glass that enclosed the generous shower, she knew she wanted more.

She wanted him.

He was facing away from her, his hands braced on the glass, letting the water from the multiple jets beat over him. His hair was seal-sleek with wet, his skin gleaming with it. Long back, she mused, a taut, bitable ass, and all those tough, toned muscles.

He hadn’t been up for long, she thought, and was likely as worn down as she.

The water would be too cold, she knew. But she’d fix that.

They’d fix each other.

She slipped in, wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her body to his back. Nipped lightly at his shoulder. “Look what I found. Better than the toy surprise in the cereal box. Increase water temp to one hundred and one degrees.”

“Must you boil us?”

“I must. Anyway, you won’t notice in a minute.” To prove it, she glided her hands down, found him. “See?”

“Is this how you behave with all the members of your task force?”

“They only wish.”

He turned, caught her face in his hands. “And look how my wishes come true.” He kissed her softly, brow, cheeks, lips. “I thought you might sleep a bit more.”

“I already took more than I meant to.” She pressed to him again, laying her head on his shoulder as the water flooded them. “This is better than sleep.”

As the steam began to rise she tipped her head back. She found his mouth with hers, soft again, soft so they could both sink deep.

His fingers skimmed up into her hair, combing through the sleek cap of it as he murmured something that tasted sweet against her lips. Even through the sweetness she recognized need.

Yes, they would fix each other.

She tore her lips from his to press them to his throat, to feel his pulse beat while her hands stroked up his back. As he held her, as he turned her so the water sluiced over them, more than the day washed away.

Now his hands moved over her, creamy with soap, gliding over skin that all but hummed at the pleasure. Again he turned her, drew her back against him. And those hands circled her breasts, slid over them while his mouth sampled the side of her throat, her shoulder.

She moaned once, lifted an arm to hook around him, and quivered as his hands circled down.

He could feel her giving, opening, awaiting. The way her body moved, the way her breath caught. He could hear it in the quick cry that escaped her when he slipped his hands between her legs to cup her. How she trembled, her arm tightened when he used his fingers to tease and to pleasure. And the shock of her release when he dipped them into that hot, wet velvet.

“Take more.” He had to give more.

Her trembles went to shudders, her breath to sobbing.

Her surrender, to him, to herself, aroused him beyond imagining. And the fatigue and sorrow that sleep and shower hadn’t washed away drowned in his love for her.

He spun her around, pressed her back against the wall. Her breath was short, but her eyes stayed on his.

“You take more now,” she told him.

Gripping her hips, he fought for control, to hold the moment. And so slipped slowly inside her.

Steam smoked around them; the water streamed. They watched each other, moved together.

More than pleasure, he thought. Somehow even more than love. At a time they each needed it most, they gave each other that essential human gift of hope.

Even as her breath caught, caught again, he saw her smile. Undone, he captured those curved lips. Surrounded by her, drowning in her, he let himself take the pleasure, take the love. Take the hope.

W ell, that set me up.” Eve stretched her neck after she dragged on her old and favored NYPSD sweatshirt. “Sleep and shower sex. I ought to make the combo required for the team.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to sleep and play in the shower with Peabody and Callendar. Even for the good of the team.”

“Ha-ha. Funny.” She sat on the arm of the sofa in the sitting area to pull on thick socks. “I’ll just keep you as my personal energy booster. Gotta get back to it.”

“Food,” Roarke said.

“Yeah, I figured on-”

“I know what you figured on.” He took her hand to walk out of the bedroom with her. “But disappointment is what you’re doomed for as it’s not going to be pizza.”

“I think you have prejudice against the pie.”

“I have no pie prejudice. However, I insist on another element to your energy boost. In addition to sleep and shower sex, we’re having steak.”

“Red meat’s hard to argue with, but I’m having fries with it.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She knew that mmm-hmm. It meant vegetables. She also knew that fussing over getting decent food into her would keep his mind off what was happening to Gia Rossi.

She let him order up whatever he considered proper nutrition while she fed the cat. The vegetables turned out to be some sort of medley he called niçoise. At least they had the crunch going for them.

She read over her detectives’ reports while they ate. “People remember the details,” she said. “Such as they were. The people who were close to the prior vics remember the details.”