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If there was anything Jim Lipton hated, it was shitty motel rooms. He hated a fair number of other things; when fuckin' rookies couldn't load a clip, the way his tongue tasted after a night of scotch and case files, Julia Roberts – but shitty motel rooms were pretty high on the list.
He paced around the room, eight steps to round the bed, eight steps back. Sixteen wasn't a good number for pacing, needed at least twenty. Turning on his heel, mashing the matted carpet, he paused and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His hand slid up the coarse skin on his neck, thumb following his jaw and eyes falling on the doll by the bed. There was another thing to add to the list, that motherfucking doll. He'd sooner watch Erin Brockovich than spend a night in the same room with that thing; at least he could think about coming on her tits.
"You're a creepy little fuck, ya know that?" The doll's eyes stared at the modern art on the wall; a yellowing composition of swoops in taupe, mulberry, and navy blue. Lipton strode to the bathroom and twisted the handles of the faucet. After a moment of uncertainty, the water came in a splutter. He cupped his hands and splashed his face, instantly smelling the sulfurous stench of bad pipes, bad wells, bad fucking motel rooms. He wiped his hands on his slacks, slung his coat on, and let the door slam on his way out.
•••
"Beware the stare of Mary Shaw."
Six words. That goddamn rhyme had to have at least twenty, had been repeated to him nightly, and he couldn't even remember. After those six words, Jamie's sure murmur muddled into muttering. "Fuck," he hissed, and tried again. Tried to dig deep, tried to remember a bored childhood existence colored by his father's coldness and punctuated by surrogate mothers coming and going, coming and – the knock on the door made him jolt upward and brace himself on his palms, elbows bent, biceps wound tight.
"Woah there," Lipton drawled, taking stock of his unwilling client, all shook up and wild-eyed like an animal in a snare. "A little nervous, are we?" Jamie slackened, dropping to his elbows. The bedframe groaned.
"Right, sorry, I should always expect anyone to come barging through my fuckin' door," Jamie grumbled, "say, what's the damage for breaking and entering anyhow?" He saw the glint in the detective's eyes, and wished he would've kept his damn mouth shut.
"Ah, funny you should ask – ya see, breaking and entering only counts if there is an intent to commit a crime," Lipton slid off his coat, tossing it carelessly on the table by the door, "as there is no intent to commit a crime, it would – at most – be illegal trespass. A mere misdemeanor, rub the right hands and it can be wiped right outta' the record."
Jamie hitched his breath as the door slammed again, swung shut by Lipton's heel.
"Now tampering with evidence, in your case," Lipton continued, a finger wagging idly as he strode the sixteen steps around the bed and back again, "now, you may be lookin' at ten years in the slammer. Slapped with a fine for fifty grand too, in the case of homicide." He paused at the foot of the bed and gave Jamie Ashen a condescending glance. "Listen kid, don't even try to play my game. You're already losing yours."
Jamie lunged to the end of the bed, planting his feet on the carpet in front of Lipton, eyes cold and fists clenched. "I didn't kill my wife." Jamie Ashen's voice was low. Dangerous. Lipton took stock of this, returning his gaze coolly.
"And who did, then? Fuckin' Howdy Doody in the room next door? Don't wanna shatter your solid defense, but campfire stories don't hold up so well on the stand."
"Neither does the truth, apparently." Jamie muttered coldly in a triggerpull retort. And all at once, detective Lipton was amiable, agreeable. He lifted his hands affably, eyebrows raised.
"Listen, I actually came here to help you out, so how about some respect?" Jamie unrolled his fists, resignedly flipping a hand.
"What is it?"
Lipton slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out the sleek, black razor. Turning toward his reflection, he flicked it on and spoke over the buzz.
"You know those right hands you can rub?" Lipton asked, eyes flickering toward Jamie as he glanced askance from tracing his Adam's apple with the electric blade. Jamie shrugged impatiently. Lipton didn't give him a chance to answer. "Well, one of 'em happens to be me. And I can make that ten years and fifty thousand slide on unnoticed. But only if." Lipton's thumbnail clicked off the razor. The silence hung heavy.
"Only if?" Jamie prompted and stepped forward, once the quiet had started to prickle the hairs on his neck. The vibrations of the razor left Lipton's hand numb. It felt like a corpse's as it reached up to touch Jamie's cheek, turning to run the backs of his knuckles along the set jawline.
"Only if you do something for me." Lipton felt the cord of muscle roll as Jamie grit his teeth.
"Are you propositioning me?" Jamie hissed lowly, his neck craning away from Lipton's hand as an afterthought. Lipton smirked.
"You're the one who said it, not me."
"Yeah, yeah, cover your tracks all you fuckin' want," Jamie's hand shot up, fingers hooking viciously around the knot of Lipton's tie, pulling it loose. "How 'bout entrapment, then? What'll that getcha?" his fist clenched around the polyester, yanking. Lipton followed in a choked jerk.
"As if I give a shit," Lipton whispered hoarsely, the hand that had caressed Jamie's cheek planting on his chest, shoving. Jamie's knees buckled against the bed and he collapsed onto it, the springs creaking as they strained.
To Jamie, it didn't seem real; his wife was dead, he was suspect, he was at the Ravens Fair motel that hadn't changed since he had brought his Prom date there and spent the night diligently concentrating on not blowing his load the moment he was inside her.
Filthy fucking motel room. Somehow, that made it the most surreal. It was a Ravens Fair High time capsule except the mattress had gathered more come stains, bloodstains, and he didn't have hell to catch when he came home late the next afternoon. The squeaking of the bedframe made it unreal; made his determined hands fumbling the buttons of the detective's workshirt and lips kissing, sucking, biting at Lipton's neck unreal. Lipton swore and cuffed the back of Jamie's head.
"Fuck's sake, ya trying to tear out my jugular?"
Jamie paused, lifting his head, sitting back and pushing into Lipton's hips. He sucked in a gasp. In the pulsing, humming red light of the motel sign, Jamie noticed the gleam of saliva on the detective's neck; the already-surfacing bruises. He leaned forward again, braced above Lipton with one arm, and pushed his thumb into the tender flesh where jaw and neck seamed.
"You missed a spot."
Jamie crashed his lips right into Lipton's retort.
The detective was breathing heavily now, panting hard with his cock straining against his slacks and Jamie's jeans. With a feverish cocktail of determination, spite, and indignity, Jamie pulled at the waist of Lipton's pants, clasp and zipper coming undone in one wrench.
"Jesus Christ," Lipton protested, watching Jamie unceremoniously fish his cock from his boxers, "you know how much these pants cost?" Jamie spat on his hand, clenched his fist around Lipton's cock.
"As if I give a shit." He yanked roughly. Lipton yelped.
"Alright, alright," and there was that amiable tone again, that smarmy you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-yours voice, "take it easy, kid."
Jamie reluctantly obeyed, sliding his hand mechanically up and down Lipton's half-hard dick. Lipton reached out and distractedly tugged open the bedstand drawer, finding a dog-eared Bible and a pack of cigarettes. Jamie had never been a smoker; had bought the pack to stimulate. To ward off the dreams of Mary Shaw and the way Lisa's face looked when he found her. Lipton lit up one of the cigarettes, a drag escaping his lungs in a groan and stream of smoke when Jamie's thumb brushed the head of his cock.
"Christ, I feel like I'm at the fuckin' drive in with a fifteen year old," Lipton growled, cigarette bobbing loosely in his lips as he clasped the nape of Jamie's neck and pushed him down. "If I wanted to jerk off, I woulda' ordered Amateurs Only Twelve."
Jamie steeled himself, licking his lips, determined to make that prick writhe and moan and – he paused, suddenly remembering. Another part to the six-word puzzle.
"Don't scream," he murmured, jaw cracking as it unhinged for the plunge.
end