Yet more erotic fiction
(And if your life hasn’t yet been changed for the wetter:
Why has it been so long between drinks (or should I say Tequila shots?). Well, the truthful answer is that I was arousing myself so much with my words that I was starting to fear for my own wellbeing. That may sound like I’m self-satisfied, and that’s because I am. Hourly when I’m writing Cold Tequila Comfort. Which is precisely the problem.
Anyway, I’ve settled right down, and I’m going to give it another crack. If things get messy again, it may well be the last time Brunden, Broxell, Davis and the female characters (whose names all escape me just at the moment) grace the pages of this blog.
Read. Savour. Get sticky.
Strom Ruk didn’t speak much English. He didn’t need to. His actions said more than words ever could. He had killed six hundred people and raised more than four billion Euros for charitable organisations. He was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a body brimming with raw sexual power and muscles and a small amount of hair.
His name was an anagram of storm; that was not insignificant.
He was walking down Sparkassenstraße in Munich. He was not wearing lederhosen – he never had. He also had no interest in fascism. He was wearing cuban heels and many women looked at him as he passed.
One of those women was Leto Amethyst. Their eyes met – Ruk’s brown like hazelnut praline in a dark room, Leto’s blue like the Danube at a quarter past three on a mid-September afternoon with no cloud cover.
They went down and alley. They took off all their clothes and had sex in the doggy position.
When they were done, Leto couldn’t find one of her socks. A crow had picked it up in its beak while they were having intercourse and had flown all the way to Nuremberg with it. She would never see it again and in a quieter moment, once the adrenaline and seminal fluid had left her body, she chastised herself for unclothing so comprehensively in what was, for all intents and purposes, a “quickie”.
After putting his clothes back on, Ruk returned to the hustle and bustle of Sparkassenstraße, turned into Bräuhausstraße, helped a boy with polio cross the street and then went to find a small-time drug runner by the name of Gunter Furr whom he garrotted with a piece of fencing wire.
It was only 11am.
Davis drummed his fingers on the desk in his office. He was sitting at the desk on his chair, which was uncomfortable; it always had been – that was just something he had to live with. It was part and parcel of being a cop.
Detective Inspector Cora-Lynne Cousins entered the office. Davis looked her up and down. DI Cousins was an attractive woman, but he knew she was suspicious of men with beards, and he had a beard. It was black. He had no chance there, even if he wanted to “tap that bootay” as the repugnant Brian McGirk would say.
“What do you want, Cousins?”
“I’ve been using the computer and the internet to look at records.”
“Tell me more.”
“They deal mainly in chemicals.”
“OK.” Davis scratched his nose.
“Quite dangerous ones, actually. Acids, poisons…”
“Where did you discover this?”
“In their About Us section.”
Davis tented his fingers and nodded slowly. He was thinking. That was his job. In addition to doing paperwork and investigating murder and other crimes. He was also a father. But not a very good one. The job didn’t let you do that.
“But I dug deeper.”
Cousins was good. Real good. But Davis didn’t like to give her too much credit. That could lead a good cop to get ahead of themselves. He’d seen that happen before – more times than he’d like to remember. He was eating a custard tart. “Go on,” was all he said.
“It turns out they’ve been transferring funds into an account.”
“Bank account?” Davis asked, throwing the custard tart into the bin. It was delicious – just the right amount of nutmeg – but his appetite had suddenly left him.
“Yeah. A bank account.”
“One Hank Reginald Brunden.”
Davis felt his fists bunch. Anger rose inside him. It tasted like burnt sago pudding.
“You OK, Davis?”
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t; he was actually angry.
“Want me to keep digging?”
“You keep digging. I’ll…”
“What you gunna do, Davis?”
“I need to pay someone a visit.”
“And that person is Hank Brunden. And I’ll get to his home in a taxi.”
Felicity put down the phone.
“Who was that?” Broxell asked.
Felicity didn’t answer. She refused to meet Broxell’s gaze.
“Was it Ruk?” Broxell asked.
“Yes,” Felicity admitted, now looking deep into her beau’s perfect eyes. They were like pools of molten caramel.
“You know I don’t like you speaking with him. He’s a dangerous guy.”
“I know. But I…”
“Were you ordering a hit?”
Felicity’s eyes flicked to the ground.
“You want him dead?”
“Yes. I was ordering Ruk to kill him in a hit job.”
Broxell folded his arms.
“I know you love him like a brother.”
“He is my brother.”
“I was going to tell you, but… Well… Now… It’s just that… Anyway… I suppose… You see… He’s my half brother.”
“Oh my god. I’ll call Ruk.”
“Brunden… I want him dead, too.”
“I’m confused, Broxell. I’m cold and confused.”
He did as he was told. They started hard and fast. It was if they both had an urgent and important business meeting to attend and furious rutting was the only way they were going to get to it on time.
But there was no meeting. They slowed. They pushed the encounter right to the limit and then beyond into the outer reaches of human ecstasy. Whorl released his cream.
Davis knocked on the door. It made the noise that only mahogany makes: rich, thickly resonant… expensive.
Davis felt his jaw clench. He resented Brunden – the self-made man, the entrepreneur… the white collar criminal? Yes, he thought, although he couldn’t be sure. That’s why he was here. To turn his suspicious into certainty. He had some custard tart in his teeth. He spat.
Brunden answered the door wearing only a serviette.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Brunden.”
“I was just in the middle of afternoon tea,” Brunden said, smiling what Davis considered his preposterously symmetrical smile.
“Don’t play smart with me, Brunden.”
Brunden removed the serviette and used it to dab the corners of his mouth.
Davis tried with all his inner strength not to move his eyes downward. He failed.
Brunden raised his eyebrows. “You like what you see?”
“Fuck you!” Davis growled.
There was a long pause in which Brunden nodded slowly.
Davis’ eyes narrowed. Brunden stepped forward. Davis unholstered his gun.
Brunden kissed Davis passionately.
Davis’ gun clattered as it hit the ground.
Ruk entered the driveway. He passed the immaculately manicured hedges, the silver Mercedes, the white Rolls Royce and the black Aston Martin, the swimming pool, the life-size marble statue of a man with broad shoulders, the fountain, the aviary, the truffle pig enclosure, the yacht and the solar array. He was at the door.
It was open. And there was a gun lying on the welcome mat. “Now zat’s ironical,” Ruk said to himself, picking up the gun and checking to see how many bullets it had left in the bullet compartment. Four. He would only need one. And that would only be if his original plan of elbowing Brunden in the temple so he died failed. That was unlikely.
Ruk slid the gun into his jeans and entered the mansion.
He knew from the brief he’d been given that the Brunden residence was a labyrinthine abode incorporating 15 bedrooms, 20 bathrooms and 35 living rooms, seven conservatories, as well as a butterfly house and a sixty-car garage. He had been warned that this could be a day-long operation, as Brunden could be in any of the rooms at any given time. That was if he was home at all.
Ruk entered the first room on the right. Brunden was in it.
He was lying on a king size bed. Asleep. In the arms of another man. A man with a black beard. A man who looked like he could have been a cop. A man whose gun Ruk was now pointing at Brunden’s head.
His finger slid across the trigger like a snake passing across a trigger-shaped rock. Something stirred deep inside him. A long-forgotten desire to be held? A yearning for a simpler time? No, it was just an erection.
But why was he aroused? Surely because the thrill of taking life had never dimmed in him. Surely because holding a firearm was even more appealing to him than holding a woman’s bodily cushions. Surely because he was a man of violence and violence was what he was about to commit.
Ruk felt his arm and his piston stiffen further.
Brunden’s eyes opened. He sat up.
Ruk adjusted his aim.
“That’s quite a weapon you’ve got on display there,” Brunden said, smiling casually.
Ruk glanced downward and cursed himself for having chosen to wear white lycra leggings that morning.
“I thought you’d be coming, Ruk,” Brunden said, still smiling. “But I didn’t think it would be this early.”
Ruk didn’t respond.
“Why don’t you join us?” Brunden was obviously suggesting that they enter into a three-way homosexual union.
Ruk swallowed hard. He felt his arm drop.
“That’s the way,” said Brunden, lifting the satin sheets. An invitation.
Ruk stepped forward. There was a noise to his right. The man who seconds ago had been asleep next to Brunden was now beside him aiming a whaling harpoon at Ruk’s quickly-diminishing pillar.
“It’s for scientific purposes, I promise,” said Senior Detective Inspector Charlie Davis.
I just drove myself mad with desire.
If you want to continue to be driven mad:
Cold Tequila Comfort on Twitter:
Haught fact of the day:
Guns have different bullet compartments depending on things like the size of the gun and the colour of the gun.