Free The Morning After by Lisa Jackson Page A

with women; some considered him thrilling and dangerous.
    Sensual.
    A brooding, quiet man with secrets.
    If they only knew.
    He saw his upper body, strong from working out—army style. Fingertip push-ups and hundreds of chin-ups and sit-ups. Swimming. Running. Exertion. Perfection. Every muscle honed.
    How else would he have survived?
    He opened the second drawer and looked at the clothes within. A lacy black slip, bra and panties…the whore Barbara Jean Marx’s underclothes. There were other scraps as well, rotting fabric that had been covering the dead woman’s privates. Nasty, dirty, now encased in a plastic sack. He needed the old underwear, of course, so that his collection would be complete, but didn’t want the torn, filthy, rotting fabric to touch the silken perfection of Barbara Jean Marx’s expensive panties, slip and bra.
    Touching the whore’s underthings, running the silk through his fingers brought a welcome warmth to his blood and he closed his eyes for a second, lifted the panties to his nostrils, felt the thickening in his groin. As much as he’d hated her, he’d lusted after her. All normal men did.
    And what do you think is normal about you, you useless, stupid sack of shit?
    The voice withered his erection and he forced himself not to hear the taunts that still reverberated through his mind. He folded Barbara Jean’s underclothes and slipped them into their plastic sack, then gave himself a swift mental kick for losing the ring…damn it all to hell, he’d wanted that ring, fancied himself fondling the glittering stones as he’d watched the news about Barbara Jean Marx, ex-model, rich wife’s bizarre death. But somehow, he’d lost the damned ring. Another mistake. His jaw tightened.
    Slipping her clothes into the second drawer, he noticed the drops of dried blood on the bureau and touched them lightly with the pad of his thumb. As he often did. Just to remember. But he was careful not to wipe the drops too hard, needed them to stay where they were, even the ones that ran down the side. A few dark stains settled over the lip of the top drawer and around the keyhole, but he didn’t open it. Would never. That private space was sacred. Could not be violated. He touched the chain at his neck and the small key that hung from it.
    Sometimes it was tempting to take off the links of worn gold and slip the key into its lock and listen as it clicked. The old drawer would open slowly, sealed from the blood that had once been sticky, and then he would…
    Not! He would never open the drawer.
    All the recording lights were glowing. He could leave. Assume his other life. He licked his lips and tried to slow the rapid beat of his heart as he took one last look at the news and the havoc he’d caused. Because of a whore’s gruesome death. Again, he imagined her waking in the coffin, terror riddling her body. He could have hauled the coffin to the surface, been her hero and taken her then. She would have done anything for him. Spread her legs. Sucked his cock. Anything.
    He felt a rush of desire, a jet of lust running through his bloodstream, and he imagined Pierce Reed in bed with her.
    Bastard.
    The Survivor’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t pull up any spit as he stared at the televisions and remembered plunging the needle into her arm…. She’d collapsed, crying out as she lost consciousness and…A series of beeps brought him out of his reverie. He snapped back to the moment and realized he was running out of time. Quickly he clicked off the alarm on his watch, slid out of the room and, as the recorders taped every moment of the news, walked quietly through the dark corridors that were little more than tunnels. He braced himself to face the cold winter morning and the new day.
    Finally, his time had come.

CHAPTER 4
     
     
    Quietly he stole through the shadows. It was just twilight and he was dead tired and if he were caught, he’d probably lose his job, but Reed slipped through the back gate