The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [95]
He rubbed his cheeks against the silky skin between her thighs, then drew his tongue upward between her moist folds.
“It’s good, Joey So good,” Terry moaned, drawing his face more tightly against her. She smiled down at him and dug her fingers through the jet-black waves of his hair.
Shuddering, she brought his mouth to hers. Her heels slid around his body as the hunger in their kiss grew. He entered her with slow, deepening thrusts.
“Joey, I love you,” Terry whispered. “I love you so much.”
She sucked on his lips and caressed the fold between his buttocks. The heavy muscles tensed as her fingers worked deeper.
Joey’s thrusts grew quicker, more forceful. It would be soon, they knew, for both of them.
Suddenly, the telephone on the bedside table began ringing. “No,” Terry groaned. “Let it ring.” But already she felt a let-up in Joey’s intensity. “Let it ring,” she begged again. Six times, seven—the intrusive jangling was not going to stop. The pressure inside her lessened. An eighth ring, then a ninth.
“Damn,” Joey snarled, popping free of her as he rolled over. “This better not be a fucking wrong number.” He mumbled a greeting, listened for half a minute, then said the single word, “Where?” A moment later, he kicked the covers off and scrambled out of bed.
“Terry, it’s the doc,” he said. “Doc Shelton. He’s hurt and he needs help.” He flicked on the bedside light and raced to the closet.
“I’m coming with you,” Terry demanded, pulling herself upright.
“No, honey. Please.” He held up a hand. “He’s like crazy. I could barely understand him. But he did say there was trouble. I don’t want you there. Call the tavern. See if Rudy Fisher’s still working. If he is, tell him to get his ass over to the esplanade by the Charles River. The Hatch Shell. I’ll meet him there.”
“Joey, can’t you call someone else? You know how I feel about that m—”
“Look, I don’t have time to debate. Rudy’s been with me longer than y—for a long time. If there’s trouble, I want him around.”
Twelve years had taught Terry the uselessness of arguing with her husband over such matters. Still, his insistence on Rudy Fisher, a giant who doted on violence, frightened her. “Joey, please,” she urged. “Just be careful. No rough stuff. Please promise me. If he’s hurt, then just get him to a hospital and come home.”
“Baby, the man saved my life,” he said, pulling on a pair of pants. “Whatever he needs from me he gets.”
“But you promised …”
“Listen,” Joey snapped, “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.” He forced a more relaxed tone. “I’m a businessman now, you know that. If he’s hurt, I’ll get him to the hospital. Don’t worry. Just do what I asked you to.” He grabbed a shirt from the closet.
Terry sat on the edge of the bed, admiring him as he dressed. At forty-two he still had the cleanly chiseled features and sinewy body of a matinee idol. There was a calm, unflappable air about him that gave no hint of the deadly situations he had survived in his life. Reminders were there, though, in the burgundy scars that crisscrossed his abdomen. One, an eighteen-inch crescent around his left flank, was a memento from his days as a youth gang leader in Boston’s North End. Intersecting it just above his navel was another scar—ten years old—the result of a gunshot wound sustained while thwarting a holdup at the Northside.
Rosetti had been one of David’s first private patients at White Memorial—a twelve-hour procedure that some of the operating room staff still spoke of reverently. During Joey’s convalescence, a friendship had developed between the two men.
“Terry, will you stop gawking and make that call,” Joey said tersely as he stepped into a pair of black loafers. He waited until her back was turned, then snatched his revolver and shoulder holster from beneath the sweaters on his closet shelf.
He was headed toward the door when Terry said, “Joey, don’t use it, please.”
Rosetti walked back and kissed her gently. “I won’t, honey. Unless I absolutely have to, I won’t. Promise.”
Terry Rosetti waited until the door slammed shut, then