The Stolen - Jason Pinter [56]
people--Henry Parker and Amanda Davies--leave the
hospital. Only, when they left, they didn't drive away. In
fact, they'd been sitting in their car for several hours.
Petrovsky and Benjamin came to the same conclusion:
they were planning to follow the doctor when he left work.
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When Ray Benjamin hung up the phone, he sat there
for a moment, thinking. Then he got up, tossing the rest
of his glass into the sink, stubbing out his cigarette in the
ashtray. He called Vince and told him to be at the garage
in fifteen minutes. Ray had a lot of phone calls to make.
First he called the house. The couple took it as well as
he expected. He told them they'd prepared for a day like
this. And if they kept up their end of the deal, it would all
be worth it. And if they didn't, he only needed to remind
them of the photograph.
When everything was in motion, and Petrovsky confirmed that Parker was still at Yardley, Ray Benjamin went
to the garage. Vince was waiting for him. Vincent Cann
was a tall, slender man of thirty-eight. His jet-black hair
was slicked back, his face clean-shaven as always. A pair
of designer sunglasses sat on his face. He nodded when
he saw Benjamin approaching.
"Clusterfuck, ain't it, boss?"
Ray answered by not answering at all.
They piled into the car. Ray opened his window a crack.
The younger man was chewing gum, his jaws working
overtime. Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a
fresh pack of Chesterfields. He depressed the electric
lighter, unwrapped the pack, stuck the cig in his mouth and
waited.
Vince said, "Should we get going?"
"Wait a second," the older man said. The lighter
wasn't ready yet.
When the metal knob popped out, Ray took the end,
pressed it to the tip and inhaled deeply. There was nothing
like a good Chesterfield. When the butt was half smoked,
a long finger of ash hanging off the end, Ray flicked it out
the window.
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"Clear your schedule for the next few days," Ray said
to Vince as he pulled into traffic. "We're going to be busy
cleaning this mess up, and there's not a lot of time."
20
Paulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple
through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the
slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long
nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of
orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until
everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina
looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle
of moisture collecting in between the cups.
Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking
one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag
of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that's for sure,
and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it
secretly thrilled her to know she'd just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4
children for.
She located her underwear, snagged the band on her
shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.
"Hey," Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to
the bathroom door. "I didn't come yet!"
"Nobody's watching if you want to finish yourself off,"
she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at
herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran
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the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt
a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly
more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken
care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym,
countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But
aging happened to everyone, even women who were born
to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance
her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time,
especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought
about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient
procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of
work a day or two, then come with them enhanced. Boob
jobs were only worth it