The Recruiter (A Thriller) Page 12

  “Yeah, but I said it first.”

  Samuel watches as she signals the bartender. He glances at her drink. It’s empty. Christ, that was fast. He hasn’t even drained a third of his beer. Not that it matters as it’s light beer. There won’t be any buzz for him tonight. And really, spending time with her is enough to ruin any kind of buzz. What at first was a mild sympathy for her has now turned into pure animosity. And the worst part of all?

  He’s going to have to fuck her.

  It’s a given.

  He listens, a patient expression on her face as she talks about growing up in a big family with lots of brothers, blah, blah, blah.

  Suddenly, he senses Julie looking at him.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said,” her words are slightly slurred. How long has she been talking? He rubs his temple. It’s been throbbing, and the pain is piercing through his mind. How many drinks has she had? He looks down at his mug of beer. It’s been refilled. When? How could he not notice?

  Samuel, keep it together, man!

  “That’s my story. Now, I’ll give you two options, Mr. Mysterious. You either tell me more about yourself, open up a little bit, or just take me home.”

  Samuel drains half of his beer in one long drink, suddenly wishing that it wasn’t light beer but something much, much stronger.

  He pays the bartender, and they walk out together, Julie walking very close to him. There’s no question who will drive as she’s clearly half in the bag. She blathers on the whole way to her house with Samuel having to interrupt to confirm directions. Finally, they pull into the driveway of a small Cape Cod on a quiet street. Ordinarily, Samuel thinks a house like this would be someone’s idea of quaint domesticity. But knowing what he knows about Julie Giacalone, it seems depressing.

  What happens doesn’t surprise Samuel. In fact, it feels like it’s been scripted and he’s just following along, playing his part.

  As soon as they’re in the door, she practically throws herself at him. Her lips are all over him, and he tries not to recoil at the feeling of her cold nose pressing against his cheek, like an English pointer eagerly licking its master. He pretends to respond with equal passion as she pulls him toward the bedroom. She pulls at his clothes practically ripping the buttons from his shirt. He is trying to get her clothes off, but she’s moving, already has his pants down. He looks around her room. It’s what he expected. A soft yellow with a flowery comforter and pictures of her parents on her dresser.

  She takes off her clothes, pulling him toward the bed, where in no time, he finds himself on top of her, and she’s kissing him, her legs wrapped around his ribs, thrusting her pelvis at him with brutal force.

  The pain in Samuel’s head is pounding at him; he feels inundated, sensory overload. He feels his will begin to subside, and it scares him. He forces everything from his mind, grits his teeth, and bares down. He thinks of Nevens, of how good it felt to slit his throat.

  He grabs each of Julie’s legs and spreads them wider, opening her up. She moans in anticipation. He leans in, but turns his head away from her. Looking at her will break the spell. He focuses on the blood lust that seeps through his body at the memory of killing Nevens and lets himself be consumed with the task at hand.

  Fifty-Two

  When he lifts her legs, Julie Giacalone’s passion boils over into a primal frenzy. Samuel’s gentleness, his smooth motions have slowly built the seeds of a raging orgasm inside her. But when she feels his passion rise, she is electrified by the explosive pleasure sweeping through her body.

  She succumbs to it, feels a howl of pleasure start at the base of her vocal cords.

  She presses her head back in the pillow and turns her face to the side. She opens her eyes, startled by the sheer intensity of the orgasm rampaging its way through her body.

  And then she sees something in the bathroom.

  It doesn’t register at first, so consumed with the intensity of the pleasure as she is.

  The mirror.

  She sees Samuel’s face in the mirror.

  At first, she thinks it must be an illusion. But no, it’s his face. It’s his face, on her dresser. It’s like an optical illusion until she realizes that it’s the reflection of a reflection. The mirror in the bathroom is a makeup mirror, on an extendable metal hook. When she used it this morning, she must have left it pulled out. The mirror is turned toward the doorway of the bathroom and on its face, she can see the reflection of her dresser.

  On her dresser is another small mirror. She uses this for a final check before she goes out the door. It’s tilted down toward the bed. And on its face is Samuel’s face, reflected.

  Julie is shocked by what she sees.

  Samuel’s face is not filled with pleasure, not with ecstasy.

  His face is wrinkled, in fact, with displeasure.

  Julie feels a coldness sweep through her body.

  He’s fucking her out of duty.

  It’s that obvious.

  She stops thrusting as Samuel rocks her body with his orgasm. He’s done, and Julie, out of breath, closes her eyes.

  She feels like she’s been violated.

  But no, that’s not right.

  She forced herself on him.

  And then it all becomes clear. He felt he had to do it, had to do the boss. Oh God, how awful. How unbelievably awful.

  Why didn’t he say something? Suddenly, she feels a rage, a hopeless burst of fury.

  He treated her like a piece of meat. Shame floods her, and she can only see his face, see that look of abject disgust.

  She wants to cry.

  But she doesn’t let herself. She lets her emotions of self-pity and self-loathing gel into something.

  A pure, raw, unadulterated hatred.

  For him.

  For Samuel.

  Fifty-Three

  When it’s over, Samuel feels her body against his and knows that she has fallen asleep. It was bad, but he got the job done. Somehow, he thought her orgasm would be louder and more intense, judging by the way she was making so much noise during the buildup.

  Whatever.

  Samuel stares at the ceiling. His body hums with electricity. He feels good, sort of like after a light workout.

  Now, he just needs to meet his quota. He makes a note to check with Paul Rodgers, to see if any leads on a high-quality recruit have called in.

  Samuel glances out the corner of his eye at Julie. Her back is to him as she sleeps.He wonders how many more times he’ll have to have sex with her.

  Probably quite a few.

  And then he wonders if killing her will be as unpleasant as fucking her.

  Fifty-Four

  After a lot of thought, Peter Forbes has come to a simple conclusion regarding the unfortunate scene in which Beth discovered him with Vanessa.

  It’s Beth’s fault.

  It hasn’t been an easy decision for him to reach, but like a dogged investigator, he has followed the clues and the answers have led him to the doorstep of that ultimate responsibility.

  It’s Beth’s fault. It really is.

  First of all, it was Beth who didn’t want to take their relationship to the next level. Lord knows, he’d tried to get there, but she always said no. Once, they’d come very, very close, but again, Beth’s wishes prevailed. She had absolutely refused to consummate their relationship.

  No sex. No way.

  Why she felt that way, Peter never understood. She usually claimed she just wasn’t ready. Other times it was about not wanting to jeopardize either of their basketball futures with a baby, even though Peter had said he’d wear a condom. Once in a while, she’d say she didn’t want to be a slut.

  That one always stuck with him. Beth isn’t old-fashioned. She parties, she swears, she’s with it.

  So what was the deal with the sex thing? What was the real truth?

  Christ. Beth and the ugly chick who hangs out in the library were probably the only two virgins in their entire class. And rumor had it that t
he ugly chick and a nerd from the AV club were getting ready to take the plunge.

  So the crux of the problem, the focus of the blame has to be with Beth. Peter is confident in this; if he and Beth had been sleeping together before her knee injury, he never would have picked up Vanessa and gone for it with her. In essence, Peter had given Beth every opportunity to be the girl in the Explorer with him, going at it like rutting dogs.

  Beth hadn’t taken the opportunity.

  So whose fault is it, really?

  Admittedly, he was already feeling like the relationship with Beth wasn’t going anywhere, and once he left for Marquette, it would be all over anyway. But still, he couldn’t get around the fact that it was probably Beth’s fault he ended up enjoying those glorious minutes with Vanessa.

  Vanessa. Wow. Despite the guilt, the pain over what he’d done, every time he thinks of what she’d done to him, he gets excited all over again.

  Peter tries to forget about Vanessa.

  He has a conscience, after all. And that’s why he has decided to come and talk to Beth. He can’t just leave it like this.

  Now, standing at her front door, he knocks firmly. It’s time to face this thing.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  He rings the doorbell and waits, thinking. It was bad too. The indignity of having to walk back to the Explorer with his pants down, his feet all cold, and there was Vanessa, sitting there in all her naked pride, completely comfortable with being unclad—judging by her obvious experience, it shouldn’t’ have surprised him. But he remembers the look of scorn on her face. Like she couldn’t believe he went chasing after Beth even though they were in flagrante delicto.

  Peter’s face flushes at the memory. To be completely honest, it pisses him off. And it’s Beth’s fault. In a way, she completely humiliated him, as much as she probably feels like it’s the other way around.

  The door opens, and Beth is standing there, her arms folded.

  She steps back and starts to close the door, but Peter is faster. He gets his hand inside and steps into the house. Beth, her face indifferent, limps away, back toward the living room.

  “Beth.”

  She lowers herself into a chair and props her leg up on the ottoman. Pain registers on her face from the effort.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Peter says. And he is, but he doesn’t like the way she’s trying to blame him entirely for what happened. She has to take some responsibility too.

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am.”

  “Did you finish?”

  “Finish?”

  “Did you finish fucking her or was that it for the night? When you chased me, did you get back in and do her right?”

  Peter, standing in the middle of the living room, suddenly feels foolish. He feels like a defendant being cross-examined by a ruthless prosecutor. He sits down on the sagging couch.

  “Come on, Beth. It’s my fault.”

  Suddenly, she screams at him. “Of course it’s your fault! How could you do that to me? With her? Her! Why her? And there! You asshole!”

  Peter watches Beth’s face crumple into tears.

  “It didn’t…” But he’s at a loss for words. He can’t explain it. And why should he? Beth’s partially to blame too. Granted, not as much as he is, but still, she should take some responsibility. He’d told himself before he got here that he wasn’t going to articulate that he blames her. He has to stick to that now. It would be a terrible thing to say to Beth.

  “Maybe if we had…” he begins.

  “I knew it! I knew you were going to try to blame me for it. She mocks him, ‘Maybe if we had…’ As in, maybe if I’d let you fuck me, you wouldn’t have been fucking Vanessa? So now it’s my fault?”

  Peter shuts his mouth. She was all over that one in a hurry. Why is he handling this so badly?

  “No,” he says.

  “But that’s what you think. You’re blaming me. Get out of my house. And stay out of my life.”

  The finality of it shocks Peter.

  Out of her life? She can’t be serious.

  “Beth—”

  “Out!”

  Peter knows there’s no sense in staying. She’s hysterical. She’ll come to her senses later, when the anger has passed. She’ll be able to see things more clearly, including how much of a role she unwittingly played in what happened.

  He gets up, walks to the front door. He opens it and comes face to face with a man he’s never seen before.

  “Hi,” the man says. “I’m Samuel.”

  Fifty-Five

  Samuel is sick of surprises.

  On the drive to Beth Fischer’s house, he’s gone over how the scenario should play out, tried to think of all the variables that could come into play.

  Samuel laughs at the recruiter training he had in Florida. Somehow, he can’t recall any lessons on how to deal with the absolute bullshit the real world presented to the recruiter. And, naturally, they said absolutely nothing about the kind of pressure a recruiter can be under. Jesus Christ, to be told to get two new recruits in ninety days or get a bad mark in your file! It’s a pathetic situation, but one he has to deal with.

  He checks the street number on the sheet of paper Paul Rodgers had given him, and turns down a quiet street packed with teeny little homes, glorified ice shanties by the size of them, until he pulls up in front of a little white house with overgrown grass and a sagging front door.

  He retrieves his briefcase from the car and walks to the front door. It’s a chilly, gray-sky kind of day, and the stiff breeze bends back the branches of a leafless maple sapling buttressing the end of the house.

  Samuel shudders. The place has low-life Lake Orion scum written all over it.

  He knocks and the door and it’s opened by a guy who looks like the personification of one of the Hardy boys. Samuel can’t help but stifle a groan. Surprise number one.

  Samuel introduces himself, but the big kid blows past him and heads for a Ford Explorer parked on the street. Samuel, watching him go, is startled by a voice from the door.

  “You’re the recruiter, I take it?”

  Samuel turns and is knocked low by surprise number two.

  She’s gorgeous.

  He’s momentarily at a loss for words. He was expecting a butt-ugly, trailer-trash biker chick with tattoos and maybe even a kid or two. Plus, after the near Neanderthal features of Julie Giacalone, he’s simply transfixed by the fine nose, the delicate jaw, the petite but sensual lips. And the eyes. The combination of blue and gray is equally startling. They also seem familiar somehow.

  “Are you okay?” she asks again, and Samuel snaps out of his reverie.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Just thinking…do I know you? Have we met?”

  She looks at him oddly for a second, and he realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. He holds out his hand. “I’m Samuel Ackerman.”

  “Samuel Ackerman. The name seems familiar,” she says. “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Lake Orion.”

  She shakes her head after a moment’s hesitation. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she says. Then she steps aside and says, “Come in. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  He walks into the living room, is shocked by how small and plain it is. It has a strange smell too. Sort of musty, and then he realizes that there’s not even a hint of food smells. They must eat out a lot, he thinks. There’s something else, though. A faint smell of something. He breathes in again and thinks, yes…it smells sort of like booze.

  He already feels claustrophobic. It reminds him of his own childhood home. The thought is depressing enough to make Samuel’s head start to throb. Being back in this godforsaken town…he knew it would stir up a lot of bad memories for him. It has stirred them up, and they keep coming at him.

  He catches himself, realizes Beth is watching him, waiting.

  “Who—?” Samuel starts to ask as he gestures toward the Explorer, which
moments ago roared away down the street.

  “Nobody,” Beth says sharply before he can even finish the question.

  Samuel recognizes the implicit warning and simply nods his head.

  “Where would you like to set up?” she asks.

  He looks around the small house, and almost laughs at her question. There’s nowhere to go except the teeny kitchen or the teeny living room.

  “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

  “Here is fine,” she says.

  She gestures to the wing chair, and she moves to the couch. He notices that she’s limping. She’s wearing a pretty thick brace around her left knee. He has to ask. If it’s a permanent injury, polio or something like that, she’ll never be able to join the Navy and he’s wasting his time. On the far wall, he’s spotted a picture or two of Beth Fischer in basketball action shots. A few newspaper articles featuring her name in the headline.

  “What happened to your knee?”

  She colors slightly. “I blew it out, literally. I’m in rehab and should be back to eighty percent or so in a year.”

  Samuel considers this.

  “Will that be a problem?” she asks.

  “Not as long as you can jog three to six miles at a moment’s notice.”

  She nods. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Good,” Samuel says. He’s thinking back to his Professional Sales Skills training: open, probe, support, meet needs, close and figure out next steps. He takes her through the process. Asking questions gently, getting permission from her to probe further, and then carefully supplying all of the support, showing her how the Navy can meet every one of her needs.

  She tells him openly and honestly that she wants out of Lake Orion, about her basketball injury, about her scholarship falling through.

  Samuel, in turn, answers her points quietly and without a hard sell. He lies through his teeth about how great the Navy is, that it will help her get money for college and valuable training, as well as letting her see the world. A total load of bullshit, but he says it all with a straight face.

  Samuel is impressed with her. She’s beautiful, but his first impression is that she seems smart, focused and he senses an underlying toughness about her. The way she answered his question about the guy in the Explorer. “He’s nobody,” she’d said. Well, Samuel knows he is somebody, but that in her mind right now, she’s pissed at him and so considers him a nobody.