forcefully. Of course she had had sex. Many times. Did he think there was no one who would sleep with the pathetic cat lady?
Torres bit back a laugh. “Attagirl. That’s what I’m talking about. Give it more of that and we’re golden.”
He was teasing her again. She really wished he would stop doing that. She could just about come to terms with the terrifying Torres, the teasing version was a step too far. “Why can’t you make the noise? I don’t see why I am the one who has to make an ass of myself.”
“Because if we were really having sex, my mouth would be otherwise occupied.”
Beth’s eyes widened as she realised what he was saying.
Torres smiled again. “Try again. This time more passion, less wounded animal.”
Beth shook her head. He had to be kidding her. This was definitely not in her job description. She needed a new job…or a raise. She took another deep breath and let out a moan. This time it was lower, a guttural sound that surprised her, it wasn’t anything that resembled sensual…unless a mooing cow was your thing. God she was pathetic. She wouldn’t believe anyone would willingly sleep with her after that effort.
She opened her eyes to find Torres staring at her in disbelief. “Seriously? That is the sound you make in bed? Your poor neighbours.”
“No that is not the sound I make in bed. And screw you.” Beth’s cheeks burned. Too bad punching wasn’t a sound usually associated with sex because she would gladly smack Torres in his smirking mouth.
Torres nodded in a patronising way. “What sound do you make?”
“Screw you, Torres.,” Beth said again, barely remembering to whisper. She clutched her hands into tight balls. So much for shaking the pathetic cat lady image.
“Oh…I see,” Torres said almost apologetically.
Beth’s head snapped round. “What?!” she demanded. “What exactly do you see?”
“It’s fine, Beth. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I mean I think your boyfriend should be embarrassed—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve never had an orgasm. Nothing to be ashamed of, you just need to pick better men to share your bed with,” he said with a confidence that left no question about the satisfaction he provided his partners.
“Don’t be an ass. I’ve had orgasms, plenty of them, thank you very much. Just quiet ones. So again, Torres, just…screw you.” Beth threw up her hands in exasperation.
Torres smiled again. “I see, the well-known silent orgasm. Like the kind of orgasms you have by yourself. Those are fun too.” He was staring at her again, in a way she could feel. Heat from his stare pricked her skin.
Beth’s cheeks burned as her embarrassment turned to mortification. She could not believe she was having this conversation. She opened her mouth to explain that it was possible to have thoroughly enjoyable yet relatively quiet sex but then she realised she didn’t have to justify herself to anyone.
A long silence followed. She wished he would stop looking at her so intently. It was like he was studying her, taking in every small action. She felt scrutinised and judged, and the long gaps in conversation made her eager to speak, just to fill them. Therapists did the same thing; they would leave long pauses to force the client to talk more to ease the uncomfortable silence. He was doing it on purpose, to back-foot her. Clever, but it wasn’t going to work on her. She had already told him more than enough about herself. She liked a very clear line between her work and social life. “Just screw you, Torres,” she mumbled.
“To be fair, if you were screwing me, you wouldn’t have this problem.” His voice was thick and low, his face impenetrable as always. He was teasing her again. He was, wasn’t he? He was still looking at her intently, why she could not begin to fathom, she knew first-hand that she really wasn’t that interesting.
Beth shifted on the bed. Her palms were suddenly slick. It was hot in here; hotter than it should be for Texas in April. God she needed a drink, something strong that would make her forget this particular exchange. “We’re done with this conversation. Don’t forget I’m your superior.” Beth reached into the minibar and grabbed a small bottle of single malt scotch and a can of 7 Up. She poured the contents into a glass before swirling it round. She would have preferred a nice mojito or a lemon drop, but this would have to do.
Torres’ mouth curved into a smirk. “Do you feel superior right now, Beth?”
Beth let out a stream of air. Now he even sounded like a therapist. Now that she knew the game, she could beat him at it. “I feel tired and annoyed right now. How do you feel, Torres?” She asked with a saccharin sweetness that did little to conceal her sarcasm.
Torres shrugged his shoulders. “Actually I feel better than I have in a long time. It’s been awhile since I laughed. Thanks for that.”
“So glad I could be of some service,” Beth said before she threw back her head and downed the contents of her glass. She reached in the refrigerator and made herself another drink. “Do you want anything? Uncle Sam is paying tonight.”
Torres shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t drink.”
Beth turned to face him. “Like ever?” Why didn’t she know that about him?
He nodded.
Great. He didn’t drink. In her experience the only men who did not drink were recovering alcoholics. She would add that to the list of things about Torres that made fieldwork especially dangerous, an alcoholic, most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, hell bent on revenge. How could that possibly go wrong? “Well I’ll have your share then.” Beth took another drink. “Geez, when are they going to go home?” Beth pointed to the door. As if on cue, there was another burst of laughter from the other side of the door.
“They’re nocturnal. It could be a while.”
“Great. Should we pretend to have sex again? That passed the time nicely.” Beth finished her second drink before she moaned. “Oh Torres, that’s right. Just like that.”
Torres stood up. “That’s better, but who shouts someone’s last name? You’re a freaky little thing, Gatita.” His eyes were smiling again.
Beth’s eyes narrowed. Torres’ first name. She could not remember ever using it, or even seeing it written down. Of course she must have, it would be in his file along with his social security number, his life history, and the results of his psychometric tests. She knew for a fact he lied on those tests because his answers were too perfect, too normal. He was smart enough to cover up his crazy but she still saw it. She had his number, this man, this — Torres. Christ, if she could remember his first name. “Is it Miguel? No that isn’t right. Santiago?” She scrunched up her nose as she tried to remember his name.
“Armando,” he said finally.
“Armando? Are you sure?” Beth asked dubiously.
Torres nodded.
“Armando,” she said again trying the name on for size. “Armando.” She tongue-rolled over the R in exaggeration. “Armando Torres. Was your mother hoping you would star in a telenovela?”
“I think she was hoping I would do anything other than run drugs for Los Zetas.”
“Well it could be worse. You could be running drugs for Los Treintas. Those are some mean sons of bitches.” Beth leaned over and poured herself a third drink. There was no whisky left so she switched to vodka and Coke. She wasn’t driving tonight and the more she drank the less she worried about making an ass of herself or about her mom. Shit, her mom, she needed to phone her sister and check on her mom. Beth glanced at her watch. It was too late, even in California, which was two hours behind. Her sister would have gone to bed by now. She would have to call in the morning, which was fine by her. It gave her another night