Rebound 9

Rebound

soppingwetpanties

This story is the seventh in the timeline of fourteen Max Pemberton detective stories. You're encouraged to read the stories preceding this one to give you additional background, though this story can stand on its own.

For those of you who don't know Max, she's a big, sexy woman with a tough as nails demeanor and a soft center. She follows her heart, and not her head, which usually gets her into trouble with her girlfriends, her boss and the bad guys.

So here we are, the fourteenth installment of her adventures.

Enjoy!

Dedicated to migbird for his unwavering dedication to Max.

Final note. You might be confused why "Cold Steel," the first Max story I wrote, is in the middle of the chronology. I never envisioned writing a series and thought that "Cold Steel" was going to be a one off piece. I loved the characters, and you readers did as well, so I wrote "Hot Steel," followed by "Pink Ice." I kept the timeline going with "Betrayal," "Loss of Innocence," "Revenge is Best Served Cold, and finally "To Hell and Back." At that point I was interested in exploring more of Max's backstory, so I wound the clock back ten years and wrote "Maelstrom." I've since been filling in the middle of the timeline. Here's the chronological breakdown of Max's stories:

Maelstrom

Deception

Blindsided

Jackknifed

Tailspin

Crash Landing

Rebound

Cold Steel (this story was written first, followed by Hot Steel)

Hot Steel

Pink Ice

Betrayal

Loss of Innocence

Revenge is Best Served Cold

To Hell... And Back

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

Chapter One

Who Did the Dirty Deed?

My life revolved around drinking and sex with beautiful women, preferably at the same time. It wasn't a perfect life but it was my life. I was Maxine "Max" Pemberton, police detective and ass kicker on the Cincinnati Vice squad in my public life, and pussy hound and alcoholic in my private life. Needless to say, there was rarely a dull moment in my life.

My current girlfriend was everyone's wet dream. Sondra... Sondra Karlsson. A tall Scandinavian blonde, perfectly straight honey blonde hair to the middle of her back, blue eyes the color of a freshly calved iceberg, and shapely legs that were a mile long. She was also a cutthroat criminal defense lawyer with a wicked sense of humor and a thirst for 16 year old scotch.

I took up with Sondra a few months ago, and the affair was going in a decidedly bent direction. She loved our rendezvous at the Royal Palms, a flophouse motel in the heart of the worst neighborhood in Cincinnati, the West End, which also served as my chief residence. No sex was too raunchy for the Royal Palms, and no sex was too raunchy for Sondra.

I'd just dropped off my partner, Lesley Groesbeck, at the police station. Lesley was a short, perky blonde who, under my tutelage, had become a first class police officer and down and dirty street fighter. No one survived in the West End without street fighting skills. Lesley was headed off to a romantic dinner with her girlfriend Alessandra Caruso. I was headed to the liquor store to pick up the refreshments for that night's festivities with Sondra. We were in the hot sex phase of our relationship, which meant that we skipped the bars, restaurants and movie theaters and went straight to my motel room. I had no idea how much longer Sondra would be with me before one of us strayed, but that was a worry for later.

My trusty Honda Civic sputtered as I drove to the nearby liquor store. The beater was twelve years old, and the only vehicle I'd owned since I was an adult. I promised myself I'd take it into servicing, but I conveniently ignored the red warning lights as I drove. The liquor store was busy, both inside and out. Outside, a familiar black Escalade was parked in the corner. A pimp and three girls were hanging out, waiting for customers. Inside, my buddy Nigel was dispensing cheap wine and malt liquor to the masses. I usually drank cheap vodka, the cheaper the better.

I parked next to the Escalade. I knew the pimp and the girls. I'd busted each of them at one time or another, but our relationship evolved into one of mutual trust. I made sure that no one got hurt and they watched my back and provided me with information. Information was the coin of the realm in the West End. Their pimp, Eddie, was a smart aleck white boy who grew up in the West End and was comfortable with its hard edged existence. He was doing a line of coke off of one of the whore's compact mirrors when I approached him.

Eddie crinkled his nose after he snorted, and then looked up.

"Hey Max," he said. "Heard about Lily. You were there?"

Lily was the drug lord of the West End until she was taken out the previous month. Lily and I had feelings for each other (and sex) despite our opposite stations. Her entire crew was brutally murdered, and the police had no solid leads on the killers. The smart money was on Jumbo Williams, a local football hero turned criminal. Lily took over Jumbo's turf after she framed him on a drug charge. Later, Lily had arranged to have Jumbo poisoned, but failed. Jumbo was doubly incented to kill Lily.

But I was on a different track. Lily had fingered Bratva, the Russian mafia, with her dying breath from her lips to my ear. The problem was, no one in the department was aware that Bratva had made inroads into Cincinnati. Everyone I shared this name with thought it was a longshot, including my partner, but my gut told me otherwise. Lily was no fool. I also owed her.

I hit a brick wall for a full month trying to discover Lily's killer. I worked in Vice, and under the guise of a drug investigation, I put out feelers to everyone I knew about Bratva. There were only hints of their presence, and I needed a solid sighting. I hadn't approached Eddie yet, but I knew he dealt a little on the side and was savvy to the source of the local drug connections. Eddie owed me. I got one of his girls out of lock-up the month previous and saved him a few thousand in legal fees from his shyster attorney as well as the downtime for his girl.

I decided I'd use his question as an opportunity to pump him for information.

"I was there first. I saw everything," I said, piquing his interest.

"No shit."

"Looked like a professional hit. Large caliber weapon. So I wanted to ask you if you've heard anything."

He shook his head. "Nothing. There's just talk. Rumors."

"What's the word on the street?" I asked him.

"Russians."

His answer gave me a shiver. I hadn't prompted him and he gave me the answer I was hoping for.

"You've seen any?"

"No."

"How about the drugs, any changes in quality or sourcing?"

Eddie looked at me with bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. He was flying high.

"Yeah. The coke's gotten really good. And cheaper."

"Do you know where it's coming from?"

"Nope."

"Can you find out?"

"I can ask around."

"You do that. And when you find out we're even."

"Even?"

"Yeah."

"This must be important."

"I need to find out if Bratva's here. Maybe they're supplying your coke."

"OK Max, I know where to find you."

Eddie would do this. He was wiping off a big debt with a tidbit of information. I was counting on it.

I left him and went to the store to make my purchase. A couple young punks were leaving the liquor store when I was entering. One of them brushed against me and stopped and turned around.

"Watch where you're going dyke," the shorter of the two said, taunting me. His companion stopped when he heard the insult hurled at me. He was holding a six pack of longnecks in a cardboard carton. They were both wearing jean jackets with the arms ripped off and the colors of a local gang. I was doubly offended as I didn't fashion myself as looking like a dyke (even though I was one). I lost two people who were dear to me in the last month and I wasn't in the mood to take shit from anyone, especially a couple of juvies who were in diapers when I was old enough to eat pussy.

I was in my civvies, a tight fitting black tee, jeans, and lace-up black leather boots. They were leering at my big tits. I grabbed the mouthy punk by the arm.

"Mind your manners you dickhead," I warned him.

He flashed the blade of his knife in front of my face. Stupid asshole. I knocked the knife out of his hand. It went skittering across the parking lot. Eddie and the girls were watching the commotion. The tall guy was about to drop the six pack and go for the gun that was tucked inside his waistband. I snatched one of the longnecks out of his beer carton and broke it against the side of the building. Beer splashed everywhere and I was holding the neck of the bottle with the jagged edge pointed at them.

"Who wants to get their face rearranged?"

I waved the broken beer bottle and raised my eyebrows.

They both scampered off like scared little rabbits. Fucking punks.

My buddy Nigel was watching from just inside the door. He was a transplant from London, and I enjoyed the playful banter with him as well as his dry sense of humor. He saw me toss the beer bottle neck into the trashcan.

"Sorry about the mess outside. I'll pick up the glass when I leave," I told him.

"No worries Max. Those two were giving me a hard time at the counter. I'm sure they stole that six pack."

"Now it's only a five pack."

"I saw. Bravo. Those hoodlums deserved that, and more. Maybe now they won't bother me."

"You have my card. Call me."

"Indeed I will." He patted the wallet in his back pocket. "And don't worry about the glass. It'll be a pleasure to clean it up."

"You sure?"

"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't."

"So," he continued, "the usual rotgut vodka?" he asked, making his way to the back counter.

"What kind of high end bourbons do you have?"

Nigel's eyes opened wide. "You OK Max?"

"I'm fine, really," I claimed.

"You've never asked me that question before. You've had peppermint, lime, apricot and even coffee flavored vodka. Now bourbon? You must have a very discriminating girlfriend."

Everybody could read me like an open book. I was a creature of habit, which made aberrant behavior a smoking gun.

"Yeah. She likes high end bourbons and 16 year old scotch. I'm not sure I can afford the scotch."

"She special?"

"Very," I answered.

The toothsome Brit put his index finger to his pointy chin and talked to himself as he surveyed the line of bourbons on the back wall with a critical eye. He pulled an attractive looking bottle off the shelf.

"Here's one. It's a Blanton's, but just the regular stuff. People like to collect the little horse on the top. We have it on special for $60."

"$60?" I asked. My usual purchase was $5... or less.

"Max. That's what this stuff costs. This is a deal. Trust me. And she'll like it."

He gave me a wink. Horndog.

"Fine, I'll take it." I slapped my credit card on the counter, hoping it wouldn't be declined.

He put it in a paper bag. The register printed out a receipt.

"Don't worry," he said, assuring me of the success of my purchase.

"It's the least of them," I said.

_|/_

Eddie and the girls had cleared out by the time I went back into the parking lot. Greener pastures elsewhere. It was a short five minute drive to the Royal Palms. After being attacked a couple times in the parking lot by the late DaVanna Caruso's goons I drove around the parking lot first to survey the perimeter before I parked. It was about fifteen minutes before Sondra was supposed to show up. I unbagged the Blanton's and found two cut crystal tumblers I'd stashed in my dresser drawer for a special occasion. I washed them in the bathroom sink and polished them with a hand towel. I poured two fingers for myself, just to calm the nerves (I told myself).

My nerves must have been shot, because three glasses later I was feeling no pain. The bourbon was a mighty sweet ride. The door opened thirty minutes late. Sondra was holding the key I had given her.

"Sorry Max, the prosecutor in this fucking embezzlement case I'm working on just filed an

ex parte

motion and I have to file a response tomorrow," she said as her excuse. She expected no response from me because in her world work came before sex. Not in mine.

She had come straight from the office. She had on a lightweight grey wool designer jacket and skirt and sexy pumps. She had her hair up in a bun and was wearing her reading glasses, which made her look like the sexiest librarian on the planet. She threw her briefcase and her jacket on the bed, kicked off her shoes and plopped on it, sitting up. She took out her laptop and opened it. She had her game face on so there wasn't going to be any sex.

"Can you get me a drink Max?" she asked me as she fired up her computer. She was staring at the screen when I brought it over. She waved her left hand. "Just put it on the nightstand." Again, no eye contact. I felt like I was Janet, her assistant at the office.

I put down the drink and sat at the small desk across from the bed. I poured myself another drink and watched her tap away on her computer. If we were in a coffee shop, I could have stared at her for hours. But we weren't in a coffee shop. We were in my room and we were supposed to be having some kinky sex. Watching her draft a response to an

ex parte

motion was not my idea of a good time.

I got up out of my chair and went over to the bed. She was watching me out of the corner of her eye as I sat down next to her.

"I'm working Max," she said while her fingers danced on the keyboard.

"It's my bed," I said, complaining.

"Fine, fine." She moved over to make room for me.

I watched her for a while but got bored. I leaned towards her and started playing with the buttons on her silk blouse. She gave me an annoyed look and slapped my hand away.

"Just a few more minutes Max, damn it," she said, peeved. "I've got to get this filed first thing tomorrow. I came over because if I stayed in the office any later I'd never have made it here. But I've got to get this done so back the fuck off."

She felt for the glass while she was staring at the screen. She took a sip. I could tell by her facial expression that she recognized it immediately.

"Blanton's. Good call," she said, cradling the heavy cut crystal in her hand. The annoyance on her face faded.

"Thanks."

She was tapping with one hand while she was talking, her eyes fixed on the computer screen. "You must have a good man at the liquor store. Nigel is it? That tall, good looking Brit?"

"That's him."

"Let him to continue to pick. I like this."

She took another sip before she put the glass down. Score one for Nigel.

I laid my head on the pillow so I was staring at her waist. My hand went down her skirt to the bare leg below the knee. Soft skin, shaved smooth as glass. Her calf muscle tensed when I touched it.

"Max... don't get any ideas," she said in a scolding tone.

I didn't have any ideas. I had all the ideas. And they were all bad. My hand starting hiking up her skirt, exposing her right inner thigh. Even softer skin. Touching her was a dream. She flinched and the computer tipped sideways.

"Max! I've got to get this done. Cut it out."

She wasn't going to deny both of us the pleasure that was going to come. My fingers crept up to the crease between her leg and her pussy. Her panties were damp, that slut.

"Max! You're terrible." But she made no move to push my hand away even though I was close to touching her clit through the gossamer thin material of her sopping wet panties. She was trying to concentrate on the screen but failing. My finger found its way under the elastic band of her panties and touched the swollen lips of her pussy.

"You're holding out on me," I told her. She was way too wet.

"Sorry," she said, still trying to concentrate. "Before this petition came in I was screwing off in my office watching a bit of porn and, you know, uh touching myself."

That was the last thing I expected her to say.

"You?"

She worked in some highfalutin downtown law firm that represented Cincinnati's elite. She was on the firm's management committee and probably made more in a month than I made in a year. It blew my mind to picture her in her corner office watching lesbian porn and fingering herself under her desk. I wondered how fun it would be to fuck her in her office, knowing that some bigwig politician would be sitting in the same chair that we fucked in.

"Hey, work hard, play hard," she said, trying to rationalize her not so prim and proper behavior. "I was really looking forward to tonight and thinking about you and, you know, touching myself... until this fucking petition came in."

Right answer Sondra. As a reward, my finger found her clit and gave it a rub. It was hard and pulsed when I touched it.

"Shit Max!" She slammed down the lid on her computer.

"You win," she said in mock disgust. She pulled the clip out of her hair and let it fall past her shoulders. She shook her head, just like in the shampoo commercials. She had my full attention.

"I'll finish this fucking thing later," she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

Max always wins.

_|/_

"Help me Max."

The computer was safely on the floor. She had her bourbon in her hand and had taken off all of her clothes except her panties. She took a sip and let it sit on her tongue before she swallowed it. Now she was sexy Sondra, the blonde Goddess. Her voice was as smooth as her skin.

She lifted her hips, arching her back like a contented cat. I helped her shimmy her skimpy panties down to her ankles and off. I tossed them on the floor. She let her knees fall open slowly as she revealed her neatly trimmed blonde bush. I ran my hand between her knee and the inside of her thigh up to her pussy (but not touching it). She oozed sexiness.

I rubbed her feet first. Longer and narrower than mine.

"Ummm Max," she said. "That feels good," she purred. The key to a woman's heart is through her feet.

I squeezed lightly on the arch and then massaged each of her perfectly formed toes (that of course had perfectly applied red toenail polish). One foot, then the other, with me not at all in a hurry to move along.

"I guess this'll make you forget the filing you have tomorrow," I said.

"Are you talking to me Max?" she answered dreamily.

I went up to her ankles and then calves, massaging each of them vigorously. I wished I had legs like hers. Mine were made for police work. Hers were made for a woman's eyes. I rubbed up each thigh until she was ready to be touched. She already had droplets of dew shining on her light blonde pubic hairs. Her pussy lips were already red and swollen. She was as horny as I was.

My fingers traced up from her knee, tickling her inner thigh. She let out a long, contented sigh.

I kissed her bourbon soaked lips and then let her suck on two of my fingers until they were coated with her spit. They wandered down between her legs to her hot cunt, teasing the already slick passage.

"Fuck... Max," she said, reaching for but not finding the right words to say.

My two fingers slid easily inside her sticky wet pussy. Her hips started undulating to increase the intensity of the finger fuck.