“Yes, sir.” He followed the black cop down the corridor and around the corner to his office.
Jennings dropped behind his desk and nodded at one of the chairs in front of it. “Have a seat, Deputy.”
He obeyed. “Yes, sir?”
“We’ve decided you’re going to be assigned to Charlie Shift, Area 23.”
Frank blinked in surprise. “Wasn’t that Master Deputy Arlington’s zone?”
“Yeah. It’s not an ideal situation, but we can’t leave it unpatrolled.”
“I . . . don’t suppose so.” On the other hand, at least he’d be able to keep an eye on Alex.
Jennings eyed him as if he’d read his mind. “Detective Tracy tells me you and Rogers are dating. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“See that it’s not. In the meantime, Deputy, keep your head down out there—literally.”
“I will, sir.” And he’d make damned sure Alex did the same.
* * *
It was a cold, gray morning, but Alex ignored the temperature, running hard. Ran the way she’d once run track meets, ran the way she chased convenience store robbers and other assorted asshats. Ran until the sweat slid down her face despite the temperature, soaking her tee between her breasts as her arms pumped and feet slapped furiously on the sidewalk. Trying to burn off hours of helpless rage and guilt and grief.
She wished she could cry, but she knew what she’d need for that, and Frank was on duty now. So instead she ran. It was noon, long past the time she should be in bed if she wanted to be able to work tonight without a Red Bull IV drip. So she ran faster, trying to burn off the adrenaline and stress hormones and too much coffee.
And failure. Don’t forget the failure.
When she clawed through the tangle of guilt and fury that crowded her brain, Alex knew there was nothing she could have done to save Ted even if she’d come to investigate sooner. He’d died, quite literally, before he hit the ground. A bullet in the brain did that.
She only wished she could find the bastard who had done this and put a bullet in his brain. How dare that little shit think he had the right to kill Ted Arlington because of who he loved? How was it the creep’s goddamned business?
She ran faster, pushing herself to full speed as she tore through the neighborhood until she bounded up the cement-block steps of her house. Jerking the screen door open with a shriek of rusting hinges, Alex staggered across the porch, breathing so hard it took her two tries to unlock the front door with the key she wore on a coiled plastic bracelet.
“Meow?” SIG looked up as she reeled inside and collapsed on the couch beside him. Panting, she stroked the cat, taking comfort in the Siamese’s outboard motor of a purr.
It took her ten minutes before she found the strength to undress for her shower. Half an hour later, she tumbled into bed, more or less clean, her hair still damp. And slid into dreams in which Ted stared at the stars with empty eyes.
* * *
Bruce watched red chunks explode from his target and bared his teeth in a rictus of satisfaction. Aiming his rifle at another tomato, he squeezed the trigger again. The weapon boomed, and his target disintegrated in another burst of pulp and juice.
Ranger had dared call him a coward.
The injustice made him boil. The fact that Arlington was a lying bastard didn’t seem to matter. Instead, all the sheriff talked about was Ted’s heroism.
Yeah, sucking black cock was real heroic.
He took aim again. Fired. A third tomato vanished in a rain of red.
At least one part of his plan was working. Scrawling all that shit all over Ted’s car had been brilliant. Tracy was chasing white supremacists instead of looking at Ted’s friends—normally the first suspects. No cop would want to believe another cop was the killer, of course, but in case they started entertaining the idea, the graffiti offered a layer of insulation.
Nobody considered Bruce Greer a bigot.
The bit from Leviticus was another layer of icing for the cake. Bruce figured the MCSO’s many devout Christians would be turned against Ted by the reminder that the Bible disapproved of perverts.
Instead, Ranger seemed intent on turning Ted into some kind of martyr.
Well, Bruce would just see about that. He still had that video. All he had to do was put it up on YouTube, and Arlington wouldn’t be a hero anymore. All anybody would see was a white man whipping a black man, who evidently liked it. Blacks would be outraged, whites would be disgusted, and everybody would decide Ted had it coming.
As for Cal, that boy would wish he’d never even heard Arlington’s name after his fellow African Americans finished taking him apart.
The problem was, once the video was out there, Bruce wouldn’t be able to control the fallout. The Feds might get involved, especially when he started the next phase of his revenge.
But he’d do what he had to do, even if he had to pay the price. He owed his daddy that much.
Bruce squeezed the trigger. Another tomato disappeared with a thundering boom, sending faux blood and brains everywhere.
* * *
Alex woke to John Fogarty’s whiskey voice belting “Put me in, Coach!” Never mind that the song was about baseball rather than football, “Centerfield” had always made her think of her father, mainly because Fogarty, like the Beatles, were among her parents’ favorite musicians. Which made “Centerfield” the obvious ringtone for Ken Rogers.
Rolling over, she reached over the side of the bed and groped around until she found her sweats and fished her cell phone out of the pocket. “Morning, Dad.” Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a ferret cage.
“Hey, baby girl.” His voice rolled over her, dear and deep, a bit rough from decades spent yelling at teenagers from across a football field. Ken Rogers was still as leanly muscular as the quarterback he’d once been, sable hair graying as he settled into a distinguished middle age. He often said educating his players was far more satisfying than the NFL stardom his knee injury had snatched away. “You okay?”
Hell, no. “I’m fine, Daddy.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you, but I just heard about what happened from one of the boys on the team, and I had to check. You know how your mother is. You sure you weren’t hurt?”
“I wasn’t even there when Ted was shot.”
“The story on the Morganville Courier website said another deputy found him. That wasn’t you, was it? I know your patrol area is right beside his.”
She thought about lying yet again, but he’d find out the truth eventually. It didn’t pay to lie to Coach if you didn’t have to. “Yes, sir.” When she was little, she’d learned everybody on the team called him sir if they knew what was good for them. She’d never gotten out of the habit.
He growled something that was probably a bitten-off curse. Though Alex heard worse every day, her father didn’t swear in front of his wife and daughter. “I’m sorry for that, baby girl. Ted was a good man. I know how much he meant to you. Your mother and I always felt better knowing he was on the job with you, because we figured he’d do everything he could to protect you.”
He couldn’t have said anything that would feel more like a blade ripping into her heart. “Yes, sir,” she managed through the knot guilt had tied in her throat. “Ted was a very, very good man.”
By the time she hung up, sleeping was out of the question. Alex rolled out of bed, padded into the kitchen to check SIG’s water bowl—it was still full—and looked at the time. Four in the afternoon. Late enough that Cal ought to be up, assuming he’d slept at all last night. Which he probably hadn’t. She dug the phone out of her pocket and dialed his number.
It rang so many times, she was about to give up when Cal finally answered. His voice sounded deadened and barely audible, as if grief had sucked the life out of him. “Hey, Alex.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. Couldn’t sleep.”
They talked a few minutes, long enough for Alex to assur
e herself he was still safely at his sister’s, and had taken the night off from his bartending job. That was a relief; she’d been haunted by the thought that the killer might try for him at work. This, at least, gave them a little more time to find the bastard.
Soon afterward, Detective Tracy called to ask her a couple more questions about Ted. The only bright spot about the conversation was when she asked him about Cal.
“At the moment, he’s off the suspect list,” Tracy said. “When Ted died, Cal was serving mai tais to fifteen members of a bachelorette party. At least six of which were sober enough to remember him. According to his manager, he was at work from seven p.m. to three a.m. Took his breaks in the bar and never left. I doubt seriously he had anything to do with this. Can you think of anyone who might have?”
Alex snorted. “Ted was a cop. We all collect enemies like trick-or-treaters do candy. There is one white supremacist in my zone we butted heads with a time or two, though . . .” She gave him the name, plus a few others, and he hung up.
The call had the effect of submerging Alex in guilt until she longed for a distraction. One immediately leaped to mind: Frank. The big cop should be off today. She, thank God, had several hours free before midnight shift change.
Alex typed a text to his private cell. Do you want to play?
Even as her fingers danced on the keyboard, she knew she didn’t necessarily want to scene. But she felt trapped in her own head, unable to say what she really meant: I need to connect with you because I’m hurting about Ted. Frank would blunt that bitter ache.
The intensity of her need for him worried her. Alex wasn’t sure she wanted to be that nakedly vulnerable with anyone, Dom or not. Particularly a guy she’d known only a couple of days. But regardless of common sense, she craved him.
She only hoped Frank would understand what she couldn’t say. Otherwise he’d think she was an insensitive bitch who wanted to get her kink on regardless of her best friend’s death.
Alex was just sitting down to a ham sandwich she didn’t want when she got his reply. Of course. My house in twenty.
Her fingers tightened over the phone as anticipation cut through her grief, bringing with it a wave of guilt. She didn’t deserve any pleasure, but maybe the physical pain Frank gave her would blunt her emotional anguish. Good or bad, she needed the release. She went to get dressed.
* * *
Frank stared at Alex. “You want me to use what on you?”
“Your bullwhip.” She frowned, obviously not understanding why he’d refuse. “You’re good with it. I saw you use it on Tara.”
“That’s not the point. I use that whip with experienced submissives who want to fly. I will not use it on a woman who wants to be punished for not being able to save Ted Arlington. I hate to break it to you, Alex, but you ain’t Supergirl.”
Her pretty, exhausted face took on a mulish expression. “It’s not like that.”
“The hell it’s not. Right now your head is a swamp populated with guilt alligators, all of ’em eating on you. I couldn’t trust you to safeword if your life depended on it. And even aside from all that, I’d have to be an idiot to go from spanking straight to using a fucking bullwhip on a sub who’s never played that hard before. Sorry, ain’t happening.”
“But I need it.”
“Why?”
Her gaze shifted away. “Because I need to cry.”
Of course she did. Hell, during that thing with Cal last night, he’d wiped away tears himself. “So cry.”
“I can’t.” Alex blinked dry, red eyes. “The Coach . . . My dad . . . I was the youngest of four kids. The older ones are all boys.” She ran down again.
“You’re not a boy.” To put it mildly.
“But when I was four or five, I really wanted to be. The boys . . . Dad spent a lot of time with the boys, teaching them to throw a football. And I was always right in there with them, trying to play just as hard as they did.” She smiled slightly at the memory. “I wanted to be a better boy than any of them.”
He realized where she was going with her story. “So when he told them big boys didn’t cry, you didn’t.” Not the best lesson to teach any kid, regardless of gender. But when it came to parents, what did Frank know? Between his mother and grandfather, he’d never exactly been surrounded by the best parenting examples. Alex was lucky she had Coach, no matter what fucked-up lessons the man had inadvertently instilled.
“I know it doesn’t make any sense. Men cry. Coach broke down when his mother died. But me . . . When Nana died, I had to pick a fight with the meanest girl in high school. She dislocated my jaw, and then I was able to cry.” She rolled her shoulders in a little shrug. “Of course, I got suspended, and Mom grounded me for a month, but you do what you have to do.”
Frank stared at her. He needed to understand her if he was to protect her when she needed it, even when the danger was herself. “So you got involved in BDSM as an alternative to picking fights?”
“No, not really. Or . . . well, kind of. BDSM was the only thing that did it for me. You know? Vanilla men are just . . . vanilla.” She brooded for a moment. “But yeah, sometimes when some Top gives me a flogging, it’s the only time I can really cut loose and feel what I feel. Otherwise I’m all”—Alex made a fist-clenching gesture—“locked down. I don’t know if that makes any sense . . .”
“You know, if you want to cry, I don’t need a bullwhip to make you do it.” He gave her a deliberately menacing smile.
Alex managed a smile, though he wasn’t sure it was genuine. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Oh,” he purred, “it is. You’re going to find it very challenging.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Once again, Alex found herself chained to the foot of the California king’s brass frame. This time she was on her feet facing the bed, the sheer cream curtains of the canopy framing her naked body, the gold comforter’s silken surface brushing the front of her legs. Anticipation rolled through her like honey, spiced by a peppery bite of fear. She was at his mercy—again.
And that was just where she wanted to be.
“Is that too tight?” Frank asked, running a finger between the sheepskin-lined cuff and her arm. He was in full-on Dom God mode, deliciously shirtless in black jeans, a thick black belt studded in silver, and the riding boots he’d worn the first time they’d played at Cap’s. The shift and slide of muscle in his naked torso was enough to make her cream even without all the leather and steel.
“It’s fine.” She licked dry lips, acutely aware of the warm air blowing over her skin. Frank had turned the heat up to make sure she didn’t get cold standing around naked. Never mind that he was likely to work up a sweat during the flogging; for a Dom, the sub’s needs came first.
“Are you sure?” His tone was stern, no nonsense. “Because if you injure all those nerves and veins running there . . .”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said, more of a snap in her voice than she’d intended. “I have played before. I have no more interest in suffering a permanent injury than you do in inflicting one.”
His palm landed on her ass in a stinging swat that bounced her onto her toes. “Watch your tone.”
“Sorry, Master.” That last word slipped out by pure reflex. She reminded herself she wasn’t using the “M” word anymore, but some little instinct in her hindbrain wasn’t convinced.
Neither was her pussy. She was beginning to cream, aroused by that single swat. God, I’m such a sub.
For the right man anyway.
Frank lifted her cuffed arm, looping the rope through the D ring, tied it off, and stretched her right arm out to the right post of the canopy. It didn’t quite reach, but a taut length of rope made up the difference. He knotted it around the canopy frame, then paused to cup her breast, thumbing the nipple into a tight, eager little erection. Satisfied, he went to work on her other wrist.
When he was finished, her ankles were cuffed and roped shoulder-width apart to the frame. Both feet were planted se
curely on the floor. She shifted in her bonds, making the chains rattle as her inner flesh grew tighter, wetter. Eager for his cock.
“Can you stand comfortably like that?”
“Yes, Master.” Dammit, there was that word again.
“Good. What are your safewords?”
“Red for stop, yellow for slow down. Green for more.” She didn’t anticipate saying anything but “Green.”
Frank picked up a length of black silk from the bureau, where he’d lined up his toys and condoms. He blindfolded her with it, wrapping her head in cool silk that smelled of sandalwood. “That way if you cry,” he said in her ear, his voice low, intimate, “nobody needs to know except you.”
“Thank you, Master.” This time she meant that last word. The man understood her better than she understood herself.
Music began playing softly, some kind of jazz, slow and seductive. Her nipples beaded in anticipation as cream gathered between her spread thighs. Staring into the darkness of the blindfold, Alex licked her lips, waiting for the pain she needed. The pain she deserved for failing her friend.
“You’re so beautiful.” His voice sounded smokier than the jazz, a delicious male rumble that made her think of sex. But then, where he was concerned, everything made her think of sex. Even when she didn’t want it to. “I love this ass.” His fingers brushed her rump, a touch so light, she shivered in delicious anticipation. Wondering when those hands would get rougher, more ruthless. “It’s the most spankable butt I’ve ever seen. Almost begs for handprints. Long pink stripes. Paddle prints. I want to hear you yelp. Moan. Beg.” He leaned down, spoke directly into her ear again. “Especially beg.”
Alex tugged restlessly at the ropes that bound her to the bed frame. The sense of helplessness added to the hot spiral of her desire, driving it higher like smoke rising from a campfire. Never mind that this wasn’t about that—wasn’t about pleasure. Shouldn’t be.
Frank had other ideas.
His warm hands slid up and around her body in teasing butterfly strokes of his fingertips. Until he cupped her breasts. Weighed the soft mounds in his big hands, flicking the erect nipples with his thumbs. “And your breasts. So full and warm. I’m glad you haven’t dieted yourself into one of those stick women. There’s muscle and strength to this pretty body. I don’t feel like you’ll break if I’m not careful.” His voice dropped another dark, velvet octave. “I don’t want to be careful.”
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