Inside the sanctuary, the windows bled colored light into the room from their stained glass. The pews were filled with cops in pressed black uniforms, badges looped with black ribbons to show the department’s collective grief. In among all the cops and civilians were a surprising number of men in Army olive green dress uniforms. Men Ted’s age, for the most part, wearing the green berets that gave them their names.
And every one of them wore expressions of stubborn defiance.
Never mind that most Special Forces warriors were every bit as conservative as the sheriff’s office’s deputies. Never mind the media coverage of the scandal that branded Ted a pervert who beat his lover. They didn’t even care that it had been more than a decade since he’d retired from the Army.
All that did matter was that he’d fought beside them in Afghanistan or Iraq or the first Gulf War, or whatever shit hole the Army had sent them to. That kind of bond, sealed in blood and bravery, couldn’t be broken by YouTube or talking-head snark.
There were also a number of black faces among the whites, though Cal was one of the few not in uniform. He sat next to Ted’s mother. Ted’s brothers sat on her other side, studiously ignoring him.
Alex and Frank found Captain Kyle Miller and his wife, Joanna, in the back row. Cap, wearing dress whites, looked even more sternly handsome than usual. Joanna was a trim woman who wore her hair in a silver pixie cut that made the most of her elegant cheekbones. Her large, dark eyes were surrounded by a filigree of fine wrinkles. She wore a pretty jersey dress in navy blue that swirled around trim calves.
Joanna couldn’t resist playing mother to every sub she knew—and many of the Doms, for that matter. What’s more, even the prickliest Dominants allowed it. “So here we sit, in the back,” she murmured.
Alex dredged up a smile and the rest of the old Southern joke. “Like good Baptists.”
“I’m sorry about Ted, baby,” the woman added softly, giving her a swift hug smelling of Chanel No. 5.
Cap stood as they eased into the pew and shook first Alex’s hand, then Frank’s. “He was a good man. I hope they catch the bastard.”
“So do we,” Frank growled. “Preferably before he takes another shot at Alex.”
Joanna looked alarmed. “He shot at Alex?”
Before either of them could explain, the organist started playing to signal the beginning of the service.
The service hit all the traditional notes of a cop funeral. There was the requisite kilted piper playing “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes, followed by a couple of soloist friends of Ted’s mother. Next came the hymns Alex knew by heart thanks to her mother’s habit of dragging her to church whenever the doors opened. One of Ted’s commanding officers from the Army detailed his military history—at least the parts that weren’t classified.
The surprise came with Sheriff Ranger’s eulogy. Apparently Ted had been buddies with Ranger’s eldest son growing up, so the sheriff followed his military career with interest. When Ted had retired after twenty years with the Army, Ranger had convinced him that, at forty-two, he was far too young for a rocking chair.
“Though lately,” the sheriff added grimly, “I’ve thought I should have let him rock.”
After a couple of years on the street—during which he’d been recognized for saving Terry Peterson and her children from the trailer fire—Ted became a sex crimes investigator, a bit of history Alex had known. What Ted hadn’t mentioned was that he’d cleared more cases than anyone in the unit.
“I can’t tell you how many times I listened to Ted rage about some pedophile he’d just caught,” Ranger said, hands braced on the massive oak podium beside the altar. “He had a talent for wringing a confession from even the most soulless predator. But it took a toll on him, because he was haunted by the women and children we as a society hadn’t been able to protect. That he, personally, hadn’t been able to protect.
“Ted felt driven to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. He worked sex crimes as long as he could, and then he went back to patrol. He told me it was cleaner, a little less like wading through raw sewage.
“I know what Leviticus says, but I also know how many women and children Ted helped, and how many monsters Ted caught. I don’t know whether he’s in heaven, but I can’t believe he’s in hell. I do know that one way or another, Ted is with God, because I believe we’re never without God, no matter where we are or what we do. God is infinite, and that infinity includes the heart of each of us.”
After that, the minister’s sermon on tolerance and forgiveness came as something of an anticlimax.
* * *
Alex, Frank, Joanna, and Cap joined the funeral procession to the cemetery. The uniformed pallbearers lifted the flag-draped coffin from the hearse and carried it to the tent that sheltered the grave. After the minister performed a short graveside service, the deputies came to attention.
Ranger used his car’s bullhorn to announce, “Charlie 23 is 10-7.” His voice cracked on the ten-code for “off duty.”
As a bugler from Fort Jackson played “Taps,” the honor guard fired their rifles with deliberate precision. One volley, then two, then three rolled across the gray headstones surrounded by the reds and yellows and oranges of fall.
Her shoulders held painfully erect, Alex joined the assembled officers in saluting as Ted’s casket was lowered into the ground.
* * *
Fury rolled through Bruce as he stared around at the crowd that surrounded Ted’s grave. He wanted to just open up on every fucker there.
Yes, he’d succeeded in turning a lot of people away from Arlington thanks to the video. The recording had worked just the way he’d intended, sending talking heads into a frenzy of condemnation from both ends of the political spectrum. Liberals and conservatives had been, for once, in complete agreement: Ted Arlington deserved it. Maybe not in those exact words, but that was the gist.
Which was why it so infuriated Bruce that somebody had the gall to put a badge back on him. As if Bruce hadn’t had a right and a duty to take it away.
People had spouted sanctimonious bullshit about the little fruit until he wanted to throw up. The sheriff had put the cherry on the B.S. sundae by taking about Ted’s heroism and honor. Bruce was tempted to put the fat bastard on the kill list. Too bad he didn’t have time to kill everybody who needed killing.
Take all those Green Berets. He’d been Army, dammit. He knew how conservative Special Forces types were. They had to have seen the video. Hell, Fox, CNN, and all the networks had played it until even Bruce was sick of it.
So why had all those Green Berets shown up like Arlington was some kind of hero?
But the thing that really, really pissed him off was the cops who’d started speculating about the targets he’d missed: Frank, Alex, and supposedly Bruce himself.
Some of the bastards had actually suggested he’d gotten lucky when he killed Ted, that he couldn’t really hit the broad side of a barn. They couldn’t know he’d done tours in Iraq, but it was still insulting as hell.
Well, he was going to show them all. He would, by God, take out every one of his targets, including Alex and her strutting Navy SEAL.
But first, a little practice. Something that would shut up the skeptics and throw a little fear into them all. A killing that would hurt Frank as much as Alex had been hurt by Ted’s death.
A nice little warm-up for the main event.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Millers had invited Cal to stay with them at their home in Atlanta while he looked for a new job and a new place to live. Between Ted’s murder and the scandal, life in Morgan County had become too damned painful for the young submissive. He had no reason to stay. His boss had fired him a couple of days before in a fit of morality. He’d claimed to be sorry, that Cal was attracting too much of the wrong kind of attention. Business at the bar was down as the usual customers found somewhere else to get drunk.
“I’m going to be notorious for a while,” Cal told Alex, Frank, and
the Millers as they helped him pack his things into boxes Saturday afternoon. “But in a city the size of Atlanta, people will find something else to run their mouths about a hell of a lot sooner.”
In the meantime, he was going back to school to study computer graphics. He meant to own his own business. Frank and Cap said they intended to invest in it.
So the Millers, Frank, and Alex helped Cal load everything into a U-Haul for the trip before driving over to Frank’s house. He’d invited the three to spend the night rather than make the three-hour trip back home after such an exhausting day.
Two takeout pizzas later, the subs ended up in the kitchen making strawberry daiquiris. Their laughter and teasing rose and fell over the periodic grind of the blender. Frank and Cap, meanwhile, drank beer and pretended to watch a football game in the den.
“So.” Cap paused to dip a tortilla chip into Frank’s nuclear-meltdown-hot salsa. “How’s it going with you and Alex?”
Frank took a swig of his Coors, running his free hand down SIG’s honey-brown spine. The cat lashed his chocolate tail and purred like an electric drill.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we in the business call a ‘pregnant pause,’” Cap said dryly. “Come on, boy. Cough it up.”
“I’m not sure it’s going to work.” Honesty forced him to add, “The sex has been great, but . . .” Frank broke off, absently scratching SIG under the chin.
Kyle lifted a silver brow. “It’s only been a week. You may want to give it a little more time.”
“Yeah, but . . . sometimes she seems more switch than submissive.” The cat rolled over into his lap, offering his belly for a scratch. Frank obliged him.
“Alex and every other woman on the planet. Including the ones in burqas. They may act submissive as hell when it suits them, but there’s a reason Mom rhymes with Dom.”
Frank toasted him with the beer. “Ain’t it the truth.”
“So, other than having been a cop for the past five years, what has she done to make you consider her insufficiently submissive?”
“Insufficiently?” Frank snorted. “She’s not submissive at all, especially when you get her pissed.” He described the encounter with Charlotte and the chewing out Alex had given him afterward.
Cap frowned, dunked a chip in salsa, and ate it, munching as he considered. Finally he swallowed. “Hate to say it, boy, but I agree with Alex. That was a truly boneheaded way to get yourself shot.”
“Not you, too.” Frank settled back in his seat and propped a foot on the coffee table. SIG folded his paws under his body and shuttered his blue eyes, rumbling. “Look, I know—”
“Your mother. And she still damn near cut your throat. You didn’t know this Shepherd woman at all. I realize you’ve got a chivalrous streak—most Doms do—”
“Except for the assholes.”
“Except for them. But chivalrous or not, you can’t be stupid about it.”
“That woman wasn’t really a danger to anyone but herself. Most mentally ill people aren’t violent. And as long as they take their medication, they—”
“Yeah, but when they go off their meds, some folks are fucking dangerous, Frank. And you’ve got the scars to prove it.”
Frank looked away, grinding his teeth a moment before admitting, “Yeah. Okay, you’re right. I was convinced I could handle her, and I took a chance I shouldn’t have. But that doesn’t mean Alex gets to jump me, handcuff my ass, and fuck my . . .” Belatedly realizing what he was admitting, he snapped his mouth shut, feeling his cheeks go hot.
Cap roared with laughter. “Did she? Good for her! And you loved it, didn’t you? Maybe you’re as much a switch as she is.”
“Oh, bite me. And no, I’m definitely not a switch. I’m just male.” Frank bared his teeth in a wolf smile. “As for Alex, believe me, old man—I’m plotting my revenge.”
“And I may have something in the truck that will help you with that.”
Frank grinned in genuine delight. “You finished the bench.”
Cap nodded. “Yep. Come take a look.” A burst of laughter rolled from the kitchen, barely audible over the whir of a blender. “If we’re quick, we can get it down into the dungeon before the subs finish getting plowed on daiquiris.”
“Then let’s get a move on.” He exchanged a feral Dom grin with his friend as he scooped the cat off his lap and dumped him on the floor. “Be a shame to spoil Alex’s surprise.”
* * *
The next morning, Frank treated his guests to Belgian waffles, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Once again, he and his collection of Food Network recipes produced something delicious.
“It’s a good thing we packed the truck yesterday,” Cal groaned. “Moving furniture while waddling sounds impractical.”
Frank laughed. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Cal pulled Alex into his arms for a ferocious hug as Frank and the Millers said their good-byes. “Be good, PoPo. I’m going to miss you.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll see me every weekend I have off.” She hesitated. “You will be going to Cap’s parties, right?”
“Maybe the munches. I don’t really want to scene for a while.” His dark, handsome face tightened with grief. “No Dom alive would be able to replace Ted.”
“Of course not. You’ll never forget him—I doubt you’ll ever want to. But Ted would be the first to tell you you’ll eventually heal. You’ll need someone in your life, and it’ll probably be another Dominant, because that’s a part of who you are and what you need. He wouldn’t consider that a betrayal, Cal.”
“No.” But Cal’s closed expression told her he wasn’t ready to hear it, and wouldn’t be for some time. “Look, you be careful, you hear? I couldn’t take it if something happened to you, too . . .”
“Hey, don’t worry about me.” Alex jerked a thumb at Frank. His handsome head was thrown back as he laughed at something one of the Millers had said. “I’ve got SuperDom over there to protect me.”
“Uh-huh.” He hesitated. “I’m a little worried about that bug they found in your car. If the sniper made a recording and releases it to the media . . .”
She shrugged, though the muscles between her shoulders tightened. “He hasn’t yet, and it’s been almost a week. Maybe the audio was lousy.”
“Well, don’t let him make any better ones, then.” Cal grimaced. “Believe me, you don’t want your sex life on YouTube.”
“Frank’s house has an excellent security system. He says the sniper would have a hell of a time getting in to plant anything. Which is why I’ve decided to move in with him, at least for the time being.”
The pain in Cal’s dark eyes lifted. “Really? Already? That’s great, PoPo!”
“It’s not permanent. I’ll just be staying here until we catch the dickhead.” Alex grimaced. “I doubt I’d be able to sleep back home anyway.”
“I hope you catch the fucker soon.” Cal’s lips peeled off his teeth. “Or even better, that you blow his fucking brains out with Ted’s name scratched on the bullet.”
Alex slid her arms around him and gave him a fierce squeeze. “I’ll do that, subbie.”
His arms tightened at her use of Ted’s favorite nickname for him. When he spoke, his voice sounded a little choked. “See that you do.”
They stepped apart, and Alex exchanged hugs with Cap and Joanna.
As the three got into their vehicles, Frank pulled Alex against his side. They watched as Cap’s truck, the U-Haul, and Cal’s car—with Joanna driving—pulled out of the drive and rumbled for Atlanta.
When all three vehicles were gone, Frank looked down at her. “Hey, doll, would you mind cleaning up the kitchen for me? I need to take care of something.”
“Sure . . .” She gave him a sly smile. “Master.”
“You bet your ass.”
* * *
The kitchen didn’t take long; Joanna had insisted on helping her clear off the table before she left, so all Alex reall
y needed to do was load the dishwasher and wash down the countertops and stove. She spent more time dodging SIG’s attempts to wind around her ankles than actually cleaning up.
Unfortunately, the waffle iron had a cord. She was contemplating the best way to clean it when she heard the click of boot heels on slate flooring. She turned, meaning to ask him how to remove the waffle iron plates from the device for cleaning.
Instead, she damned near swallowed her tongue.
Frank stood watching her, a dark grin on his face, gloriously bare-chested, in black jeans tucked into black riding boots. “I wanted to have a . . . word with you about your little performance yesterday.”
“Um . . .” She took an instinctive step back. “Which performance was that?”
“The one right before your striptease.” He took a step toward her. “Which, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed.” His voice dropped into a deep male growl. “The part I have a problem with is the bit where you attacked your master and handcuffed me to a chair.”
“Ah. Yes. That probably wasn’t wise.” She backed away, a delicious kind of dread sliding over her.
“No,” he crooned, following her with slow, relentless steps. “It wasn’t wise at all.”
God, he looked hot. So damned big. His bare chest flexed under the cloud of soft, dark hair that covered it, thick pectorals shifting as his powerful arms tensed, ready to grab the minute she gave him an opening. Which she was tempted to do right now, except that wasn’t the way they played the game. She had to make him work for his conquest, or it wouldn’t be as much fun for either of them.
So she bounced on her sneakered toes as she retreated, leaping back every time he tensed as if to pounce.
Alex knew perfectly well she was being herded, of course. He was getting her out of the kitchen—which was designed for cooking, not combat—into the great room, where there’d be a bit more room to roll around.
So she spun on her heel and took off, darting through the doorway into the room beyond. His booted heels thudded on the floor as he lunged after her. She zipped around the corner, then whirled and jumped him with a gleeful lack of consideration for tactics, their relative sizes, or basic common sense.
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