by Trent Evans
Ivy turned her head toward the blonde who’d returned to the railing, leaning one elbow on it, her chin propped up by the heel of her hand. “What did you bet, Darynn?”
She shrugged. “I thought you’d be too chickenshit to go through with it — especially once he started pissing and moaning and carrying on.”
“That’s when she really got into it, Darynn,” Anna grinned at the petite Ivy. “Isn’t that right?”
The girl merely nodded, her blush burning bright once more.
“That’s the last time I bet against the Domme Whisperer over there.” Darynn kicked peevishly at one of the vertical supports of the railing with her dirt-encrusted work boot.
Then the faint sound of a revving motorcycle could be heard, Darynn’s brow arching. “That’s not my ringtone.”
Anna scowled, fishing her phone from her pants pocket, staring at the screen for a long moment.
“Who the hell is that?” The wood planks of the deck creaked slightly as Darynn sauntered over to Anna and Ivy, her heavy boots thumping against the wood.
Anna sighed, cursing silently as she looked up at her friend.
“It’s Grayson.”
Chapter 14
Anna found him, of all places, on the long, secluded dock at the back of his sprawling compound on the shores of Lake Washington. Somewhere, a few miles north, was Bill Gates’ mansion. From the wooded, hushed, serene surroundings of Grayson’s property, you’d have little inkling how close you were to Seattle metro.
Her heels clack-clacked on the reddish planks of the floating dock, a good-sized cabin cruiser moored at the far end. He was dressed in nothing but a blue striped polo, and white deck shorts. Well over six feet in height, he still stood tall and straight, his shoulders strong, his brow stronger. His skin, though weathered, projected nothing but tanned, vigorous masculinity, his salt and pepper hair far more toward the salt end being the only real clue that the man was well into his fifties. Though Grayson continued winding the faded and twisted rope around the length of his arm, his flinty dark gaze had watched her as she strolled down the long slope of the lush lawn toward the water.
Somewhere nearby was Brauer. The tall, aloof henchman — hatchet man more appropos — was never far from Grayson’s side. She swore the creep would insist on wearing the same black three piece suit even in the fucking desert.
The sun was brilliant, the crispness of early fall in the northwest a well-kept secret few who lived there wanted the rest of the world to know about. They feared the rest of the world might want to move in if they learned the truth.
“How’s our little guest coming along?” Grayson tied off the last of the rope, winding it around the coil, rendering it into the shape of a figure 8. “Any complaints about the accommodations?”
“He knows better than to complain about anything.” She unbuttoned the fitted cream coat, the breeze blessedly cool upon her upper arms, bared by the sleeveless blouse she wore underneath. The long black pants, though sleek and stylish, were probably a bad choice on a day that had the look of wanting to get warm — and fast.
Grayson dropped the rope into the open bow area of the runabout tied off at the dock just behind him. The sun caught the glittering flecks on the boat’s hull, the paint there weather-faded. “I got the pictures I asked you for. You do good work with the whip. While I have to say I liked them — a lot — I was somewhat… disappointed.”
“Oh?”
“I’d expected, based on your reputation, to see him reduced to a gibbering retch by now.”
“I am not a brutal woman, Mr. Corddray.” She spoke the words despite what she was well known for, despite the darkness within her that was quite open about the fact that sadism was not unknown — or unwelcome — in her world.
Grayson shrugged. “Whether you’re brutal or not makes no difference to me, Anna. You took the job, knowing what I required — and what George would tolerate.”
“Not exactly the easiest of parameters.”
“You don’t get paid for easy.”
“Mr. Corddray, why don’t you tell me why you really called me out here today.” She looked around her, the lawn surrounded by thick growths of Douglas fir, cedars, and dogwoods. “I’m sure it wasn’t to show off your… boats.”
“Straight to the point.” Grayson shook his head, stepping down, one leg at a time into the runabout, taking a seat on the faded white cushions of the pilot’s chair. The boat rocked side to side for a moment, then settled. “I wanted to ask you something. In person.”
“You’ve got me all to yourself.”
“I once had a, well, business disagreement with a man. A well-connected man.” Grayson reached into the compartment below his chair, pulling out a silver can and popping the top. He took a long drink, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Damn, cold beer is so good on a hot day.”
“You were saying?”
She knew it wasn’t smart to push the man, but she was intent on maintaining the strictly business relationship between the two of them. It was always safer that way.
He gave her a glare for the briefest of moments that chilled her blood, then the lazy smile was back. “This man… our understanding was that he’d shepherd through a particular bit of legislation. A sort of… regulatory reform. It would have a positive impact on a construction contract that was very important to me. Despite his generally disagreeable nature, he and I came to an understanding. Sometimes compromising can prove to be lucrative, even for disagreeable sorts.”
Grayson stood, the boat rocking again, and began to unwind the yellow stranded rope that was wrapped about a battered steel cleat bolted to the dock.
“A bribe.”
“We don’t use that word, Ms. Shaw. I don’t like it.”
She grimaced, inclining her head. Though something she wouldn’t engage in herself — politics bored her almost as much as high finance — she had no moral objection to it. It happened all the time. She knew this. No, what she objected to was the Kabuki theater of not calling something what it plainly was.
“My friend, he liked to give me updates. Chat me up, take me to dinner. You name it. Always it was ‘we’re almost there’ ‘just a few formalities’ — you know what I’m saying.” Grayson sat down again, plucking the beer from its cupholder and tipping it back once more. “Until one day, I open the paper to find that not only has the legislation not passed, but it’s died in committee.”
“And I take it he was what? The committee chairman?”
His smile was broad, and approximately as warm and inviting as the maw of a Great White. “Have you done this before, Ms. Shaw?”
“Hardly.”
“My friend… well, he disappointed me. My project had to be canceled. Even re-engineering it to clear the regulatory hurdles would have more than doubled the cost.”
“I hate politicians.”
Grayson nodded. “I hate the rain, too — ironic, considering where I chose to make my home. But like politicians, it must be dealt with, nonetheless.”
Snapping the rope away from the cleat, Grayson quickly coiled it, using the same around the arm method as before, the boat slowly drifting away from the dock.
“And how did you… deal with it?”
“I primaried the sonofabitch. I found the most cold-blooded shark I could entice to get in the race. It was a tough district — and my man lost badly in the end, in the general. But it was worth it, for it taught my uncooperative friend a lesson, it did.”
“Threatening me isn’t necessary, Mr. Corddray. The terms of the contract have been upheld and they will be fulfilled, as agreed upon. I’ve never yet broken a contract. If that’s the point of your tale, it was an unnecessary one.” She wanted to shove that beer can down his throat.
“You know what my friend really learned? He learned that I’m a patient man — until I’m not. He learned that I expect something for my money.”
“You always get what you pay for, is that it?”
“
If I don’t, then there will be… problems.” Grayson leaned an elbow on the steering wheel, lifting a finger toward her. “George demanded I use you. I’d have much rather had Mr. Brauer be allocated a quiet half an hour with little Quinton in a locked room, but others thought that might be too… messy.” Grayson’s jaw grew tight, his voice deepening, a warning gravelly note to it. “Nothing’s too messy for what that piece of shit did to my niece. So, let me be clear, Ms. Shaw. I want what I paid for. If I have to abide by Trask’s bullshit code, his rules, then I will. But even rules leave a lot of room for interpretation. And I expect you to interpret… liberally. Do I make myself clear?”
Anna sighed dramatically, feigning disinterest even as her heartbeat had picked up to a gallop. She hated dealing with Trust leaders almost as much as politicians. They always felt they ran the world.
Unlike politicians though, when it came to the leaders of the Trust, their belief that they ran the world wasn’t that far from the truth.
“As I said, Mr. Corddray, you’ll get what was agreed to.”
Corddray turned the key in the ignition, the motor firing to life, a faint puff of bluish smoke rising from the exhaust, the prop churning the water white at the stern of the boat. “Care for a ride, Ms. Shaw?” Grayson yelled over the roar of the motor. “Wonderful day to be on the water!”
“No, thanks. I have to get going.”
“Let yourself out then, Ms. Shaw!” He waved as he gunned the engine, the boat leaping forward, leaving a riot of white water in its wake.
* * *
It was the first morning since I’d been abducted that I hadn’t been kicked awake, my mind once more realizing that my captivity was indeed my lot, and not simply that of a nightmare.
What’s more, my constant daytime companion, that small overhead window, was no longer the only source of illumination in my cell.
The door was open. Wide open.
A broad shaft of muted light spilled through the opening, revealing the bottom of staircase risers beyond. I marveled that I’d never once heard anyone using the staircase in all the days I’d resided in my cell.
That’s because this cell is soundproofed, you idiot.
I was beyond the point where such a fact or suspicion would frighten me. It was simply expected, prudent, what a logical person would do.
You mean a logical person who intended to kidnap and imprison someone.
My wrists were still bound before me, my ankles hobbled via a chain affixed to both ankle cuffs. Other than that, I was — as usual — completely naked.
There was nothing really stopping me from leaving the cell; the hobble was probably long enough to even allow me to negotiate the stairs, though I’d have to be very careful.
Was this some sort of trick? A test? Would I be punished if I attempted to leave? Maybe that was the whole point? To see what I feared more — another miserable day in my hole, or even a fleeting glimpse at something approaching freedom?
I didn’t have anything to lose. Assuming it was still some sort of cruel predicament I was being set up for, I pushed myself to my feet. I almost gasped at the weakness of my legs, my thighs tense, the muscles tight and trembling.
“Fuck me,” I whispered as I willed my legs to work, shuffling my feet across the concrete. As I stood at the threshold, my nakedness hit me once more. How absurd was it that I somehow felt a sense of being “covered” if I stayed in my cell. It was familiar, if nothing else — and dark. Even though I was almost certain they had a camera set up to watch me, it was still a known thing. Sitting in that dark, alone, quiet… it was a lot easier to deal with.
Now, I’d have to traipse through a completely unknown structure, finding God-knew-what at the top of those steps.
For a fleeting moment, I seriously considered turning right back around and huddling in my prison once again.
“Don’t be a pussy,” I hissed.
Lit by two bare incandescent bulbs, the stairway was a single flight, the risers concrete — which explained why I’d never heard anyone using them. At the top was a single dark-paneled door.
The walls were unpainted plaster, a simple wood banister screwed into them on either side. It smelled like new construction, the distinct scent of drywall spackle still strong in the space. I took the first riser, careful to hold onto one of the banisters with my bound hands, shocked — and shamed — anew at how much even my physical coordination had deteriorated. I felt like a hospital patient, bedridden for weeks, just now taking his first steps.
I wasn’t sure I could’ve escaped even if I’d had a clear path to freedom.
Sounds drifted down the stairwell, and I froze in place, listening intently — something I’d learned to do instinctively from the cursed confines of my prison. Female voices, the clink of silverware or dishes, soft laughter.
A kitchen?
I continued climbing, almost toppling over about halfway up the stairs when I tried to take too large a step and the chain pulled me up short, throwing me off balance.
My curses a harsh whisper, I hoped they hadn’t heard me. Whoever it was.
Anna.
Did I hope she was up there waiting for me? Or did I dread it?
I was already fiercely blushing, the shame so hot upon my face I wanted to hide it behind my arms. There was nothing for it though; it was my lot to endure it, and maybe get out of that hell down there behind me. Or I would turn around and give up altogether.
I knew her well enough to know she’d have been disappointed if I lost my nerve now.
Is that how you’re making your decisions now, Quinton? What SHE wants?
I didn’t answer myself, and not just because I wasn’t entirely sure what the answer was. It wasn’t time for this, especially not self-loathing. It was time to see what the fuck was going on up there.
Breathing harder than I’d ever had traversing a simple flight of stairs, I reached the door. It was almost certainly locked. The noise was louder beyond, though I wasn’t sure if it was simply more noise — or the fact I was now closer to it.
I tried the brushed silver knob, the chain linking my cuffs clinking against the metal. It was open!
Slipping my head out as I opened the door, I peered around. It was a modern hallway, with gray-brown stone tile, walls a patterned tan paint the corridor leading off to the white. There were evergreen trees on a steep slope, and a lush green lawn that hugged the house as it angled down the hill, but I couldn’t make out much else. No other signs of civilization.
No wonder you never heard any trucks or jets. You’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.
One door was directly across from me, but I noted it had a knob with an obvious keyhole. I didn’t know why my eye fixed on that, but it did.
More sounds of silverware, dishes echoed down the hallway, and, heart in my throat, I started toward it. Following the hall, it turned to the right — and opened into a spacious, sunshine-splashed kitchen. There, sitting at an oval shaped, stained wood table… was Anna.
“Hello, Quinton.” She extended a hand toward one of the carved, wooden chairs clustered around the table.
I stood, stunned, gawping at her. I couldn’t move, though I wasn’t sure whether it was because of fright, or the fact that this was more visual stimulation than I’d experienced in what had to be weeks.
“She gave you an order, boy — now follow it.”
I spun around toward Darynn’s voice. She was leaning a hip against the slate counter, a spatula in her hand, painting an almost domestic picture in her white apron and blue and white plaid pajama bottoms. For the first time since I’d first “met” her, she was barefoot.
The delicious smell of frying bacon had my mouth salivating instantly.
“Sit down,” Anna said, pointing at the chairs once more.
“Interesting picture he makes, isn’t it?” Darynn’s eyes dropped down pointedly.
I lowered my hands instantly to cover my genitals. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help it.
Ra
ther than push my luck, I forced myself to obey Anna, slipping into one of the chairs, the wood icy against my bare ass, my nipples hardening to diamonds as the gooseflesh broke out on my arms.
Anna regarded me for a moment. Dressed only in jeans and a dark blue top, the open neckline emphasizing the swell of tanned, generous breasts, she looked more casual than I’d ever seen her before. I liked the look a lot more than I wanted to admit.
“I’m taking a chance on you.” Anna’s nails tapped the varnished wood of the tabletop. “We’ll see how you take to this. I must admit I’m not optimistic.”
“About what?” My voice was rough, guttural, and I cleared my throat. “I… where are we?”
“My home.” Her eyes sparkled as she watched me, and I knew better than to ask her where the hell her home happened to be. I was lucky she’d given me even that little tidbit of information.
Would it matter if I knew where I was though? The idea that I’d do anything with the information, even contemplate something as serious as escape was more absurd by the day. Was I staying because I feared her… or was it because of something else entirely?
A plate was slid in front of me, the smell of the food making my stomach growl. There was a slice of buttered toast to accompany the four strips of still sizzling bacon before me.
“You don’t even think about touching that until you’ve done something for me.” Anna reached down to something next to her chair and produced something dreadfully familiar, my mouth going dry as I beheld it. She dropped the manila envelope on the table, using one slender finger to slide it across to me. “Look at them, and tell me how they make you feel. You know what’s required. Do that, and you may eat.”
The prospect of the food was maddening. I wanted it like nothing I’d ever wanted in my life… but I wanted to look at those photos even less. They were a reminder — a shameful reminder of what I’d done. It was reminder of the life I’d had, the life I’d enjoyed… even if now I could see that it was a life built on something that shouldn’t have been.
“I can’t, Anna.”
“You know what the proper way to address me is.” Anna’s jaw tightened, her gaze pinning me to my seat. She was utterly still, like a predator preparing for the final pounce, the killing bite.