A Dead Man's Pulse

by Samantha A. Cole

  Jake “Reverend” Donovan descended the grand staircase as a bull whip cracked from the center of the pit. Dr. Roxanne London, a.k.a. Mistress Roxy, was practicing her technique on the elevated stage. Instead of a submissive being restrained to the large, leather-covered St. Andrew’s cross, there was an 11” x 14” piece of paper that was the Whip Master’s current target. He’d been in the Trident office when she’d called to let Ian know she would be in the club since neither Mitch nor any employees were around. Ian had then asked Jake to come over and check on the red-headed Domme. Apparently, she came to “practice” when she was having a bad day, refusing to take it out on her submissive wife, Kayla, or anyone else.

  Plopping into a chair in the seating area to the right of the stage, Jake watched her in silence, knowing she was aware of his presence. She was a beautiful, tall woman, who drew lust-filled stares from men and women wherever she went, and if he wasn’t gay, he’d probably be lusting after her too.

  When Jake had fallen in love with Ian and Devon’s younger brother, they’d offered him a position establishing the Trident Security West Coast Team while Nick was finishing his last eighteen months on SEAL Team Four in San Diego. It had worked out perfectly for everyone, and now that Nick only had eight weeks left before his retirement from the Navy was official, Jake had been packing up their condo in stages so they could move, after a much-deserved vacation to Hawaii.

  After a meeting in Washington D.C. with the director and assistant director of the FBI, Jake had made a pit stop in Tampa for a few days before heading west again. While he was there, he’d run around getting the paperwork needed to transfer his and Nick’s driver’s licenses, vehicle registration, insurance, bank accounts, etc. back to Florida. At least, they already had a furnished place to stay. Ian and Devon had two other large apartments built behind theirs in the residential warehouse. One was Nick and Jake’s, while the other belonged to Jenn, who the Alpha Team considered to be their niece, having served with her father on SEAL Team Four. She’d moved to Tampa from Virginia after her parents had been murdered a few years ago.

  Dressed in jeans, white sneakers, and a green tank top, Roxy paused in her repeated strikes to the paper which didn’t have a slash on it due to her precise marksmanship. Picking up a bottle of water that had been sitting on the floor next to a white blouse she must have removed and her over-sized, brown purse, she opened it and drank half of the clear liquid. A sheen of perspiration on her face, neck, and arms did nothing to compromise her beauty. If she hadn’t been a pediatrician, she could have been a very successful model.

  “Having a bad day?” Jake asked, remaining in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him.

  Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she nodded her head. “Very. Lost a patient this morning. Eight years old. She never once cried during an appointment in all the years she was my patient, not even when getting a shot.”

  “What happened?’

  “Cerebral hemorrhage. No warning. One minute she was alive, sitting in her classroom at school. The next she was dead.” Roxy’s hazel eyes watered but she held back her tears. “The ER contacted me when she was rushed in, but there was nothing anyone could do.” Taking a deep breath, she let it out, and then placed the water bottle back on the floor before picking up the bull whip again. “So, I’m spending my lunch hour assaulting an innocent piece of paper.”

  “The bratty 11 x 14 probably deserves it.”

  A small smile appeared on Roxy’s face. “Thanks, Jake, I needed that.”

  “Anytime.”

  When the sound of the large, wooden, lobby doors opening sounded throughout the silent club, they both glanced up the stairs, but didn’t see anyone. It was probably Mitch or one of the employees coming in to do stock inventory of the bar or store. Turning back to the large cross, Roxy positioned herself, reared back, and with a flick of her wrist, let the whip slice through the air. Crack.

  Again, the paper moved when struck, but she still hadn’t ripped it.

  Crack.

  “Cluuuuutcccchhhhh!”

  What the fuck! Jake leaped from the chair as the terror-filled scream pierced the silence, and ran for the stairs. Behind him, he heard Roxy drop the whip to the stage floor. “My God, who is that?”

  Jake didn’t know what was going on or who had screamed, but he prepared himself for anything. Reaching the top step, he found Reese frozen, his eyes seeing something that wasn’t there—something horrific that had taken him far away from where he stood. Fuck a duck!

  Familiar with veterans who suffered from PTSD, and with Reese’s history, Jake approached cautiously. “Reese.” No verbal answer, but the man’s gaze flickered in his direction, so Jake tried again. “Cowboy, it’s Jake. You okay?”

  “Nooooooooo!” Reese roared, and then swung his fist.

  Thankfully, Jake was fast on his feet and had been ready for it. He brought his arm up, blocking the punch. “Reese!”

  But the former Marine’s traumatic experience still had him gripped in its talons. He lunged at Jake, tackling him to the floor. Jake struggled to get the upper hand and fend off the attack, all the while trying not to hurt the other man unless it became necessary. As they rolled around on the carpeted floor, knocking over a few chairs and pub tables, Jake saw Roxy breach the top stairs. “Stay back! PTS—ooomph.” Reese had gotten a good shot to his opponent’s left kidney.

  Rolling to the right, Jake took Reese with him, and then used a wrestling move to flip the man over so he could restrain him in a tight hold. Jake’s arms went under Reese’s, before clasping his hands behind the man’s neck. He then wrapped his longer legs around Reese’s, pinning him in place. The struggling continued, but Jake had the controlling advantage. “Roxy! Get back! He’s having a flashback!”

  The pediatrician ignored his order and knelt next to the two men. It took Jake a moment to realize she had a wet bar towel in her hand and was running it over the exposed skin of Reese’s arms, neck, and face.

  “Easy,” she cooed, softly. “Come back to Tampa . . . you’re safe here. What’s his name, again? I only met him once.”

  Jake felt Reese’s struggling wane a bit, but his lungs heaved for oxygen. “Logan Reese. Or use his call-sign ‘Cowboy.’ Just be careful.”

  “Logan . . . you’re safe . . . you’re with friends . . . it’s okay . . . come back, Cowboy.” As the good doctor talked the man down, the tightness of his muscles eased marginally. “That’s it . . . you’re safe, Cowboy. You’re not in that bad place anymore. You’re in Tampa, among friends.”

  Reese finally stilled and then Jake’s heart clenched as a sob broke loose from the man’s chest. With caution, Jake relaxed his grip. When it appeared the worst was over, he released Reese, who was still taking in gulps of air with his eyes closed, and rolled to a sitting position, trying to catch his own breath. Roxy continued to run the towel over heated skin, all the while murmuring that everything was okay.

  Seconds ticked by. When Reese opened his eyes, Roxy’s gaze met his, and she smiled radiantly. “Hi, Logan. Remember me? My name’s Roxanne and I’m a physician. Are you okay now?”

  Swallowing hard, Reese stared at her a moment, then at Jake. Horror and embarrassment flared in his eyes, and his face was coated in sweat and flushed with exertion. “That depends. Did I hurt anybody?”

  Jake snorted as he got to his feet, trying to hide how sore his left side was—Reese didn’t need guilt topping off all his other emotions right now. “Like I’d ever let a jarhead get the best of me.” Holding out a hand, he helped Roxy up first, and then extended it to Reese, who paused before accepting it. “What happened?” Well, it was clear he’d had a post-traumatic episode, but what had brought it on, only he knew.

  Running his hands down his face, Reese inhaled deeply. “I—I’m not sure. I . . . um . . . came here to get you for Colleen.” He gestured toward the double doors. “I came in . . . and . . .” A flash of confusion crossed his face, the
n his eyes lit up as he said, “A—A crack . . . like a whip . . .”

  Roxy cursed under her breath. Jake knew it wasn’t her fault—neither of them had any way of knowing Reese would walk in and have the reaction he did. But Jake also knew why the sound of the whip had set the former POW off. “That’s exactly what you heard. We were practicing. Has that happened before?”

  “Not in a few months,” Reese said while shaking his head. “And usually it’s when I’m asleep and have a nightmare. I’ve heard things that have sounded similar to—to a whip, but I never went completely out like that. It’s also not a common thing to hear most of the time.”

  Striding behind the bar, Jake grabbed three bottles of water from the cooler. After handing one each to Roxy and Reese, he cracked open the last one and guzzled half of it. His mind played back the past few minutes and an idea came to him. However, there was one thing he had to say before anything else. “Cowboy, first off, you know you have to let Ian, Dev, and your team leaders know what just happened.” If Reese didn’t, Jake would. He hated being a snitch, but if it happened again, it could put the man’s teammates at risk.

  Reese didn’t look happy about that, but after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat. “I know.”

  “Good. And don’t worry; I think Ian’s surprised you haven’t had a moment like this since you joined the team.” He paused. “I think I have an idea that might help you, but first we have to talk to Trudy.” Jake knew Reese had been seeing Dr. Dunbar, who was a long-time friend of his. He wanted to run the potential plan by the psychologist before suggesting it to Reese. It might be risky, but it also might just work.

  C

  HAPTER 11

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Logan gaped at Donovan who was leaning against the edge of Dr. Dunbar’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Unfortunately, the retired SEAL wasn’t smiling or laughing, which meant what he’d just suggested wasn’t a joke. From the couch in the office’s sitting area, Logan turned his attention to the psychologist who was perched on the wingback chair where she normally sat for their sessions. “Okay, he’s not kidding, so my next questions have to be is he fucking insane and do you have the number for the local loony bin on your phone?”

  The corners of Trudy’s mouth ticked upward, and Logan realized she didn’t think his teammate’s suggestion was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard, and that scared the crap out of him. Bolting from his seat, he paced back and forth in front of them, trying to wrap his head around what they wanted him to do. “I was a prisoner in an Afghani hellhole, listening to my buddies being whipped within an inch of their lives before those bastards decapitated them, and you want me to stand there and let someone bull whip me? You’re both fucking crazy!”

  “Logan, please, sit down and hear us out,” Trudy instructed in that calm, soothing tone she often used when he was agitated.

  He didn’t respond immediately. After he’d recovered from his meltdown at the club and profusely apologized to Roxanne London, who’d waved him off as if it weren’t big deal, Logan went back to the Trident offices with Donovan and told Ian what had happened. Despite Logan’s trepidation, his boss had been understanding and was actually surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Ian had agreed that an immediate consultation with Trudy was important and had gotten the psychologist on the phone to find out if she could squeeze him in. So here Logan was, with Donovan in tow, in Trudy’s office overlooking the Tampa Riverwalk, wondering if they were both nuts. Maybe he was sleeping and dreaming about living in a parallel universe where he was the only sane person among them.

  Running his hand through his hair, he glanced from one to the other as they waited for him to calm down and listen to their reasoning. Their stoic expressions had him throwing up his hands in defeat. Taking his seat again, he said, “Okay . . . explain how this is supposed to help me and not have me ending up in a padded cell.”

  The doctor looked at Donovan. “It’s your suggestion, and I think with your background you’ll have a better chance of convincing him.”

  When Donovan nodded, Logan frowned. Despite being in the military and combat, he didn’t think there was anything the retired SEAL could say to persuade him to willingly be whipped. He was surprised when the man pushed off the desk and stood, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. Like all the men at Trident, he was in peak physical condition, but when he turned around, showing Logan his bare back, it was clear not everything was as perfect as it seemed. There were approximately a dozen white, crescent-shaped scars covering the man’s back, and Logan wondered what they were from. Out of all his coworkers, Donovan was the quietest, only letting people see a small portion of what made him tick, so having him open up like this was unexpected.

  Pivoting around again, Donovan returned to his spot, leaned on the desk, and pulled his shirt back on. “I was seventeen and my bigoted father found out I was gay. Decided to beat it out of me—worst thrashing of my life. The scars are from his belt buckle. I’d been seeing a Dom at the time, so I had a taste of what the lifestyle was all about. Without getting into the rest of the shit that happened with my father, I ended up enlisting and was stationed at Pearl Harbor. I found a club, similar to The Covenant, where I could continue my training. Even though my introduction into the lifestyle was as a submissive, it was obvious to others I was a Dom. After talking with some of them, I realized they were right. I have an innate need to protect others, to help them, and was never very comfortable relying on other people, but having them come to me with their problems was something completely different. I like being needed . . . actually, I need to be needed. But in order to become a Dom—a good one—I still had to finish learning what it meant to be a submissive. A Dom should never do something to a submissive that they haven’t experienced for themselves, so they know everything about the positive and negative responses that can happen.”

  Donovan straightened and took a few steps, sitting in another chair next to Trudy. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs as he continued. “Anyway, I approached a Domme to help me, since I wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone at the time. Lani was a bisexual sadist, willing to take me on—first as a submissive and then as a Dom apprentice. After a while, I trusted her enough to tell her everything that had happened. Her suggestion was to not only teach me how to be a Whip Master, but also to teach me how to release the emotional baggage I was holding onto as a result of the beating. It’s called desensitization.” He paused and raised his brow. “I know you haven’t really been in the club, but do you know what a safeword is?”

  Even though there was very little Logan knew about the lifestyle, it wasn’t hard to walk in on conversations about it at the TS compound with Foster, McCabe, and all of the Alpha Team participating in it, along with any significant others. With a slight tilt of his head, he answered, “Yeah, I think. If the submissive says a safeword, then everything stops, right?”

  The other man nodded. “Right. You’ve probably also heard the lifestyle mantra—safe, sane, and consensual. Nothing is done to a submissive that they haven’t agreed to. The Dom ensures that all safety measures are taken and that the reason behind why the sub is sceneing is not self-damaging. There’s a high level of trust in BDSM, and a sub needs be able to trust that their Dom will immediately stop if the safeword is said or know how to read the sub’s body language to stop the scene if necessary without the safeword. There’s more to it and Polo will go into all of that with you in the class, but I wanted you to understand the basics so you understand why I’m suggesting you try the whip. Lani showed me how to channel the painful memories and feelings I was keeping locked inside me and release them. Yeah, the whip hurts at first, but with training, you’ll be able to associate that pain with pleasure, and that’s where you’ll find the release. I still have an occasional session with one of the Whip Masters at the club. When I do, I know I can stop it at any time—it gives me the power and control I d
idn’t have with my father. I’m the one who says when enough is enough—no one else. As I began to desensitize, the whip, and my responses to it, were no longer a reminder of what I’d been through. It became a cathartic release. I now had the control, and I took that control and made the whip a positive tool instead of a negative one. It took a while, but once I could get through a session without breaking down or freaking out, Lani began to teach me how to transfer that power and control into helping other submissives. That’s when I began to apprentice as a Dom.”

  Taking a gulp from the bottle of water that Trudy had given him earlier, Logan mentally sorted through what Donovan had told him. “So, what you’re saying is if I learn how to control the . . . scene . . . that’s what it’s called, right?” When the others both nodded, he continued. “So I learn how to control the scene and how to control my responses to it, I’ll be able to purge my PTSD symptoms and episodes into a physical and emotional release.”

  Trudy paused from where she’d been making a few notes on her ever-present notepad. “Yes. While it’s not an absolute cure—most people are never cured of their PTSD—but I think it’s an excellent idea. Desensitizing is a common treatment for post trauma—whether it’s a physical, mental, or emotional response the person is suffering from. Actually, I’d been thinking about suggesting it to you, but up until today, I wasn’t sure if you were ready to hear it. I’m not suggesting you walk into a room with just anyone and let them start whipping you—that would be disastrous even if I could find a trained person to agree to it, which I doubt I could. I think before you try anything, you should do some research on BDSM. Before you leave, I’ll give you the links to some trusted websites on the subject. If you want to give it a try, the first few sessions would just be watching a Master practice, getting used to hearing the crack of the whip, and finding a way to associate it with something positive. Then, I want you to watch a few scenes with a Master and an experienced submissive. If and when you’re ready to take the next step after that, I want two Whip Masters present—the second one will be observing you and your responses.”