Red Hots

by Hines, Yvette

  Her hands and feet were numb and her stomach, a ball of knots, was queasy and made her feel ill all over. Maybe she’d be lucky enough to come down with the flu and she could call her second to cover for her in court. She’d fax him over her closing statement notes. However, that line of thought was for quitters and as much as she wanted to just walk away from everything right now, she couldn’t. All her life her father had ingrained in her the determination of being responsible, completing those things that had been entrusted to her.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached into the backseat and grabbed her briefcase and the suit she’d worn to court. She’d gone from work to Emmalee’s who took her to a bondage store after they talked and finally to The Dollhouse. She opened her door and dragged her weary body into her home. Locking the door behind her she didn’t get much further than the couch where she collapsed, lying down on her side. Not caring, she allowed the suit and briefcase to fall to the floor.

  The image of Masaun’s stone gray eyes filled with anger and disappointment haunted her. Her heart ached. She should have never decided to go to The Dollhouse. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Met him at his house or stayed home.

  Today had already been a shit-storm in the courthouse and tomorrow’s closing arguments would be worse because it was left to her to convince the jury that Peter Dashell belonged in jail. It was her responsibility to see justice meted out for Kristy and all his other victims. There was no time for her to wallow in self-pity.

  Or what could have been. Eventually whatever was between her and Masaun would have had to come to an end. It was temporary. They had both agreed upon that. Being at the dungeon tonight was just a flimsy attempt at trying to stretch the time longer. I shouldn’t have done it.

  She thought about what Jonathan Camp had seen as she and Masaun had come walking out hand in hand. In five minutes, anyone sitting outside that place on the more secluded end of the oceanfront would be able to figure out what kind of club it was. A fetish dungeon. What would they think of the kind of people that went there? What would they think of her?

  I should have never agreed from the start.

  Masaun had been better off as just a candy delivery man in her life. Why had he offered and tempted her with the possibility of peace, release?

  Her own questions prompted her to lift her hands. Even now the supple palms, palms that had healed over the weeks she had been submitting to Masaun were carved with the half-moon shapes of her nails. In one drive home, she’d returned to the self-injurious pain of before.

  Rolling to her back, she pressed her palms to her stomach and closed her eyes. She was bigger than this affliction. If the last few weeks had taught her nothing else, it was that one lesson. Taking a deep breath she forced herself to relax, clear her mind.

  Even as her body settled down and the tension receded some, her mind transported her to another time, another place—Masaun’s playroom. The desire to feel the bite of his hand or flogger, something tangible for her to focus on, assailed her. The need washed over her, bowing her body forward.

  He was an addiction she had to kick. Cold turkey she would have to let him go.

  Take the techniques she had learned by her submission, in his arms and in his bed, and continue with her life. She was on course to be the CA of Virginia Beach. Harvey was not going for re-election, but a nod from him in her favor was as good as gold. This was her life. This was what she had strived and worked toward.

  Even as she pushed herself up from the couch, she tried not to notice that the normal joyous feeling she got when she thought about the advancement of her career wasn’t there. Instead she felt empty and hollow.

  Wiping the wetness from her face, she picked up her suit and went into her room. It was time for her to get out of her bondage garb and get back into her actual life. Once she was in her room, she removed her trench, hung it and the suit up, then took off the assless corset dress and folded it and put it with the black heels into a back corner of her walk-in closet. She’d have to toss it into the trash soon, but she couldn’t risk it tonight with the reporter creeping around. The last thing she needed was for someone to pull that kind of evidence on her out of her garbage.

  Leaving her hair knotted on top of her head for the moment, she pulled a shower cap over it then got in under a hot spray of water. She stood there and let it beat on her, scalding her skin to a deep red. In need of the pain, she didn’t try to resist by dodging the sprays or turning the temperature down. When she’d felt a little more like herself, she bathed and got out.

  When she was dry and lotion covered her skin, she pulled on a nightgown, one she normally wore in winter. But tonight with the chill still cloaked around her body, even after the flaming shower, it seemed appropriate.

  Heading back into the living room, she collected her briefcase and felt the vibration of her cell phone. Opening it up, she pulled out the phone. Emmalee’s name was displayed there and she had two voicemail messages.

  Pushing the talk button, she said, “I’m okay, Em.” Just as quickly, she ended the call, cutting off her friend’s reply at the first syllable.

  Squeezing the power button, she turned her phone off and tossed it onto the coffee table. Still carrying her briefcase she deposited it on the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator to get a yogurt. Standing over her trashcan, she consumed the blueberry Greek yogurt cup then dropped the empty container into the garbage and tossed the spoon in the sink. She wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want to be disturbed later by a growling stomach.

  Her mind was set on one thing, delivering the best damn closing argument of her career. Pulling out her legal pad with the pages of her argument she’d already written and the two previous court reports that she wanted to review, she got to work. This case was hers and she would be damned if anything or anyone, including her own present reckless behavior, would cause her to lose it. For a few weeks she had forgotten who Kindle Langston was.

  She would not allow that to happen again.

  CHAPTER fifteen

  The Candyman Can: Assistant CA Langston Prosecutes Sex Crimes While Engaging In Her Own Kinky Lifestyle

  Kindle stared down at the newspaper before her feet. She stood in her doorway and viewed her own polluted name in bold print. She didn’t get the paper delivered to her house, because her office was filled with all the vile reports she would ever need. However, one of her neighbors must have thought it was important for her to see, to behold the evidence of her adulterated life.

  The urge to bend down and pick it up was strong. Read what had been said about her. There was a picture below the caption most of it below the fold, but her and Masaun’s lips pressed together was showing.

  As she stepped over it and locked her door, she heard people calling out her name. She moved to her car and ignored the hordes of reporters camped out around the fence of the condominium complex.

  Voices continued to yell out questions.

  “How long have you been into BDSM?”

  “Do you have other kinky practices?”

  “Is this why they selected you to try this case?”

  “You ever consider switching to the defense side? Sexual deviant defends sexual deviant.”

  The last question made her skin crawl. She wanted to raise her head and find the bastard that had said it and punch him in the face. She may have only dipped her toe in the bondage lifestyle, but she had a best friend that loved and lived it and she’d be damned if some ignorant asshole was going to degrade those that practiced into the same category as Child Killer Pedophile Peter Dashell.

  Knowing it would be futile and bring more bad press to the case that should be all about justice for the victims, she got into her car and drove through the crowded gates. For a brief second, she hoped someone would jump before her hood and attempt to stop her so she could at least have the satisfaction of running one of them over. Unfortunately they didn’t and she continued on to work, with the full procession of news vans following her th
e entire way.

  Unlike her usual days, she didn’t go into the office early but only allowed herself the time it would take for her to arrive at the courthouse at the start of the day’s trial.

  She felt the curious glances and heard the low murmurs as she entered the courtroom. Just like the bloodsucking reporters, she ignored them too as she took her place in first chair behind the prosecution table. The piercing stare of Simeon caused her to turn toward her ex-boyfriend.

  His features were drawn tight and he gazed at her as if she were a stranger, someone he’d never seen before—there was a look of disgust shadowing his eyes. In her peripheral vision, she could see the front page of the newspaper spread flat on his table before him. It pissed her off to see a man who was defending an evil, murdering scumbag have the gall to judge her consensual actions and find them appalling.

  “Kiss my ass, Simeon,” she mouthed.

  His eyes and mouth stretched in shock.

  “All rise. The Honorable Judge A. Willard Geneon presides,” the bailiff announced.

  There was rustling through the courtroom as people got to their feet and the court reporter began tapping at her keys.

  “Good morning all. Please be seated. Counselors, are we ready to proceed?” Judge Geneon asked, looking from Simeon to Kindle.

  Kindle was happy to see that the judge’s face was a stone mask as he looked over his bench toward the prosecution table. Either the Judge had not seen the morning paper or was too professional to allow it to interfere in the proceedings; whichever, Kindle was grateful.

  “The defense is, Your Honor,” Simeon called out.

  “The prosecution is more than ready, Your Honor.” Kindle smiled.

  “Let’s begin.”

  ~YH~

  “Is there any reason you chose to awaken me at the ass crack of dawn?” Sweet mumbled in his pillow in response to Masaun banging on the nightstand close to his brother’s bed.

  “It’s not dawn. The sun has been up for hours now.” Masaun leaned his shoulder against the wall and stared at the form buried deep beneath the blanket. He rarely used his key to the loft apartment above the store since Sweet used it as his extended temporary home, however, today was a different story.

  “One man’s morning is another man’s middle of the night.” Sweet still had not glanced at him. His brother had a point. Sweet didn’t work late every night in the store, but when he was processing through dark emotions he never spoke about, the silence of the shop and making candy gave Sweet peace. Normally, Sweet was exhausted the next day and needed a lot of rest.

  “Get up. I need to talk to you.” Masaun kicked the bed frame, jarring his brother’s long form.

  “Fuck, Masaun. What the hell?” Sweet turned and shoved himself into a sitting position in the center of the bed.

  Masaun didn’t care that he’d pissed his brother off. Right now, he was finding it hard to have a concerning thought about anything but Kindle. The one person he could not get ahold of, she was refusing to answer any of his calls.

  “Is my kitchen on fire?” Sweet shot an angry look at him through the dim room.

  “No.”

  Shoving his hands through his sleep-wrangled hair, Sweet stared at him. His younger brother must have read something in his face, because Sweet tossed the blanket back. “Make me coffee.”

  Giving him a sharp nod, Masaun turned and went down the few steps that separated Sweet’s bed area from the rest of the loft. Walking through the spacious great room he went to the kitchen area, too elaborate and high-tech for a small place, but Sweet had insisted on having the upgrade contracted when he decided to move into it. Masaun tossed the item in his hand on the table and started on fulfilling his brother’s request for caffeine.

  By the time he had two cups of coffee on the table, Sweet came strolling in, looking just a fraction more awake in jeans, no shirt and bare feet. Masaun had no doubt as soon as he finished talking to his brother, Sweet would return to bed for a couple more hours.

  “I figure it must be damn important for you to come up here.” Sweet poured liquid creamer and too many spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee cup.

  Masaun sipped his black, lightly sweetened coffee once then returned it to the table. “You didn’t make it into The Dollhouse last night.”

  Arching a brow, Sweet stared at him. “Really, Masaun, you’ve come here to chastise me? I’m a little old for a keeper, even a BDSM one.” Lifting his coffee, Sweet took two liberal gulps.

  Frustrated, Masaun sighed and ran his hand over his head. “It wasn’t a reprimand but an observation. There’s no way you could have known about this.” He flipped the paper flat and pointed at the front page.

  “Oh, shit!” He set the cup down, creamy brown liquid sloshing over the sides. Disregarding the mess, Sweet grabbed the paper.

  Masaun knew what his brother saw, he’d read the article three times and practically knew each paragraph by heart. Masaun had discovered from the byline that the article was written by Jonathan Camp, the reporter who had ambushed them at The Dollhouse.

  “Hey, they’re not only talking about your connection to the BDSM dungeon but the article mentions our store.”

  Disregarding what appeared to be a note of pride in his brother’s voice, Masaun explained, “Last night when Kindle and I were leaving The Dollhouse, this scoop-hungry reporter just about accosted us trying to pull an interview from Kindle.”

  “In the act apparently.” Sweet tapped the picture of the passionate kiss.

  “Apparently.” He exhaled a hard breath. “The man has been following Kindle around since the trial began. He’s some local freelance reporter that does an occasional spot on the news as well as sells occasional articles to the paper.”

  “The bastard must have felt like he hit the fucking jackpot last night.”

  “Triple dipped in it. There have been small bits on the television news, radio and of course the paper. He didn’t get anything from Kindle, but in the hours that followed, apparently he got enough to fill in some gaps with truth and falsehoods.”

  Dropping the paper, Sweet picked up his coffee again. He leaned back in his seat, his gaze piercing and his mouth tight as he sipped his coffee.

  “Look, Sweet, you have a right to be pissed. This is an embarrassment on the store—”

  “I’m not embarrassed. Are you?” Sweet’s voice was still strained.

  “Hell, yeah.” Masaun shot up and walked to the sink, pressing his hands down to try to keep himself calm. His gut was reeling with emotions. “You know how I feel about our private life.”

  There was a thump, the sound of ceramic striking wood. “Yeah, I know how you feel. But, sometimes you can’t control everything, big bro.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Masaun stared at Sweet.

  “This isn’t a bad thing for us. So, some prudish people may not come back to Decadent Treats…like we’re putting damn flogger bits in the chocolate or something. However, I guarantee it will bring more business, even if from people wanting to gawk at the two Doms and speculate if there are subs chained up in the back of our store. They come, taste my damn outstanding candy then come back for more sugary crack.”

  Masaun was almost tempted to smile at his brother’s perfect description of his chocolate creations being synonymous with drug addiction. It was just that good. However, one thought pushed that small bubble of happiness away—Kindle.

  “It may work in our favor, but not in hers. She’s in the middle of a high profile trial that her career is riding on.” That was the part that ate at him. Over the long weeks, he’d gotten to know Kindle, the lawyer. Watched her sit at his home desk and work on her case or bounce ideas off him.

  “By her, I’m assuming you mean this pretty, brown-skinned submissive in the picture with you, Assistant Commonwealth Attorney Kindle Langston.” Sweet read her title from the article.

  Exhaling, Masaun returned to his seat. “Yes.”

  “Can I assume she, Kindle, is the reason behind
the occasional smile that has appeared on your face from time to time over the last few weeks?” Sweet brought a foot up to rest on his knee.

  “Yes, Kindle or Song Sparrow—”

  “Song Sparrow?” Sweet’s brows puckered over the bridge of his nose.

  “If you heard how she sounds when she climaxes at the end of a session, you’d understand.” His memory replayed the melodic cries that often had flooded his playroom. It always touched a deep place in his heart and made his chest swell with pride as the desire to protect her gripped him. However, he had failed. The newspaper before him was proof of that.

  “I’ll pass and take your word for it.”

  “It’s been couple of months since our relationship began.” He ran a hand down his face, feeling weary. “It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement.”

  “You want it permanent.”

  Leaning on his forearms, Masaun linked his hands together. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not possible.”

  “You know I’m the last guy to tell someone not to give up on the affairs of the heart. Do you know this for sure?”‘

  Masaun recalled Kindle’s expression when she pulled away from him in the bright glow of the reporter’s camera light. There wasn’t only apprehension there, but true fear. The woman that had minutes before submitted fully to his dominance and seconds after that melted in his arms as they spoke of loving each other all through the night, had sealed herself off from him—physically and emotionally. She’d yet to return a single message he’d left on her phone. That was pissing him off.

  He’d foolishly believed that in the last few weeks the two of them had grown close, that Kindle viewed him as a confidante and someone she could trust with her worries and fears. If not, then what the hell had been the point of their relationship? In that semi-private room at The Dollhouse, he’d seen her total submission to him. She’d called him Dom Hawk and had truly become his Song Sparrow.

  If a sucker was born every minute then a fool such as he had been for her was born every second. That was how long it had seemed to take for Kindle to erect the wall between them.