Sympathy For The Devil

by King, Asha

  Though she didn’t hear the other half of the call itself, Tash was treated to a bunch of “mmhmms” and “okays” from Dani, and supplied the name of the club when asked. A few minutes later, she hung up again, and Natasha sat at attention, waiting.

  “Okay, she’s heard of the place.” Dani went back to sipping her milkshake as she spoke. “Hefty membership fee, however, since she likes me, she will make a call and get you basically a visitor’s pass. You still have to pay a cover fee at the door, which is fifty bucks for a single woman on Fridays and Saturdays. They don’t let in single guys who are non-members, which would be why you saw someone turned away. Drinks are included, though, as well as all use of the...uh, facilities.”

  Damn it, she hoped Archer didn’t make club visits a regular thing now or she’d be broke in no time.

  “And there’s a dress code.”

  “Could’ve fooled me by the nudity,” Tash said dryly.

  “You have to dress sexy. Do you have sexy clothes, Natasha?” Dani raised her brow skeptically.

  “If by sexy you mean latex, no.”

  “No, like a short skirt, nice shoes?”

  Somewhere, maybe in the back of her closet.

  “I’ve got great shoes I can’t wear because my feet are now so swollen I’m stuck in men’s Birkenstocks. I’ll find them for you before you leave. But I want details. You can be anonymous but this is totally going on my blog.”

  Oh, there were a whole lot of things that would make for funny blog stories for Dani, though Tash didn’t intend to tell her a single one of them. “Sure. But let’s get this baby mobile up and working first.”

  ****

  Natasha strolled down the street with a bag in her hand, containing an admittedly cute pair of black shoes. They had four inch heels, open toes and straps that went up her ankles. She wouldn’t be climbing trees or running in them—in fact, she wouldn’t be driving in them—but from a purely aesthetic and not practical sense, they were nice. The rest of the ensemble, she’d put together and stow in her duffel bag in the car.

  The car that was making her altogether nervous to even be in.

  She’d gotten her fingerprints all over it, so there was no sense in asking anyone to dust it. But the scrawled note was sealed in a Ziploc bag in her purse. Touching that had been fairly minimum, and it was worth looking into...as long as she didn’t go into detail about where she was when she found it and or what it referred to.

  When she jogged up the steps to the police station, she withdrew her sunglasses and smiled brightly at the receptionist, requesting Keisha and Leo. Both were in the break room and led her into an office to chat.

  It wasn’t an interrogation room, at least, though she didn’t feel any less like she was in trouble. Tash sat while the other two stood, waiting.

  “So I have a confession to make,” she said, shifting her purse onto her lap.

  Neither of them looked surprised.

  “I’ve been following Devin Archer.”

  Still no surprise.

  “I was poking around his house and when I came back to my car, I found this.” She retrieved the plastic bag with the note. Even in the bright light of the police station, it chilled her—the sharp, jagged edge of the writing in black. She practically felt violence leaping from the paper. “Someone had been in my vehicle. Which means I’m not the only one watching him.” She left it flat on the table and Keisha picked it up, Leo leaning over her shoulder.

  “Did anyone else touch it?” Keish asked.

  “Just me, and I was careful after I had unfolded it. The car would be a total bust, I’d been in there for a few minutes before I noticed the paper.” She hoped like hell they didn’t see the color briefly flare on her cheeks. “I don’t know if you’ll get anything from the paper, but there you go. Then there’s this...” She pulled out her cell phone, went through the photos, and stopped what she’d snapped of the side of Archer’s house. “More ‘BURN IN HELL’—sound familiar?”

  They both looked over the photo, frowning. “You think...” Keisha began.

  “Whoever put that in my car could be the one defacing his house. He’s also received threatening calls. Your Deputy Chief is ignoring his requests for help. I get it, he’s a suspect, and you don’t care how miserable he is, however someone basically just threatened me.”

  “We’ll see where—if anywhere—Perry got with it and go from there,” Leo promised. “Who’s been calling him and who might’ve graffitied the house.”

  She felt a little better knowing that. They might not take Archer seriously on their own, but would for her sake. “Thank you. Did you get anywhere with the BDSM hippy, if I may ask?”

  “Meredith Freeman,” Leo said. “And no. She and the others checked out. And we’re not supposed to be telling you this.”

  “Nor that we can’t account for where Walker went after she left the shop, which we also didn’t tell you,” Keisha added.

  Whether or not The Box was a viable possibility, Tash couldn’t say. She had no proof Walker went there that night, no proof that she’d even left Hastings County. And offering it as a tip to the cops when she had absolutely no proof it was connected to the victim, just Devin, would possibly waste their time entirely.

  “Anything you’re not telling us?” Leo asked.

  Natasha blinked up at them innocently. “That’s it, officers.”

  Neither believed her, but at least they let her go, giving her plenty of time to get sorted for the evening and then head to Archer’s to keep an eye on him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Archer pulled out of his driveway around eleven that night, Tash guessed where he was going. Rather than rush after him, she stole a few minutes to change in her car. The borrowed shoes of Dani’s, she left sitting on the seat—once she was parked at the club, she’d put them on.

  She caught up to Archer’s truck outside of town, followed him from a distance, and wasn’t the least bit surprised to pass the landmarks she’d seen Wednesday night. When he pulled into The Box’s parking lot, she followed, parking well on the other side of the club. She took her time, slipping on her borrowed shoes, watching Archer cross the parking lot. Perhaps the “sexy” dress code didn’t entirely apply to men; once again he wore a black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. Not that it wasn’t sexy, but it seemed more casual than it had been implied was allowed.

  Tash gave it five minutes, then checked her makeup and reapplied her lipstick. Rich, bold red, which matched her nails, which she’d painted just for this occasion. She gathered her purse—her Beretta zipped into a hidden pocket, just in case—and climbed out of the car.

  She felt a little unsteady in her heels. They did seem to lengthen her legs and spine, forced her to stand straight. Though she didn’t do miniskirts, she had a narrow black skirt that ended just above her knee with a rather generous slit up the back. Her top was a black camisole, lacy and suggestive. Her hair was loose, black curls springy around her shoulders and framing her face.

  Despite feeling as though she should look confident, her stomach did flipflops as she walked through the parking lot, winding around cars. There were double the vehicles she’d seen on Wednesday, and she expected the place to be packed. At least then she might blend in, or at least until most of the patrons were naked.

  With an entirely faked smile, she strolled up to the bouncer, withdrawing the cash and her ID. He checked her off the list, took the cash, and nodded her inside.

  That was much easier than I expected, she thought as she stepped inside. Looking at the club after coming through the front door rather than the back was a much different experience. Just inside the door, women in bustiers with perky, probably-fake exposed breasts waited on either side, drink trays in hand. The one on the left passed her a rum and coke, which Tash knocked back rather gracelessly as she walked down the carpeted stairs.

  Music thrummed as it had the other night, only the voices were louder this time. She reached the end of the steps, found a place to tuc
k her empty glass, and crept around the edge of the lower level of the club. Peering between two columns, she glimpsed the main part she’d overlooked on Wednesday. More lights shone around the bar, red and white shifting to the beat of the music. The tables, booths, and barstools were all packed. More conversations than last time were underway, and naked women danced in cages that flanked the bar.

  Tash kept to the shadows, picking through the patrons for Archer. She expected him at the bar, but it was completely packed and no one there looked like him.

  For the moment, then, she figured she could explore the areas she hadn’t last time. A few of the couches against the far walls below the mezzanine level were occupied again, couples oblivious to her presence and stripping off one another’s clothing. She tried to avert her eyes, knew that if she blushed, she’d look out of place for sure. Instead she kept her chin lifted and her eyes alert, focusing on the curtained rooms tucked between the couches.

  Whereas all the curtains had been drawn before, this time she found many open. A bedroom waiting in the first one, walls and ceiling all made of mirrors with a plush, heart-shaped bed in the center. The next reminded her of the dungeon, a swing made of black leather straps hanging from the ceiling with chains and an array of crops and whips on the wall.

  Ahead, a man with a woman on either arm headed toward a room, but didn’t bother with the curtain. Once she reached it, she understood why—there were already couples engaged in sex there, wall to wall mattresses.

  I am way over my head in here. Wandering around with a very pregnant Dani might’ve actually eased her nerves a little.

  Still no sign of Archer. Tash spotted stairs hidden in an alcove and took a chance climbing them. It paid off, as they led to the mezzanine level where she’d been before. The area was unoccupied yet, even the box seats empty. She wandered the half-wall, peering through the wrought-iron lattice work that barred her from the rest of the club.

  Still no Archer. Of course, many of the lower rooms were curtained off and she hadn’t gone looking. Maybe he skipped the drink this time, went right for the women. Outside of Stirling Falls, she had no doubt he’d easily pick one up. Or two. Or three.

  Her stomach tightened with an odd sort of jealousy. Maybe because she’d invaded his privacy, watched him, given in on some level to her own denied lust, but the thought of him fucking one of the random women here bothered her in a way she didn’t like to think about.

  A smattering of applause broke her from her reverie. If there’d been an announcement about what was going on, she’d missed it, but now she caught sight of people stepping onto the mirrored platform in middle of all the tables.

  A blindfolded woman with bright red hair, in a binding leather corset, garters and nylons but no underwear, stepped onto the platform, steady in her knee-high fetish boots despite being unable to see where she walked. She paused in the center of the platform, facing the main part of the crowd.

  The man that followed was in leather pants, boots, and nothing else. His broad, muscular chest was smooth, dark hair was pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He carried a riding crop and trailed the end along the woman’s bare ass, teasing her before he struck.

  Despite her distance from them, Tash could swear she heard the moment the leather struck flesh, a resounding crack. Her whole body tingled and grew restless. She should stop staring, keeping looking for Archer, but her gaze remained locked on the show.

  The man ran the crop up and down the inside of the redhead’s thighs, urging her feet hip-width apart, exposing her shaved pussy to the crowd. This time he slapped her mound, her already blushing flesh turning crimson.

  Tash crossed her arms at her midsection, fidgeting, gazing through the wrought-iron bars in fascination. What would it be like to be the center of a show like that, blindfolded, spanked, watched? Before she’d devoted herself twenty-four-seven to working for Malone, and taking over for him, her sporadic sex life had been fairly vanilla. Certainly nothing like this. But she was so exhausted some nights, she couldn’t imagine having to come home to a boyfriend, to engage with him when her mind was elsewhere, thinking about work. How would it feel to give up all of that stress and worry at the end of the day and totally submit to the will of another? To give up thinking and just feel, just obey, to be under his command in the bedroom.

  The man on the stage had set aside the crop, ran his hands up and down the woman’s legs, parting them even further for the crowd. A second man joined him, this one dressed similarly but with closely cropped dark blond hair. He carried silk-lined handcuffs, bound the woman’s hands behind her back. The crowd had grown silent though hands were moving, people touching their partners, touching themselves, the eyes of nearly everyone entirely invested in what was occurring on stage.

  And then she felt the presence before her mind acknowledged it, a sudden heat near her back. Before she could turn, hands came up on either side of her, latching onto the lattice work at the height of her shoulders and trapping her there.

  She didn’t look at him, embarrassment rising, wishing she could just disappear into the floor. His breath tickled her ear, sent shivers down her neck.

  “Enjoying the show, Natasha?”

  Shit. Shit. Her lips trembled, like she’d completely lost her ability to speak.

  Archer wasn’t backing off—she felt him closer still, nearly touching her back. “So are you a voyeur? You like watching?”

  Her face was practically on fire. “No,” she said sharply.

  “Really?” His fingers flexed around the bars, voice rough and still playing with her ear. “So you didn’t see anything interesting last night?”

  Oh God, he knew. He knew. Her entire body froze except for the trembling spilling through her limbs.

  His hands left the bars but she didn’t try to squeeze past him, standing stock-still. Waiting. And then he touched her, fingers wrapping firmly around her hips. “Relax,” he whispered against her ear. “Watch.”

  She did. Or tried to. She refocused on the stage, tried not to pay attention to the feel of him holding her hips so tight or the way he breathed right next to her ear. Or her own reaction to his proximity, nipples hardening into firm peaks and pressing against her lacy bra, wet heat spreading between her legs. Her pussy clenched, craving and longing.

  The blindfolded redhead was on her knees now, hands still bound behind her back, lips wrapped around the cock of the blond man. Her head bobbed but under his control, his fingers locked on handfuls of her hair. Demanding, forcing her submission to him.

  Involuntarily Tash licked her lips, her heart thudding.

  “What I’m wondering,” he whispered in a gravelly voice, one that raced right under her skin and between her legs. “Is precisely how wet you are right now.”

  God, she could just die. Her chest heaved, breaths either panicked or aroused, she didn’t know anymore. Maybe both.

  He took her wrists one by one, prying her hands from her sides where she hugged herself. Her purse slipped to the crook of her arm and then thumped at her feet as he briefly dropped her wrist. He pulled her hands up, wrapping her fingers around the wrought-iron lattice bars.

  “At the moment I don’t think you’re likely to say yes, but I also suspect you don’t want to say no.” His hands settled on her hips again and this time he stepped forward so he was flush against her. The heels added enough to her height that the rigid column of his cock was pressed right into the cleft of her ass. “So let’s make this easy. Your safe word is your name. You say that, and I stop. Do you understand, Natasha?”

  Say her name. That was easy enough. She could utter it right now, make a run for it...

  “Nod twice for yes, darlin’.”

  Slowly she nodded. Once. Twice.

  It was done.

  “Keep your hands on the bars,” he warned. “And keep watching.”

  She braced, not sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t his hands sliding from her hips and moving upward, over her quivering stomac
h to possessively grip her breasts. His mouth lingered on her throat and she tipped her head to the side, giving him access. Her nipples were already painfully hard, pleasure zigzagging south as he rubbed them. His touch was somewhere between a massage and a rough grasp, using just enough force that the way he rolled her breasts in his hands bordered on painful. With the pain came a pleasant thrill she couldn’t get enough of.

  Involuntarily she leaned into him while thrusting out her chest. She wished he’d pull down her camisole, wished he’d snap off her bra and really touch her. But he didn’t stay there long, instead one hand taking a firm grip on her hip to hold her against him while the other slid down her thigh, gathering the hem of her skirt.

  Natasha. Just say your name. Natasha.

  But she didn’t—didn’t even want to. And while she kept her eyes on the threesome, on the dark-haired man taking the crop again to whip the woman as she sucked off the blond, it was Devin Archer who had her full attention. His hand slid up the inside of her thigh, purposefully achingly slow. He eased her legs apart and with the slightest nudge, she took a wider stance.

  The moment his fingers touched her panty-clad pussy, she knew he felt her wetness, could all but sense his self-satisfied grin. Her grip tightened on the bars and she swore at least one thing to herself: she wouldn’t give in and take the easy way out purely because of embarrassment. Fear, yes. Unwanted pain, yes. But not just because her cheeks got pink as he found her obvious arousal.

  “Do you like watching them?” he whispered. “Ever had your ass whipped red, Natasha?”

  The more times he said her name, the more she felt like he was taking ownership of it. And while he spoke, he stroked her through the wet silk of her panties, gliding up and down, stopping to trace tight little circles around her clit. She gasped, blinking as arousal threatened to close her eyes.

  “Have you?” he repeated.

  “No,” she mumbled in a half-moan.