by Christy Poff
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Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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INTERNET BONDS
BOOK 6:
THIS JUST IN...
by
Christy Poff
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2007 by Karen Morris
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59374-947-7
Credits
Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston
Editor: Chere Gruver
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
My thanks to Chere for her editing and Jinger for the magnificent cover art—as always.
Thanks to Deb for her help and my daughter, Ashley, who's the best sounding board I could ever wish for.
Chapter 1
"I'm Brett Cannon, WYNC, for This Just In..."
I can't believe this.
No wonder people think what they do.
What can we do?
Nothing. Who will believe what we say?
The Internet heated up after a report from a New York City reporter aired on one of the major networks. Chat rooms filled quickly, everyone discussing the segment dealing with their world. For years, everyone involved in the life had been extremely careful when talking about Dominants and submissives because of the way normal society frowned upon it, though many of those partaking of its pleasures lived in the very same normal world, afraid to admit to what turned them on.
Now, an ignorant newsman used a so-called sensational byline to make his career and their lives hell. It would have been one thing had he been more accurate with his research but instead, he made them out to be pornographic, some going as far as to participate in orgies, even mentioning debauchery.
Can we lynch him? one asked in a Chicago chat room.
Someone should show him a thing or two, another added.
The network's ratings went up and they decided to expand the report into one of those hour-long exposés like 48 Hours. Rumor had it the reporter's contract had been picked up by the network as well. Everyone on-air loved what this one segment had done for them.
Truckloads of letters went to both the network headquarters and the local affiliate. While some praised his work exposing these deviants, most of the mail complained he should do more in-depth research. Many called for a retraction of the story. Cannon even received a few threats of the deadly kind.
The day Cannon left New York for the national bureau position, his boss called him into his office.
"You've done well, son."
"I'm worried about the hate mail."
"I wouldn't worry about it."
"You're not getting it. The threats are..."
"The more threats, the harder you hit in your reporting. You've gotten great ratings and a network position. What more could you want?"
"I'm not sure."
"Forget it, son. You got what you wanted. Now go enjoy it."
Brett Cannon left the office, went home to his Manhattan loft and settled into his downtime—the break between jobs. He had two months to get himself settled in his new home—Los Angeles. The movers would arrive in a week to pack up his home and drive his things across America to the small Spanish-style house in Yorba Linda—close enough to be considered the Los Angeles area while far enough away to be out of the city. In the meantime, he had plenty of time to come to terms with the story that had made him famous.
* * * *
After he went home, Brett showered and slipped into silk boxers. A holdover from an ex-girlfriend, she had bought him a pair years before and, after she'd left, they remained a part of his life. He went from his dressing area to where his laptop waited.
Setting up a screen name—bqcannonnyc—he entered into the world he'd been accused of single-handedly trying to destroy. His conscience screamed at him to learn the real story behind the Dominant/submissive lifestyle. From what came out of the feedback he'd received, he'd only touched on one small aspect of the life—one not used by everyone. Something ate at him. What didn't I delve into? Why did all these people react the way they did to my report? When the hell did I become a reporter with a conscience?
Signing on, he surfed through several chat rooms, cringing at some of the reactions. He switched between several, hoping to find an answer to his questions. One thought hit him—if and when someone recognizes me, will I be able to accomplish getting the facts straight, or will everyone turn away after word gets out who I am? Son of a bitch! You've gone and done it now, Quincannon.
* * * *
Ainsley Reynolds lived a quiet life in San Francisco where she owned a bookstore catering to readers of out-of-print and hard-to-find volumes. Her store's signature line—if we can't find it, it can't be found. She shared her business operations with her partner and best friend, Cecily Bonds. Cecily ran a small exclusive tour service after-hours specializing in midnight ventures around San Francisco. Together, they'd seen huge success, their financial outlook stable and very impressive. Ainsley enjoyed what she did but preferred her private life after-hours.
When not at work, she prowled the bondage clubs. Usually she chose to dominate her partner, unless she went to one club where they knew her only as slave. When she went there, she wanted to be unknown and sharing her title with others gave her what her body needed. When she went to Midnight Pleasures, she had absolutely no clue what would happen, though she trusted the Dominants without question, despite having one personal bad experience.
Thanks to an out-of-control master, she'd spent several days in a private hospital up the coast healing from his physical punishment for some imagined infraction. The club owner took care of all her medical bills and had given her a lifetime membership. He never stopped apologizing. It relieved Ainsley to know the guy had been banished from the club and later left San Francisco. If he ever returned, he'd be answering an outstanding bench warrant for his arrest, the club owner well connected. Don Diego had made sure to keep tabs on the man only because he wanted warning if the out-of-control master had any intentions of returning to the area.
Ainsley decided to go to Midnight Pleasures, feeling a deep-seated and overwhelming need to be told what to do. She loved dominance but not tonight—she n
eeded to obey. She left Cecily with a small group going to Fisherman's Wharf, got in her 2006 red Mustang and headed to a night of dark sex and no strings.
A valet helped Ainsley from her car before parking it while another man escorted her inside.
"Ah, slave, welcome."
"Thank you,” Ainsley said, bowing her head, her hands behind her back.
"Very nice, slave."
"Thank you."
"I have a master who wants you naked now and blindfolded. Master William will escort you to the room where you will prepare for the evening then wait."
"Yes, Master."
William escorted her to one of the playrooms in the basement. Knowing her tastes, they usually enslaved her to masters who got off on atmosphere and needed to dominate the evening's partner. Because of the owner's concern about diseases, everyone needed medical proof on file making it easier all the way around. Most clubs of this caliber did, everyone safe and happy.
As desired, she removed her clothes, placing them in a small cabinet to the side. She took the blindfold and tied it around her head then waited. A few moments later, the evening's master entered the room, Ainsley presenting herself to him.
"Very nice, slave,” he complimented. “I want to lay some ground rules. You will obey my wishes and in return, I will send you into erotic heaven. Disobey and I will punish. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good,” he said, walking around her. She felt chills creeping up her spine, a feeling she did not like and it scared her. “You have beautiful tits—play with them."
Silently, she obeyed.
* * * *
When Ainsley woke, she found herself in a very bright room reminiscent of the private hospital she'd been taken to once before. What the hell?
Feeling a tube in her mouth and throat, she feared the worst. She looked around seeing Don Diego standing near the window. She glanced up to see an IV hanging above her. A soft groan broke the silence of the room.
"Ainsley?"
She tried to nod but pain overwhelmed her.
"I'll get your doctor."
A few moments later, Doctor Jonathan Goodman entered the room.
"Miss Reynolds, good to have you back but I wonder why the only time I see you is in situations like this,” he said with a British accent. “Let me get that bloody tube out."
Quickly and efficiently, he removed the airway then pressed cool compresses on her lips before giving her ice chips. He placed a thinner nasal tube on her to continue easing her breathing.
"What happened?” she asked slowly.
"To put it simply, Holmes came back and beat the hell out of you."
"Why? What ... I thought..."
"So did I. I kept tabs on him until he disappeared about six months ago. We never counted on him having plastic surgery. I swear if I had known who your master truly was, I would never have sent you into that situation."
"Diego, tell me what happened. I don't remember anything except my skin crawling."
"William had not heard anything from your room. When he checked the surveillance camera, he found the lens dark. He told me and we both went to see if you were all right. We found you, unconscious and bloody."
"Bloody?"
"He lashed you and added more scars to the set he left you with before. From what John could tell, he flogged you till you passed out then used a whip on you and added a sound beating. He left you for dead, honey."
"I don't remember any of it!” she cried. “What time is it?"
"It's near one. Honey, it's Sunday afternoon. You've been asleep for almost forty-eight hours."
"No...” Ainsley groaned then wept. “Why?"
"We don't know but he left a note stating: Two strikes—one more, you're out."
"What the hell is his problem with me?"
"I don't know,” Diego said. “I think you need a bodyguard."
"No, I can't live like this!” she screamed, then moaned from the pain in her sore throat. Trying to move caused excruciating pain to race through her entire body.
"Nurse!” Goodman yelled.
"Doctor?"
"Get me a morphine drip."
"Yes, sir,” she acknowledged then left.
"Ainsley, I'm going to give you something to ease the pain. I want you to rest and try not to move until your wounds heal a little more."
She continued sobbing, asking, “Why?"
"Honey, calm down, you're safe here."
"I won't be safe until he's..."
* * * *
"Bookbinders."
"Miss Cecily Bonds, please."
"Speaking."
"My name is Diego. I'm calling to let you know Ainsley's in the hospital recovering from an accident. She's fine but the doctor feels she'll be better off remaining here for a few days."
"What happened?"
"I'll let her tell you when she's ready."
"It was that man again, wasn't it?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Is she in the same hospital with the same doctor?"
"Yes."
"Then I trust your judgment in this. Give her my love and call if she needs anything."
"Yes, ma'am."
* * * *
"Ainsley, Cecily sends her love."
"Thanks, Diego. I don't think I..."
"Shh, honey, you have nothing to be ashamed about. It's all right. You need to rest so you can heal."
"I think we've got time. He gave you almost a year and a half before he came back. This time, he'll let you sweat the threat before he returns."
"What do you mean?"
"The blindfold—you never saw his face."
"But you and William..."
"I was busy with something in the office. He murdered William the next day to keep his secret. He virtually left no witnesses."
Ainsley began to cry. She'd gone over everything again and again trying to find out why this monster—a complete stranger to her—wanted her violently dead.
"What the hell do I do?"
"I know your desires, Ainsley. You are going to have to put your submissive nature on hold for now. You and I both know Midnight Pleasures is where it all started and it's no longer safe for you."
"Pero, Diego, mi amigo..."
"Shh, I understand. But until this guy is caught, you can't come to the club. I want you safe and alive."
* * * *
Brett Quincannon—Brett Cannon, professionally—had been quietly researching the darker side of sex in the city. He'd learned a great deal and realized he'd been extremely premature in filing his piece for airing. He'd haunted the clubs keeping a low profile. Of course, it didn't hurt him having a moustache and stubble, a straggly look disguising his normal clean-cut appearance.
He'd written down everything he'd learned, compiling a thick file though well aware he still had a long way to go and no time left. The movers would be packing him up in a day or two then he'd be New York history.
"Well, I guess we'll have to see what LA has to offer."
His last night in New York, he met with a friend of his. Jim Pearson and he had worked together several times, their friendship solid. One of New York City's best vice detectives, Pearson's reputation had an international touch.
They met at a bar in a restaurant named Suspenders. Belowground in the basement of an office building near the site of the World Trade Center complex, it had great atmosphere and good food. Once they'd gotten their drinks, they found a table and ordered dinner.
"So, my man's movin’ up,” Pearson said.
"Yep, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's the right time."
"Why? Death threats gettin’ to ya?"
"Not as much as the feelings in their words. These people are serious about what they're doing and they keep it quiet. My half-assed report..."
"I know. I heard some of the complaints. I went into one of the clubs to see an informant. Man, you should have heard the venom."
"I've been doing some more research and in
vestigating. Jim, I should never have gone on-air with it."
"Good Lord, a reporter with a conscience."
The two friends laughed, enjoying the rest of their meal.
"I'm going to miss the clam chowder they make here."
"Best in the city."
Pearson's pager beeped.
"Shit!"
"What?” Brett asked.
"Come on. I'll tell you on the way."
Chapter 2
Brett's flight touched down at Los Angeles International. He picked up his rental car—a Chevy Monte Carlo—and headed to his new home in Yorba Linda.
Pulling into the gated driveway of the Spanish-influenced house, he felt oddly at home. He turned when he heard the sound of the gates closing, feeling a bit more comfortable in his new surroundings.
He took his luggage from the trunk then went inside. He found a note from his housekeeper telling him his kitchen had been stocked, the pool had been taken care of and she'd be back on Thursday to finish getting his house in order.
"Good, I need some time before settling into life,” he said, going upstairs to the bedroom. Ready for a hot shower after the long flight, he dropped his bags, stripped and slid his aching body under the hot water. Afterward, he stretched across the bed and fell asleep.
After he woke hours later, he went down to the room he'd use for his office. He unpacked and hooked up his computer then went on-line to check his e-mail. Once he'd answered several and deleted a lot of spam, he went to another server and signed on as bqcannonnyc.
He found several chat rooms and lurked in them, taking notes as he went along. He didn't know what to expect or what he was actually looking for but he knew he'd know it once he found it. He just needed patience.
Brett gave up for the evening, his eyes hurting. He turned in planning to try again the next evening.
* * * *
When Brett finally got back to his project, several weeks had passed. No sooner had he settled into his new environs then the network called. They assigned him a piece on immigration because they wanted his impression as someone new to the city. The investigation took up a great deal of time until he finally saw it air. The response to the report made his bosses happy and, for a time, it seemed to take the heat off his earlier work.