by J. R. Ward
He was pinned in place by the nape and the ass.
“Arms over your head.”
That growl was like a gun to the back of his skull and V struggled to comply, fighting against the pressure that trapped both his arms in front of his chest. The right side came free first—and the instant his wrist was out from under, it was grabbed and forced into a cuff. Left side happened just as fast.
Then again, cops were good with the steel.
There was a brief release where he was able to catch some air. And then the sound of metal chain links being churned through a gear announced where things were headed: up.
Gradually, his weight shifted off his feet and onto the sockets and lengths of his arms. The ascent stopped right before his toes left the floor completely . . . and then he just hung there, facing toward the windows, breath squeezing in and out of his lungs as he heard Butch moving behind him.
“Open your mouth.”
At the command, V cranked his jaw wide, the joint at his cheekbone cracking, his eyes pulling down at the corners, his facial cuts coming alive with a chorus of howls.
The gag was pulled down over his head and it fit right where it should, the ball squeezing between his fangs and forcing shit open even farther. With a quick jerk, the leather strapping tightened across the back of his skull and the buckle was fastened until it dug into his scalp.
It was a perfect setup: The suspension and the choking confinement did their job, spurring on his adrenaline, making his body strain in so many different ways.
A barbed corset was next, the contraption not going over his shoulders, but around his torso, the metal points on the inside of the leather bindings sinking into his skin. Butch started with the strap right across the sternum, and then it was a case of sequential squeeze, down, down, down . . . until from V’s rib cage to his stomach to the tops of his hips, concentric circles of bright white pain tingled into his spine, shooting north to the receptors in his brain and south into his rock-hard cock.
Oxygen whistled through his nostrils as there was a brief calm of no-touch, and then Butch was back with four lengths of rubber strapping. For an amateur, he had great instincts: Both the ball gag and the chest harness had stainless-steel rings that hung inch by every inch, and clearly the cop was going to put them to good use.
Working steadily, Butch slipped hooks through the gag’s fixtures and stretched the tubing down, attaching it on the front and the back of the corset.
Which effectively locked Vishous’s head into the forward position.
Then Butch gave him a swing and sent him on a little merry-go-round. In his frozen state, it was a mind fuck and a half, and it didn’t take long before he wasn’t sure whether he was moving or the room was on the ride: Things passed by one after the other, the bar, the door out, the worktable . . . Butch . . . the bed, the glass . . . then it was back to the bar, the door, the table . . . and Butch—
Who had walked over to the hanging whips and chains.
The cop just stood there, his eyes locked on Vishous.
Like a train pulling into a station, the rotation grew slower and slower until it stopped altogether . . . with the pair of them facing each other.
“You said no rules,” Butch gritted out. “Do you still mean that.”
With no way to nod or shake his head, V did what he could with his feet, moving them up and back on the floor.
“Are you sure.”
When he repeated the motion, Butch’s eyes glittered in the candlelight—as if there were tears in them. “Okay, then,” he said hoarsely. “If that’s the way it’s going to be.”
Butch wiped his face, turned to the wall, and then walked down the lineup of toys. As he approached the whips, V imagined the spiked fringe cutting into his back and his thighs . . . but the cop kept going. Next were the cat-o’-nines, and V could just feel them lashing his flesh . . . but Butch didn’t stop. Then it was the nipple clips and the barbed, stainless-steel cuffs that could be applied to ankles, forearms, the throat. . . .
When each section was passed, Vishous frowned, wondering if the cop was just being a tease, and how unimpressive was that—
Butch did stop, however. And his hand reached out—
V moaned and began to thrash against the binds that held him aloft. Eyes peeling wide, he did what he could to beg, but there was no moving his head and no way to speak.
“You said no limits,” Butch choked out. “So this is how we’re going to do it.”
V’s legs spasmed and his chest started to scream for lack of oxygen.
The mask the cop had chosen had no holes in it, not for the eyes or ears or mouth. Made of leather and stitched together with thin stainless-steel thread, the only way oxygen got in was via two mesh side panels that were far enough back so that there was no leaching of light—and the air would be circulated across hot, panicked skin before it went through the mouth and down into the lungs. The contraption was something V had bought but had never used: He’d kept it only because it had terrified him, and that was reason enough to own the thing.
To be robbed of sight and hearing was the one thing guaranteed to make him lose his fucking shit—which was precisely why Butch picked the mask. He knew too well the buttons to push—physical pain was one thing . . . but the psychological stuff was so much worse.
And therefore more effectual.
Butch walked slowly around and out of sight. With furious paddling, V tried to get himself repositioned to face the guy, but his toes couldn’t quite manage good purchase on the floor—which was another success of the cop’s strategy. To fight and squirm and get nowhere just heightened the terror.
On a oner, it was lights-out.
Jerking uncontrollably, Vishous tried to fight, but it was a battle he was going to lose: With a quick yank, the mask went tight around his neck, secure and going nowhere.
Mental hypoxia set in immediately. There was no oxygen to be had, none coming through, nothing—
He felt something on his leg. Something long and thin. And cold.
Like a blade.
He went utterly still. To the point where his previous exertions swung him back and forth on the chains above him, his body a statue suspended by twin strings of metal.
V’s inhales and exhales inside the hood were a roar in his ears as he zeroed in on the sensation below his waist: The knife traveled slowly, inexorably upward, and as it went, it moved to the inside of his thigh. . . .
In its wake, a liquid trail welled and eased down over his knee.
He didn’t even feel the pain of the cutting as that blade headed for his sex: The implications were that much of a sucker punch to his destruct button.
In a flash, past and present mixed, the alchemy ignited by the adrenaline pumping through every vein he had; he was instantly ripped back through the many years to the night when his father’s males had held him down in the dirt at the Bloodletter’s command. The tattoos had not been the worst of it.
And here it was, happening again. Just not with the pliers.
Vishous screamed around the ball gag . . . and kept at it.
He screamed for all he had lost . . . screamed for the half male he was . . . screamed for Jane . . . screamed for who his parents were and what he wished for his sister . . . screamed for what he had forced his best friend to do. . . . He screamed and screamed until there was no breath, no consciousness, no nothing.
No past or present.
Not even himself anymore.
And in the midst of the chaos, in the strangest way, he became free.
Butch knew the moment his best friend fainted. It wasn’t just that those dangling feet went still; it was the sudden relaxation of all that musculature. No more straining in those huge arms and massive thighs. No more pumping of that big chest. No more ripped cords in the shoulders or down the back.
Butch immediately took the spoon he’d gotten from the kitchen off V’s leg, and likewise stopped pouring the lukewarm water out of the glass he’d grabbed f
rom the bar.
The tears in his eyes didn’t help him loosen the hood and pull it free. Nor did they make removing the immobilizer setup simple. And he struggled with the ball gag especially.
The corset was a bitch and a half to get loose, but however desperate he was to get V down, it was vastly easier to take everything off when he had a three-sixty to work with. And soon enough, the brother was bloody, but unencumbered.
Over at the wall, Butch released the winch and slowly lowered Vishous’s tremendous, inanimate body down. There were no signs that the change in altitude registered, and the floor made an impact only so far as it collapsed V’s loose legs, those knees bending up as the marble rose to greet his butt and torso.
There was more blood when Butch released the cuffs.
God, his friend was a mess: The gag’s straps had left red welts on his cheeks; the corset’s damage was even more pervasive; and then there were the wrists that were torn ragged.
And that was in addition to the condition the guy’s face was in, courtesy of whatever he’d slammed the thing into.
For a moment, all he could do was brush V’s jet-black hair back with hands that shook like he had palsy. Then he looked down his friend’s body, to the ink below the waist, and the flaccid sex . . . and the scars.
The Bloodletter was a shit beyond measure for torturing his son as he’d done. And the Scribe Virgin was a useless planker to have let it happen.
And it had killed Butch to use that horrible past to crack his friend wide.
Except he hadn’t wanted to beat V physically—he wasn’t a pussy, but he did not have the stomach for that. Besides, the mind was the most powerful weapon anyone had against themselves.
Still, tears had been rolling as he’d taken the spoon and put it against the inside of that leg—because he’d known instantly the extrapolation that would be made. And he’d been well aware that the lukewarm water would really cement the dislocation from the present.
The screaming had been muffled by the gag and the hood . . . and yet the no-sound had pierced Butch’s ears as nothing else could.
It was going to be a long, long while before he got over this: Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was his best friend’s body jerking and spasming.
Scrubbing his face, Butch got up and went to the bathroom. From off the shelf in the closet, he grabbed a stack of black towels. Some he left dry; others he wet with warm water at the sink.
Back beside Vishous on the floor, he wiped off the blood and fear-sweat from his best friend’s body, rolling him from side to side so there was nothing missed.
The cleanup took a good half an hour. And several trips back and forth to the sink.
The session had lasted a fraction of that.
When he was finished, he gathered V’s tremendous weight in his arms and carried the guy to the bed, laying him out with his head against the black satin pillows. The sponge bath, such as it had been, had left V’s skin with a rash of goose bumps, so Butch taco’d the brother, untucking the sheets and rolling them up and over him.
The healing was already happening, the flesh that had been scraped or cut reknitting and erasing the marks that had been made.
This was good.
As he stepped back, part of Butch wanted to get on the bed and hold on to his friend. But he hadn’t done this for himself—and besides, if he didn’t get out of here and get drunk fast, he was going to lose his motherfucking mind.
When he was sure V was settled, he grabbed his jacket, which he’d had to shove off onto the floor—
Wait, the bloody towels and the mess under the hanging unit.
Moving quickly, he swiped over the floor and then grabbed the load of damp-and-weighty and took it in to the hamper in the bathroom—which made him wonder who the hell did the housekeeping here? Maybe it was Fritz . . . or maybe V did the Merry Maids routine himself.
Back in the main room, he took a second to double-check that all the evidence was gone except for the glass and the spoon . . . and then he went over to see if V was still asleep . . . or in that semicoma.
Stone. Cold. Out.
“I’m getting you what you really need,” Butch said softly, wondering if he was ever going to breathe right again—his chest seemed as constricted as V’s had just been in reality. “Hold tight, my man.”
On his way to the door, he got out his cell phone to dial—and dropped the damn thing.
Huh. Looked like his hands were still shaking. Go fig.
When he eventually hit send, he prayed that the call would be—“It’s done,” he said roughly. “Come over here. No, trust me—he’s going to need you. This was for the two of you. No . . . yeah. No, I’m leaving now. Good. Okay.”
After he hung up, he locked V in and called for the elevator. As he waited, he tried to put his coat on and fumbled with the suede so badly, he gave up and slung it over his shoulder. When the doors dinged and opened, he stepped inside, hit the button that had a P on it . . . and went down, down, down, falling in a controlled, seamless way thanks to the little metal box of the elevator.
He texted his shellan instead of calling her for two reasons: He didn’t trust his voice, and in truth, he wasn’t ready to answer the questions she would inevitably and fairly have.
All ok. Am going home 2 rest. I love you xxx B
Marissa’s response was so fast, it was pretty clear she’d had her phone in her hand, and been waiting to hear from him: I love you too. Am at Safe Place but can come home?
The elevator opened and the sweet smell of gasoline told him he’d reached his destination. As he went over to the Escalade, he texted back: No, really am fine. You stay and work—I’ll be there when you’re done.
He was taking out his keys as his phone went off. Okay, but if you need me, you are the most important thing.
God, she was such a female of worth.
Right back at you xxx, he typed out.
Canning the SUV’s alarm and unlocking the driver’s side, he got in, shut the door, and relocked.
He was supposed to get driving. Instead, he put his forehead down on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.
Having a good memory was an overrated skill set. And as much as he didn’t envy Manello and all the erasing, he would have given almost anything to get rid of the pictures in his head.
Not V, though. Not that . . . relationship.
He would never give the male up. Ever.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“ Here, thought you might like some coffee.”
As José de la Cruz put the Starbucks venti latte on the desk of his partner, he parked his ass in the seat across the way from the guy.
Veck should have looked like roadkill, considering he was in the same clothes he’d had on when he’d Mission Impossibled that car hood the night before. Instead, the SOB somehow managed to seem rugged instead of ratty.
So José was willing to bet the six other cups of half-drunk java around the computer had been brought by various ladies in the department.
“Thanks, man.” As Veck palmed up the newest offering of hotand-steamy, his eyes didn’t budge from the Dell monitor—fair guess that he was searching the missing persons files and pulling out women aged seventeen to thirty.
“Whatchu doin’?” José asked anyway.
“Missing persons.” Veck stretched in his chair. “Have you noticed how many eighteen-to-twenty-fours have been listed recently? Men, not women.”
“Yup. The mayor’s pulling together a task force.”
“There are plenty of girls as well, but Christ, there’s an epidemic going on.”
Out in the hall, a pair of unis walked by and both he and Veck nodded to the officers. After the footsteps faded, Veck cleared his throat.
“What did Internal Affairs say.” Not a question. And those dark blues stayed locked on the database. “That’s why you’ve come, right.”
“Well, and also to deliver the coffee. Looks like you were taken care of, though.”
; “Reception downstairs.”
Ah, yes. The two Kathys, Brittany spelled Britnae, and Theresa. They probably all thought the guy was a hero.
José cleared his throat. “Turns out the photographer already has some harassment charges pending against him because he’s got a habit of showing up in places he’s not welcome. He and his lawyer just want to make it all go away, because another trespassing-into-a-crime-scene thing is so not going to go well for him. IA has taken statements from everyone, and bottom line, it’s a simple assault on your part—nothing aggravated. Plus the photog says he’ll refuse to cooperate with the DA against you if it comes to that. Likely because he thinks that it’ll help him.”
Now those peepers shifted over. “Thank God.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
Veck’s eyes narrowed—but not in confusion. He knew exactly what the hitch was.
And yet he didn’t ask; he just waited.
José glanced around. At ten o’clock in the evening, the homicide department’s office was empty, although the phones were still ringing, little chirping noises springing up here and there until voice mail ate the callers. Out in the hall, the housekeeping staff was all about the rugsuck, the whirring of multiple vacuums coming from far down the way, by the CSI lab.
So there was no reason not to talk straight.
José shut the main door anyway. Back with Veck, he sat down again and picked up a stray paper clip, drawing a little invisible picture with it on the desk’s fake wood top.
“They asked me what I thought about you.” He tapped his temple with the clip. “Mentally. As in how tight you are.”
“And you said . . .”
José just shrugged and stayed quiet.
“That motherfucker was taking pictures of a corpse. For profit—”
José held up his palm to cut the protest off. “You’ll get no argument there. Fuck it, we all wanted to beat him. The question is, though—if I hadn’t stopped you . . . how far would it have gone, Veck.”
That got another frown from the guy.