by M. A. Ellis
The phone rang and rang then went to voicemail. “This is Agent Dave. Please leave a message.”
Can’t get more concise that that, Becca thought.
“Where the hell are you at one thirty in the morning?” Chad demanded. “I’m on my way to Club Rosenthorn with Becca. Not feeling great about this one, buddy. One of the kids she inked is hurt. Whipped by that fuckhead Herzog to the point people who see that shit on a daily basis are calling for help. That enough for you to get involved yet?”
He pressed a button on the steering wheel and blew through a yellow light. “Where the fuck is he?”
His pissed-off tone was puzzling. “So Dave is your friend. You weren’t kidding about that secret agent stuff, were you? That was kind of harsh. The message you left him.”
“We go back. He’ll understand,” was all Chad offered.
“No last name? Just Agent Dave? That’s super secret.” Becca was trying to lighten the vibe in the car, despite the fact a lead weight had formed in the pit of her stomach.
“Dave works with a lot of young people. He says Agent Dave is easier for them to remember than his full name.”
She wasn’t going to harp on him for changing the subject, not when he was doing eighty on a public street to get her to where she needed to be. She concentrated on getting her boots on, twisting and turning until she had them up and zipped.
“That was quite the contortion act,” he said. “Glad to see your flexibility has no bounds.”
Becca smiled then reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. Just for a minute to feel the strength he provided.
“You think Franco is going to be okay?” Chad asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Becca replied. “I’ve never had anyone call me about something like that. I’ve tattooed a boatload of people, some of whom I’m pretty certain get in fights on a regular basis. But never right after fresh ink. There’s a respect for the artwork as well as a healthy fear of infection.”
She watched the lights from the storefronts zip by so fast they were blurred strips of white and blue and yellow.
“Andres is a fucking bastard.” She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “What do you think your buddy Dave can do about any of this?”
“Not sure, but there’s got to be some illegal shit going on in there. Has to. That pixie woman you tattooed looked like she might be underage. Maybe even Franco.”
“I checked their IDs for the consent forms. All eighteen and older.”
“Sure. It’s not like Herzog could get fake ones. Anyhow, I’m sure Dave’s already checked out liquor license infractions. Health code violations. The little stuff that can start a snowball effect.”
Chad slowed down as they approached the club. Becca was shocked to see the velvet rope outside and the long line of men and women who were waiting to get in. They wore everything from shiny red latex to trendy club wear to suits and tuxedos.
“Good god,” Becca whispered. “It’s a hodgepodge of humanity. Like someone took the nightclubs on Demaris and blended them with the Shore Club. Did you see the size of that bouncer?”
“Sex and titillation. They both sell to the masses.”
“Do you think they’re waiting to watch or to play?” Becca asked.
Chad turned sharply into the alley and snorted. “No idea. But look at you, learning the lingo.”
His little barb helped to relieve some of Becca’s apprehension. She’d have him at her side if they happened to run into Andres. Chad had handled the man well before.
“Screw you, Harrington,” she shot back, watching closely for the door Shawna had told them about.
“I hope you’re going to, baby. Tonight and every night. Right after we get all this shit taken care of.”
Becca liked the way he was thinking. And she appreciated him more than he could ever imagine. “Thank you for—”
“Stop. Like I’d let you go without me.”
He passed the Dumpsters and Becca saw the door. It took him four points but he got the vehicle turned around and facing out the way they came.
“You’re so smart. Parking like this,” Becca said, reaching for her door handle. “I’m impressed.”
“Save that until we’re both back in the front seat and making a superhero-type getaway.”
Becca shut her door and the side entrance of the building immediately opened. Shawna was there wearing a black vinyl miniskirt and matching bra. The two skimpy pieces of clothing were connected with a series of linked silver chains.
Chad placed a restraining hand on Becca’s arm and she stopped and looked up at him.
“Just now, I got the very real feeling that all this might be Herzog luring us here.” His words sent a shiver through her. It hadn’t crossed her mind. She looked at Shawna, could feel the woman’s fear.
She turned back to Chad and whispered, “I don’t think so.”
“In here. Hurry.” She motioned them forward. “I’m really afraid. The Master called for Delia right after I hung up with you. I don’t know what the rest of us did to anger him.”
Shawna led them down a hallway to the right. The smell of grease and vinegar permeated the area. They passed a small industrial kitchen. One of the workers was cleaning the grill, preparing to shut down for the night.
Farther down the corridor a series of doors lined each side of the hallway. They all had peepholes and Becca assumed they must be sleeping quarters. Andres wouldn’t have rooms by the hour in this part of the club.
A door halfway down was being held open by a hotel-style security deadbolt that had been turned to the lock position. Shawna didn’t stop. She led them to the end of the hall where another door was propped open in the same manner. She pushed the door open and walked in, waiting for them to follow before she eased it closed but left it ajar.
The sound of heavy footfalls overhead made everyone freeze. It was loud and the floor actually shook. Becca looked from Chad to Shawna and then toward Gretchen who was sitting on a folding chair next to Franco’s prone body. He was lying facedown on a twin-size bed.
“Shawna, take Delia and see what the hell’s going on. If that’s the Special Team fucks from UF again and Troy didn’t tell me, I’m going to nut-bust that worthless piece of—”
“It’ll be fine, Gretch.” Delia hurried over and placed a quick kiss on Gretchen’s forehead.
Becca hadn’t seen the woman standing off to the side. Short denim cutoffs. Sleeveless red gingham shirt tied above her midriff. Six-inch Lucite heels with silk sunflowers embedded in the platforms. She looked like a sexed-up version of Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island.
Delia grabbed Shawna’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Don’t worry, Gretch. We can suck a few extra cocks if we have to. You stay here with Franco.”
Becca had little time to be surprised by the woman’s words. Franco chose that moment to try to push himself upward. He cried out in pain then turned his head, opened his eyes and looked straight at Becca.
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” The misplaced form of address and his need to apologize were enough for Becca. They snapped her out of the surreal fog that swirled thickly around her brain.
“Drop the ‘mistress’ crap, Franco. Let’s take a look at what he did to you.”
“The Master loves me. I just don’t understand.”
“The Master’s a sociopathic cocksucker,” Chad added, falling in right next to Becca’s side. “What do you have in the way of first aid?” he asked Gretchen.
She went to move and Franco grabbed her hand.
“Just tell me where it’s at,” Chad said. “I can get it.”
“On the bathroom counter. There’s a basket. It’ll have whatever we need.”
Becca knelt next to the bed and took a good look at Franco’s back. Red welts crisscrossed his smooth flesh. All but a few were identical in length but several of the raised areas sported tiny pinpricks of blood. The deepest laceration cut diagona
l through the center of the tattoo, marring the precision of the capital F.
It was deep, well below the layer of the ink she had laid. Relief swept through her for choosing to place the image between his shoulder blades and not higher on his neck where there could have been a risk of worse damage. But the injury would definitely leave a scar as well as ruining the tattoo.
“Franco.” Becca placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re going to need stitches.”
“No.” He buried his face in the mattress and his body was racked with noiseless sobs.
“He’s afraid of needles,” Gretchen explained. “I know it probably seems weird to you, with everything that goes on here, but we all have our limits. When the Master suggested the tattoos, Franco was scared. But our devotion to him overrides our fear. Because, at the end of the day, he’s supposed to take care of us.”
The woman couldn’t keep the accusation from her voice and Becca realized she’d never have a better opportunity to press for details. “I thought the whole Master and slave relationship wasn’t supposed to have someone needing medical attention at the end. What happened?”
“Not what should have happened. Not what’s happened in the past,” Gretchen said. “Our punishments have always been fitting in the past. Discipline is doled out for infractions we’ve incurred, not for abstract things we can’t control. Libbie was here this morning when we left to come see you but when we got back, she was gone. And this is her day to have private time with the Master. We each get a turn. But she didn’t show and he became furious.”
Becca had to ask, “What goes on during private time?”
“It’s the best,” Franco said in a soft, dreamy tone that immediately stopped his crying. Gretchen stroked his spine with just her fingertips and he turned his face into the mattress.
“One-on-one time,” Gretchen explained. “Not necessarily sexual, I’m sure that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a chance to talk about specific needs for fulfillment. What we can do to reach subspace.”
She must have noticed Becca’s puzzledlook and explained.
“Subspace is when you let go completely. Reach a higher place in the scene because your trust is unwavering. You know you’ll be safe no matter what.”
“So Andres was pissed that Libbie didn’t show and he took it out on Franco? That’s pretty fucked up,” Chad said. He set the basket of supplies on the nightstand.
“Master told Franco he wanted him as part of a scene for some very important customers who come in twice a year. They always request Franco. It’s very gratifying when someone does that. Shawna and I are only brought along because of our station with the Master. But then he chose the whip over the flogger and everything turned really bad. He knows Franco’s limits but he ignored them. Ignored his safe word. It was as if he was the one who went to another place, not us.”
“There are butterfly bandages,” Chad interrupted. Becca turned and met his worried gaze. “There’s not a whole lot more for something that deep.”
“That should work, don’t you think?” Gretchen questioned hopefully.
Becca looked once more at the cut. The blood had stopped running but it was still a mess. She wanted to help, but she couldn’t.
“No, it’s not going to work,” she replied. Just like the other people in this club, Becca knew her limits. “This really isn’t my strong suit. I’m an inker. That’s all.”
Chad wanted to tell her she was a hell of a lot more than just anything. How many other people, artists or not, would drop everything and try to help? And his opinion didn’t have a damn thing to with the fact they’d been contentedly naked on his favorite piece of furniture when it happened.
Becca was something special. His heart had known that for quite some time. It had just taken his brain a little longer to catch on.
His need to help her consumed him. It was time to talk reality. Man to man with Franco. Without soft, stroking hands and the soothing lull of feminine voices. Chad jerked his head to the side, giving Becca and Gretchen a silent beat it before he bent down and sat back on his haunches.
“Franco. You made it through an hour of Becca pounding your skin repeatedly to get that tattoo. Those needles, especially the ones she used for the outline, those suckers were monsters compared to what you’d have to deal with in the hospital. I can try to clean this out and tape it up, but without the stitches, you’re going to have a bitch of a gap in that design. It’s going to look like shit, man. And there’s that other little thing. Where it gets infected and you fuckin’ die.”
Franco turned his head and rested it on one hand. He pinned Chad with his sad eyes. This close, Chad could see signs that Franco was older than Chad had thought. The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the weathered hand.
“Where did he hit it?” Franco asked.
Chad wouldn’t lie. “Right through the charm.”
“Through my initial?” Franco whispered.
Chad nodded.
Seconds ticked by and tension began to cord Chad’s neck. He hoped like hell the man wasn’t going to start crying again. He didn’t want to have to get any tougher.
“He doesn’t love me anymore or he wouldn’t have done this,” Franco said. His eyes became glassy. His pale-blue gaze latched on to Chad’s. “Have you ever lost someone?”
“I have,” Chad replied. “I lost my dad.”
Franco nodded but he didn’t say a word.
“But he would have never wanted me to put myself at risk,” Chad added. “To not get help if I needed it.”
The corner of Franco’s mouth turned up in a bitter smile. “My old man split when I was seven. He left me in the stands at an Orioles game.”
Holy fucking shit.
He placed his hand on Franco’s forearm. “C’mon, man. It’ll be fine. I promise.”
“I doubt it,” Franco said. But he rolled slowly to his side and pushed himself to an upright position. “I don’t think anything’s going to be fine again.”
Chad stood up. He was reaching for Franco’s arm when a large thud echoed through the room. He spun around as the door cracked back on its hinges and a rough, female voice yelled, “Police. Freeze.”
The missing Libbie rushed inside the room, Glock in hand, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, a determined look on her face. For a second, Chad thought the whole thing was a joke. Her practicing for some Charlie Angels role play. Except that gun looked pretty fucking real and she was wearing a flak jacket.
And two steps behind her was Dave. Similar stance, similar chest gear, but a lot bigger gun.
Chad and Becca had stayed out of the way during the swarm of activity. Dave had told him to get Becca covertly out the door but she had been determined not to let any harm befall Franco or the women. Champion of the injured and possibly misunderstood submissives. That was something that had never come up during their lengthy conversations. But it didn’t surprise him. What had, however, was the fact that Libbie turned out to be an undercover agent named Violet.
Chad glanced toward the far corner of the dungeon where Becca, Violet and the other three women were in an animated conversation that Chad felt certain he didn’t need to be part of. Apparently, Dave felt the same way because he was headed straight toward Chad.
“I think this belongs to your girl.” Dave said handed him an envelope. Becca’s name was on the outside, neatly printed in Herzog’s familiar script. It was sealed but Chad weighed the contents with his hand, recognizing the familiar shape and feel of a wad of cash.
“She’s not my girl, Dave.”
“Damn, Chad. I knew you got all the looks but didn’t realize you were off beatin’ the bishop when the brains were being handed out. Of course she’s your girl. When was the last time you raced into the middle of a potential clusterfuck for anyone? Male or female?”
“It’s been awhile. And that was a horrible analogy.”
“Whatever. You know I nearly failed Comp class. I’m happy to see you
with her, though. Mom and Diane and me thought all that wine stuff was turning you gay.”
Chad arched a brow, fighting back a smile.
“Well, maybe it was just me, thinking you were running away from shit after Dad died. Taking the easy way out. Trying to find the real meaning of life.” Chad watched the somberness cross his brother’s eyes. “But then Nathan died.”
His brother stopped. Cleared his voice. Chad couldn’t imagine what Dave went through on a daily basis. Losing their dad had been tough. But it paled in comparison to the rare blood disease that took Dave’s son in a matter of months. It had taken over a year of therapy for his brother and sister-in-law to move on. To accept.
His older brother was a good man. Chad handed the envelope back to him, not wanting his sibling getting in trouble. “Becca wouldn’t want you or anyone else to get in hot water over this.”
Dave hesitated then took the envelope back. “I know. I worked that in during our little chat. She asked if I could find a way to get it to those four she inked. She’s worried about what they’re going to do now that Herzog is being detained. Oh, and I may have mentioned you and I are related, too. Hope you weren’t saving that for a surprise.”
“I was. You ruin everything,” Chad deadpanned. He hadn’t told Becca because the family always tried to keep Dave’s career as low profile as possible.
“I know.” Dave chuckled. “You’ve been telling me that since you were ten.”
“And thanks for bringing us back up here.” Chad gestured toward the stage. “That old fuck stood right there and drooled over both me and Becca.”
“He wasn’t gender-specific, that’s for sure. And please note we brought everyone here. That’s what we do when there’s a big reveal.” Dave winked. Chad wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or someone behind him.
“Right. Just like in those old mysteries,” Chad added. “Colonel So-and-so, in the dungeon—”
“With the butt plug.” Becca’s hands slid around his waist from behind and he covered her fingers with his palms, squeezing them.