Auctioned To Daddy: BDSM Romance

by Amy Faye

  I can't hear anything. The house is quiet, and he doesn't turn on any lights. For all I know he closed the door and now he's standing right there inside the door, and in a minute he'll open it without having searched.

  Or, just as likely, he's tearing the place up and the whole place is going to look like a hurricane ran through. The seconds tick by like minutes, and the minutes feel like hours.

  I don't keep an exact count, but the digital car clock shows that six minutes pass before I see any movement in the house. Ryan opens the door, and then stops himself halfway out the door, leaning stiff-armed against the door frame and trying to catch his breath.

  He doesn't move for a long time. I don't know what's upsetting him, but I know one thing for sure: Logan Beauchamp isn't right behind him. My stomach twists up, and I get a sick idea of what he might have found.

  Ryan pushes himself off the wall and makes his way over to my car. I roll the window down as he comes up. I want to say how sorry I am, but I keep it to myself. He's not the kind of man who wants pity.

  "Everything alright?"

  "No, it's not fuckin' alright."

  "What's the situation?"

  "The place isn't looking too great. Signs of a struggle, you might say. No blood. The place is empty."

  My face pinches into a frown.

  "Do you think—"

  "He promised to call me if he heard anything, that son of a bitch. Someone came in and got him, and he musta heard it, but he didn't call me." Ryan pulls a phone out of his jacket and unlocks it, shows me the call log. "No missed calls."

  I take a deep breath.

  "Who do you think took him?"

  "I don't know. Your people might do this kind of shit, wouldn't they?"

  It doesn't take me much thought before I nod. "Sure. Might have been the Crazy Horses, though."

  "Yeah. I know."

  He takes a deep breath and opens the passenger-side door.

  "What's the plan, then?"

  Beauchamp looks tired, even deflated. I don't know what to say to make the worry go away. I don't even know how to fix the exhaustion that I know lines my own face. He works his own way out of it.

  "We can't go off half-cocked. We need to know who's got him."

  "I agree," I say. I keep my voice as steady and confident as I can. He needs all the support he can get right now, and that's the best I can do.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  RYAN

  I have the bike hidden next to a dumpster behind a warehouse. I don't know what they're storing here, but it doesn't look like the kind of place that gets checked often, and I don't have much worry about a dump truck coming and mistaking my bike for it.

  After all, I'm leasing the unit half-a-block over, and I happen to know that trash collection is Thursday morning. So now I'm just leaning out enough to see. I don't know where else I'm supposed to go.

  The Crazy Horses are big enough that they've got layers of protection. One of those is that some places, like the Irish pub that I did my part to roughen up, are as legit as they come.

  I can walk into them, and sure—I'm not really supposed to go in. But they might not even know who they're being paid by to watch the place. They certainly don't realize that there's any connection to the drug trade.

  Then you get the clubhouses. Maybe sometimes a guy with real connections—someone who's met Scheck, once or twice. Someone who McCallister might have heard his name. They go there to drink. But to call them friendly? Hardly.

  And of course, Scheck wouldn't go in there, either. But someone might know about the business. That's where we usually get our information. People who are too stupid to keep their mouths shut, and know just enough for us to make money off it.

  Then you have places that Scheck might go—warehouses, places where guns or drugs are moving through. But that's not going to be her usual haunt, either. Nor any of her goons. They'll go there to check up.

  The place they took me when I got myself picked up looked a hell of a lot like a warehouse, on the outside. But I've been in warehouses plenty of times. Working places.

  This wasn't that. So if they're going to hang out anywhere, then this place is as good a chance as anything. Fortified, familiar, comfortable. I don't know that this is the only place that fits. It probably isn't. But I have to hope that this is the one that someone picks today.

  There's parking in the back, but I'd have to get far, far too close to the front door for that. They've probably got guys on surveillance. They're not just standing outside, though, which is why they haven't noticed me yet. At least, that's what I hope. It's what I tell myself.

  I have to wait a long time before there's any movement at all. A truck passes by. It's bright red, probably five years old. The springs creak as it turns onto the street, and then it passes right on by. It came from somewhere else, and it's going somewhere else.

  A long time passes. I stopped keeping track after the first hour. With the long odds I have to deal with, there's nothing to do but just assume that I have to wait all day for someone to come out. When I do, then I can make decisions.

  More movement. This time, a car pulls out of the driveway next to the warehouse that isn't anything like a warehouse. I get a glimpse of a woman with big, dark glasses covering most of her face, but I wouldn't mistake that hair anywhere. Not even through the thick tint.

  I make a mental note of the license plate, make and model. I'll recognize it again if I see it, and I intend to see it quite well. The bike's right where I left it, and it starts on the first try. I resist the temptation to thank it.

  By the time I slip back onto the road, the sun is already pretty high in the sky, and the street is just as empty as it has been the rest of the day. I take a guess at the light and risk it.

  There's nothing else I can do, not really. Besides, I have to assume that she's just finished the night's business. If she's heading home, that's into town. Not out of town. So it's a little bit of an educated guess.

  I speed a little. I only have to make up three minutes, but at these speeds, that's a little over two miles, and two miles provides a lot of opportunity to lose someone who can't see you.

  She doesn't lose me, though. It only takes three or four minutes to catch a glimpse of that black sedan. It stands out, classic Volvo sharp lines.

  It's polished so well that it looks brand new. The sort of thing you might find at a car show. There might have been something to talk about between us, if she hadn't decided to cause trouble for me.

  It takes another minute to catch her up properly, but I can't afford to get close. The minute she recognizes the bike, it'll be all over. She'll just walk me right into a trap, and I'll be dead before I can get the kick-stand down.

  Scheck pulls off into a residential area. Somewhere about as nice, I figure, as Logan's place. Not the same, though, and not close.

  I follow her through the streets that twist in on themselves like a snail's shell until she pulls into a driveway. I keep going and double back a couple streets over.

  Just like I'd hoped, the car is empty when I pull the bike up. I kick the stand out and pull the weapon from my pocket. This is going to have to go fast, because I'm not exactly a hard man to identify—and I'm certainly not a man without enemies.

  She doesn't have a gate. Just bars over the door. Well, there was her first mistake. I use the gun as a club and smash the lock. The bars, freed from the padlock she keeps it locked with, swing open easily.

  I have to take a risk to make things quick. I turn the gun around, fire two shots into the handle and push. It swings open easily. The air-conditioned air inside whooshes into my face as I step through.

  She's running already, two long steps away and trying to duck under my reach. I bring up a knee hard, one that catches her as she tries to duck under grabbing arms that never materialize.

  Scheck crumbles to the ground. "What the fuck—Jesus! Don't kill me."

  She's got her back pressed against the bannister by the stairs no
w. I can see in her eyes that she's trying to figure out what to do next. The choice to stay there doesn't seem to be on her radar.

  "Where's my brother," I ask. I thumb the hammer on the pistol to accentuate the point.

  The look on her face is unmistakable. She twists it up in confusion, like I'd asked her how many hula hoops she's eaten in one sitting.

  "What?"

  I'm already getting a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  "Logan Beauchamp. What have you done with him?"

  "Ryan, I don't know what you're talking about."

  "'You don't know what I'm talking about—' Bull shit. You're trying to get revenge for that job we pulled on your boys. I get it. Where is he?"

  "Ryan, please, I don't—" she sucks in a breath and closes her eyes for a long moment. "We don't have him."

  Now she's in control of herself again. Her fingers clutch at her long sleeved shirt. I might have worried if it didn't cling to her the way it did, and if I couldn't see that she's not hiding anything in it.

  "Fine, then. Who does?"

  "I don't know. Are you going to shoot me?"

  I haven't decided yet. The decision gets made as the words come out of my mouth.

  "Not yet."

  Her eyebrows move up in understanding.

  "Then get out of here."

  I lean back against the door, the handle practically falling apart where I shot apart the lock. I gesture at it with the gun before pointing it back at Scheck as I pull a phone out to call Maguire.

  "You'll want to get that looked at."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MAGUIRE

  Ryan doesn't sound remotely pleased on the phone, and I can't blame him. I don't like whatever's going on. Too much can go wrong, and there are too many unanswered questions. I don't like it one god damned bit.

  I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket, and settle down into the car seat. Unlike him, I don't have to wonder where I'm supposed to be going.

  Then again, also unlike him, I can't just go in and kick the shit out of people until they answer my questions. So I suppose we're even.

  There's no holding cells in the office. I know there aren't. I've spent a year in that office, I know the place better than my apartment. So if Logan Beauchamp is in there, then he has to come out. Whether it's as a free man, or as a transfer to the Sheriff's office, they can't keep him because they don't have the space.

  But I don't have a ton of time to waste waiting around. If I could get inside without it posing a very real risk of getting myself arrested, or at least questioned, I might just go inside and check.

  Instead, I'm stuck out here, waiting for some sign to present itself, and prove once and for-all that there definitely is, or definitely isn't, someone being held in that office.

  I take a drink of tea. It's only marginally better than the coffee, but at least it's not dead bitter. The hour's rest I got in Ryan's room had me feeling better for the first hour, but now it feels as if I've only made things worse somehow.

  Like the only thing that was propping me up was the pain of exhaustion before now, and now that I'm a little less exhausted, the pole's gone out of my tent.

  I lay my head back and force my eyes to stay open, then sit forward again. I can't afford to relax. I can't fall asleep. No time to sleep. My eyelids are starting to droop. If I don't figure a way to stop it, then I know better. I'm going to fall asleep, and I'm going to do it very soon.

  So I decide to take a risk. I open the car door and I step outside.

  The rush of warm Arizona air hits me right away, after sitting in the air-conditioned cars. It doesn't have to be a long walk. Just a short one. Nice and easy. I put on my sunglasses and pull a Diamondbacks cap on to hide my hair as best I can.

  It's warm, but I pull a jacket on anyways, and I keep my head down. I can't be seen, and this close to the office, anyone's liable to recognize me.

  So in reality, I shouldn't be taking this risk at all, but without taking the risk, I'd be caught for sure, because I'd be asleep.

  I slip into the liquor store down the street from the office. I don't want to run into anyone so I walk down the aisles, checking as quick as I can until I'm fairly confident that there's nobody going to surprise me back there.

  Then I slow things down and take the walk at my leisure. Time to stretch my legs, time to relax.

  It's a risk. There's a chance I get caught, and there's a chance that Logan Beauchamp is going through those doors right now. But it's a risk I have to take, like it or not. I don't like it one bit, but it doesn't change what I need to do.

  I hear the blip of a siren, and I can feel a writhing feeling in my gut. The sure knowledge that I'd screwed up. I missed it.

  I drop the magazine I had leafed through on the shelf. I'll come back for it, or I won't. The guy behind the counter sounds irritated. Clearly he's not convinced I will be back. I don't have time to worry about what he thinks.

  I dart outside, sucking air and stretching my body to its limits. I have to do what I can to get some sort of proof. Hiding be damned.

  The hat's lifting off my head as I move, but I'm just in time to see a car pulling out of the parking lot. A hand reaches out and pulls down the stick-on light on top.

  The car slows to a stop, and then pulls out into the street. Nice and smooth. They're coming my way, so I'll get a good look into the backseat. The place where, if I'm not wrong, I'll get a good look at Logan. The place where I can confirm that there's more going on here than there seems to be.

  The car doesn't drive past, though. It turns, short of pulling by. From the twenty or thirty foot distance, I can almost make out what might be someone in the back seat. I can't see well enough to positively identify Logan, though.

  Fine, I think. I'll keep moving. With some luck, I didn't miss anything important. I'll get back to the car, I'll order a sandwich delivered or something.

  I don't know what, but I'll figure something out. The adrenaline pumping won't let me go to sleep anyways. I'm kicking myself for having let them slip by, and my body is right there along with my head, making sure I realize just how bad I fucked up.

  I watch the ground as I walk. Don't feel like looking up, and I sure as hell don't feel like getting recognized.

  Every little thing I can do to hide my identity is something that will help, in the long run. Regardless of whether or not it seems like it will, at the time. Eventually, it will help.

  What I don't notice, as I make my way back to my car, is the dark sedan parked just a few feet away. It's blocking a fire hydrant, which is none of my business—but it'll get you a hefty ticket if the Sheriff catches you.

  I don't notice a big guy get out. I would have recognized the suit he was wearing. Would've recognized him, too, but the suit used to be his favorite, back when I knew him. Maybe it still is.

  But I don't recognize him, because I don't see him. He doesn't call out to me. I do hear the car door close, a little ways away, but I don't turn to look. It's nothing special.

  People are always loading and unloading, around here. No reason to investigate every little thing. Instead, I'm looking at the field office. Nothing's happening there, of course. I should've looked at the car, but I don't know any better.

  So I'm watching the field office, where someone is sitting with their back to the window. I see them sit back and take a sip of coffee. Everyone must be tired. I think he was one of the ones that was working the night before. I don't recall his name.

  I finally turn and look when I notice the sound of footsteps. They're getting closer, and they have been for a little while, at the edge of my awareness.

  It's perfectly average. Just like the car door that I should've been paying attention to, or the way that the cherry-top pulled off onto a side-street.

  But now, after all this time, something makes me turn, and I recognize him.

  "Agent Maguire," he says. His voice is smooth, dark. He's not smiling. He never smiled.

  "Pollack," I
say. My voice is low and defensive, and I should probably play friendly, but I can't. Not any more.

  "How's the investigation going? Still haven't picked up Beauchamp?"

  "Is Donaldsen here with you?"

  I already know the answer before I even ask the question, and what's more, he knows that I know. Mitch Pollack might as well be Martin Donaldsen's shadow. The man who had everything I'd ever wanted, all the power and prestige I'd hoped for.

  I'd been an idiot for thinking I could supplant him, but I thought it. And, in time, I'd learned better. Right around the time I paid for it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  RYAN

  I get off the phone with Maguire—Sara, I add mentally—and lower the gun I have pointed at Scheck. As long as she doesn't move, I won't raise it again. She looks like she's not exactly having a good time.

  I can't say I blame her. I mean, obviously someone's just broken into her house, and threatened her with a gun, and then they talked on the phone for five minutes about the guy that she apparently didn't kidnap.

  My heart goes out to her, but I can't exactly let her go, either. I'm in too deep, at this point, to do anything other than just take her and get the hell out.

  I take a deep breath. I can't afford to rush in on this, though, either. So I take a deep, deep breath and start thinking very hard about my next moves.

  "Come on, Beauchamp—let me go." Her voice is a lot less confident than she wants it to be. I shoot her a smile.

  "You're right. I should let you go. That way, you can get big boy—Rosen, was it? Shane?—and he can come and kick the shit out of me. That about right?"

  The way she shuts up tells me that it was more right than she wants to admit. That's smart. I have a gun, after all, and she had better keep her mouth shut until she gets a better opportunity than to try to convince me to put it to my own head.

  "Come on, I get it. You were worried about your brother. But—" Marissa daubs her perfect nose, where it slammed into my knee. It's not as perfect, any more.