What About Love (Club Decadence Book 6)

by Maddie Taylor

Stapleton stalked across the room to a tall chest and took a small plastic bag from the drawer. Crystal meth. Angie had seen it many times. He flung the bag at the Domme.

  “Take it and get out. I’ll call you when I need you again.”

  When the door banged loudly behind her, he bolted it and applied the chain, then walked over to Angie. She leaned away as much as she could when he reached for her, grimacing as he picked up a curl from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. After a moment, he gave it a ruthless tug. As tears filled her eyes from the burning pain in her scalp, he laughed.

  “I won’t need her again for a very long while.” He bent down and whispered in her ear as he explained, “I’m going to take my time with you.”

  She felt the wet glide of his tongue along her neck. Jerking away, she gagged. With deep gulping breaths, she fought back the nausea enough to speak. When she did, it was imprudently and with a generous amount of loathing. “Getting your rocks off with subs that look like me; you’re one sick fuck, Dastardly Dick.”

  Pain exploded across her face as he slapped her, his palm connecting with her cheekbone and whipping her head around the other way. When the flashes of light and chirping birds faded, and her vision cleared, she lifted her head, gazing up into his despised face with hatred. If not for her dry mouth and cracked lips, she would have spit at him despite her predicament.

  Something had gone seriously wrong. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, but definitely, the Rossi team should have been there by now. It had been long enough for her to become parched, which wasn’t a good sign. Maybe the awful chloroform had something to do with it. She searched the room for the time.

  Across the way, in what apparently served as a kitchen, a cheap plastic clock hung on a wall covered in ripped wallpaper. It was also stained with brown blotches, the origin of which she didn’t want to hazard a guess over. The time was 3 a.m. Shit! Almost three hours had passed since she left the club. Plenty of time for them to track her, come up with a plan, and enact a rescue. The delay didn’t shift the outcome of this jacked up mission in her favor.

  The only explanation was that they’d lost her. Glancing down at her foot, she found it bare, the toe ring gone. Panic surged in her chest, making it tighten as her throat constricted with fear. She tilted her head from side to side, then gave it a little shake, trying to check for the earrings. She couldn’t feel them dangling anymore. Her last hope was the wireless tracking button in the seam of her dress. There too she was thwarted, her heart stuttering painfully as she took in the jagged edge of the dress where a large section had been torn away.

  Stapleton’s evil laughter sounded again. “I’m not an idiot, Hixson.”

  A deluge of hopelessness washed over her as images of Elaine Danson’s brutalized body flashed in front of her eyes. Like a slide show set on slow speed, one by one his other victim’s faces became superimposed on Elaine’s body, the final one being herself. When it began repeating, as if set on a perpetual reel to reel loop in her head, the despair that she felt changed to anger, and in the next moment, to steely determination. It might be foolish to incite this psychopath’s anger, but she’d much rather go out with a fight than to roll over for his rape and torture. Preferring a quick death by his angry hand than a long drawn out lingering one as he’d already inferred, she pushed him.

  “They found Elaine Danson’s body. Did you kill the other three women already?”

  He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Now, Angela, my dear. Knowing me as you do, what do you think? Am I one to leave a job unfinished?”

  “You disgust me. You also won’t get away with this. Cap Rossi knows it’s you and won’t rest until he shuts you down, permanently.”

  “Perhaps,” he said with an unconcerned shrug. “Too bad it will be much too late to save you.” He rubbed a finger along her throbbing cheek, chuckling as she winced and jerked away. “You have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about this, Hixson. You were a thorn in my side for a very long time. I’m looking forward to payback.”

  “Your old boss Victor would be proud.”

  He grunted. “Victor was a grave disappointment. If I’d have been in charge of the cartel’s business in San Antonio, I’d still be living the good life.”

  Angie pointedly looked around at his dump of an apartment, grimacing as she saw a roach crawl across the table. “Yeah, how the mighty have fallen.”

  He grabbed her jaw and squeezed brutally. “You always were a smartass cunt. Shut up or I’ll gag you.”

  As she struggled to be free from his grasp, he grinned, clearly enjoying her pain.

  “Maybe not a gag. From the reports I got from Mistress Daria, you’ve become quite the kink whore and might enjoy that a bit too much. And we wouldn’t want you to find any pleasure, now would we? She also mentioned you were averse to the harsh stroke of the lash, so I think we’ll start with that.” He patted her swelling cheek harshly. “Let me get my bag, I have a nice metal tipped flogger that you will hate.” As he started to move by her, he paused, then shifted back, ripping the front of her dress wide open. Brutishly, he twisted her nipples until she cried out in pain. “I’ll be right back with some alligator clips for these babies. We’re gonna have some kinky fun, so don’t go anywhere.”

  Perversely amused by his own cruelty, his laugh floated back to her, setting her nerves on edge as he walked away. Although her breasts throbbed painfully, she couldn’t focus on anything other than the thought of the metal tipped whip ripping her flesh to pieces. Whatever had happened to Rossi, she couldn’t wait for a rescue that might never come. She’d have to save herself.

  She tugged at the bindings on her wrists. He’d used a plastic zip tie, so her struggles only made the sharp edges cut into her skin. With ropes around her chest and ankles, securing her to the chair, she was immobilized. She couldn’t move more than a fraction of an inch, but she tried anyway, desperate to break free. As she thrashed about, the rickety chair teetered unsteadily on its back legs. Afraid she would fall, she shifted forward as much as she could. The old wood creaked loudly beneath her weight, which gave her an idea.

  Rocking backward again, she quickly threw her head forward along with as much of her body weight as the ropes would allow. It was enough for her momentum to send her to her feet. Bent over with the chair attached to her back, she hopped to keep from taking a header into the floor. When she stopped, she was by the half-wall that divided the grungy living room from the even grungier kitchen. Without hesitation, she twisted sideways, slamming the brittle rear legs against the sheetrock partition with all her might. As she hoped, two of them snapped in half.

  Silently praising heaven for termites or dry rot, she did it again, smashing the back and two remaining legs into the wall. This time, the rest of the chair splintered and broke allowing her to stand upright. Shaking her body and stomping her feet sent the brittle bits of wood clattering to the floor. The ropes still encircled her body, but without the wood, they were loose and she had sufficient mobility to fight back.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Glancing up, she saw an incredulous Stapleton standing in the bedroom doorway, half dressed in fetish wear. He’d planned to go all out, obviously. Quickly, she assessed his hands for a weapon. To her relief, he held a black duffel bag and nothing else. Not wasting the opportunity or the element of surprise, she took her shot, possibly the only one she would get. She charged, running at him full speed, or as fast as she could with loose ropes encumbering her feet and her hands still bound behind her. Slamming into him with all her strength, she drove her shoulder hard into his gut. He went down, landing on his back with a loud grunt as the impact pushed the air out of his lungs.

  Somehow, Angie kept her feet. While he was down, he wasn’t out and she couldn’t risk him making a quick recovery with her wrists still bound. Taking the advantage as T had drilled into her during training, she stomped on him, both heels and all her weight coming down hard in the center of his abdo
men. He wheezed and curled inward, rolling to his side as his knees came up instinctively. His movement knocked her off balance and she staggered back. Thankfully, the wall that she banged into with a thud kept her from falling.

  Frantic, she kept her eyes locked on Stapleton. He was still moving, wheezing and howling in pain as he tried to crawl away. It wasn’t enough. He’d kidnapped four women, murdered them all most likely, as he’d planned to do to her next. Her goal became incapacitation with whatever means available.

  Taking a brief moment, she untangled the ropes from her feet. Ignoring the scratching abrasive rope as it chafed her skin, she twisted and pulled until she was free. Then, she was at him again. Rearing back, she kicked him hard, right over his kidney, following it with a brutal heel into his ribcage. She heard a crack and once again, he yowled in agony. She didn’t care, doing it again, and for a third time in the same spot.

  Whimpering, Stapleton curled into a ball, begging and pleading for her to stop.

  “Stop?” Angie spat in disgust. “You mean like you did for Elaine Danson? You deserve the same you gave her, Dick. No mercy.”

  She stepped back, trying to catch her breath as her eyes swept the room for the first time. Horrified, she gaped at his wall that was plastered almost floor to ceiling with pictures, primarily of her back in San Antonio. Some shots in street clothes, at work, and a few more recent from her first two nights at the club here in L.A. Mistress Daria’s work no doubt. Scattered throughout were photos of his other victims, some while he’d obviously stalked them and others, more graphic and disturbing, from when he had held them captive. She shuddered in revulsion as she looked at the other women who were guilty of nothing except resembling her enough to draw his attention.

  Sick. Twisted. Fuck.

  Dragging her eyes away from the demented shrine, she looked continuing her survey, noting his service weapon on the nightstand and a variety of BDSM implements lying on the bed, which included some nasty looking devices she’d never seen before and a pocket knife. Torn between the knife and the gun, she decided the latter was the biggest threat and raced to secure the gun. Twisting and bending, she struggled until she could reach it with her bound hands. Turning back, she almost sobbed in frustration seeing he was still on the move, the knife on the bed his obvious destination.

  That wasn’t happening. In a maneuver T would be proud of, she jumped on him again. With her knee jutting out, she slammed into his back with the full force of her body weight. It knocked the air from his lungs and smashed him face down into the floor, his groans giving her a small sense of satisfaction.

  A distant crash registered on the edge of her awareness. Ignoring it, she focused on one thing, containing her perp. She settled astride him, her nearly numb, tingling fingers shifting the gun carefully until her palm found the grip, which wasn’t easy while bound. Her finger slid over the trigger and she leaned back until the muzzle jammed into his spine.

  “Give me a reason and your spinal cord is severed, Dick. How does life in a chair sound? But that’s too good for you.” She moved slightly until the gun dug into soft flesh, not bone. “You can live without a kidney. That way, the boys in cell block D can take care of you for me, you short, pathetic worm.” His whimpered pleas was drowned out by the sound of splintering wood as the door exploded inward. She twisted, struggling to take aim at the new threat with the gun. When it was pulled from her grasp, she cried out sharply, resisting the arms that came around her and lifted her away.

  “Easy, lass.” Kieran’s lyrical voice never sounded better. He held her against his chest as more men stormed the room. “I can see you have the situation well in hand, but how about letting us take it from here?”

  Gentle hands cut the zip tie and eased it from her raw, inflamed wrists. The next instant, Keiran relinquished her to the arms of another as he turned and began barking orders. Strong arms scooped her up and she heard an anguished groan against her ear.

  “Darlin’.”

  Twisting her head toward the familiar voice, she encountered a troubled pair of brown eyes.

  “T.” His name came out in a rush of air while relief washed over her. So did the adrenaline crash as her head lolled to the side and she saw nothing more except blackness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The AC clicked on sending a waft of cold air blowing through the room. Angie hardly noticed. Neither did she take in the burst of color of the famed River Walk as it sparkled like a gem in the sun while laid out in all its shimmering beauty a dozen stories below. She was too lost in thought as she stared out the window, unseeing as she replayed the past few days over in her mind, particularly the time since her rescue.

  It had been like riding a malfunctioning roller coaster, full of fits and starts, at times getting stopped at the top of the highest peak and hanging in limbo, only to be thrown over the brink, flying headfirst down a heart stopping drop full of fear and anxiety as she plummeted into the unknown. Okay, maybe her lack of sleep and frazzled nerves were making her view it as more dramatic than it was, but she didn’t think so.

  At least the mission was over. Stapleton had been charged with multiple counts of kidnapping, assault, rape, and at least two counts of murder. With a decent prosecutor in charge of his case, he wouldn’t see daylight except from behind prison bars for the rest of his days. The number of which were self-limited considering a crooked cop didn’t fare well in gen pop at your friendly, neighborhood maximum security prison. All that was left was the search for the remaining missing women. Stapleton, as expected, had lawyered up first thing and wasn’t talking until he could make a deal for himself with the DA. This was laughable, as he had no one to give up anymore. The trial on the cartel he’d worked with for decades, long since over.

  Mistress Daria on the other hand, had plenty to lose. She’d already made her deal, ratting out her partner to save her own ass in a heartbeat. More importantly, she’d provided details on Stapleton’s two other crappy apartments, one located within a mile of where the first victim’s body was found in a dumpster. Searches of the areas around all three locations had turned up only one of the three other victims, Alisha Gray, his last before Angie. She was also found in a dumpster. This meant the other two were almost certainly buried somewhere in the refuse at the L.A. County landfill.

  Angie had given her statement, happily leaving the rest of the gruesome investigation to the LAPD. It was sick, twisted stuff. Ironically, for Angie, that had been the easy part.

  With their involvement ended, except testifying at a trial much, much later, T had become distant. He was polite, dutifully helping her with her bags, although she’d protested, and escorted her to their flight. Other than that, he was silent and once again in lock down mode. Worse, he’d completely shut her out.

  She’d first noticed it immediately following her rescue, when he’d given her into the care of the paramedics. He’d supported their insistence that she be taken to the hospital to have her wrists checked out, as well as her bruised cheek and swollen eye. It had taken forever, especially with his suddenly too quiet presence by her side, speaking only when necessary except the time he’d barked questions rudely at the doctor who’d come in to deliver his negative findings.

  The drive to LAX Monday morning hadn’t been any better. Seated in the back of the SUV, she watched as T silently stared out the front passenger window. The drive seemed to take longer than the interminable wait for her CT scan in the crowded L.A. emergency room. In reality, it took only twenty minutes, but the sustained, awkward silence had seemed like an eternity. During the flight home, when they’d sat side by side on the overbooked plane, the extent of his verbal skills regressed to little more than grunts in response to her attempts at conversation.

  As T so obviously did, Angie had plenty of regrets about their time in L.A. One thing she would always remember fondly was meeting Val. She’d swooped into the ER like a guardian angel, giving her the TLC she needed. She’d sent T for coffee at one point and filled her in on
the details of what she’d missed while unconscious. Something her partner should have done.

  Apparently, Daria had driven to a private parking garage where she’d stripped Angie of almost everything, undies, jewelry—at Stapleton’s insistence no doubt—and had ripped out the panic button from the hem of her dress. This had gone down while the team had been busy trying to gather intel on the building where the GPS had localized. Eric, Kieran and T hadn’t wasted any time and moved in on foot. Finding her little red coupe abandoned, they realized they’d been outwitted by a vehicle switch, and that Daria, or more likely Stapleton, was smarter than he appeared. Security and traffic cameras confirmed the Mistress leaving in a beat up Ford Focus by the back entrance minutes after her arrival. They’d tracked her, but it had taken time and delayed Angie’s rescue long enough for Stapleton to get a few punches in before Angie decided to rescue herself.

  She’d learned from Val, who’d heard it from Eric, that T had gone ballistic. Blaming Eric and Samson for not moving in when he’d wanted to while still on the club grounds. Kieran had threatened to put him in holding back at the office if he didn’t get himself under control. He had, barely holding it together somehow until they’d found her. He’d come back to her cubicle before she could ask Val what she thought that all meant. Did he react as he did because he had real feelings for her? Or, was it simply that he felt responsible for her as any senior partner would?

  “Anymore dizziness or fainting spells?” Cap’s question yanked her back to the here and now. It was Tuesday morning, her first day back to work and she was standing at the wall of windows in Cap’s office at Rossi headquarters for a meeting with the boss. She gave him her attention as she took a seat in one of his kickass leather wing chairs that was angled perfectly in front of his huge desk.

  “I didn’t faint.”

  “Darlin’, you did.” The commonly used southern endearment said in Cap’s Texas drawl reminded her of T. All the Rossi men used it, friendly, harmless, it meant nothing really, as it had meant nothing to T, evidently. She mentally locked that away in a compartment to deal with later, much later, maybe never.