Once the 96% is gone… I am on my own. I can see him gloating, seemingly pleased with himself. I suppose he should be proud really. He holds the cord—literally.
I hope proper behavior over the course of the six-month contract will garner privileges to use a charger. I sit down on the twin bed, a generously thick mattress with plush, soft coverings, and consider texting Cas.
With Cas’ recent attempts at self-harm having led to a private rehabilitation clinic, I worry about her almost continuously. She is still my best friend despite our differences. Actually, we are lovers as well, but I never really think about it like that. Something weird happens to people when exposed to a place like Juliet 24/7. Many sensations heighten with an unimaginable intensity, but others almost die off.
Gripping the phone in my hand, I quickly tuck it between the mattress and the box spring—out of sight, out of mind. No charger needed. Self-discipline check.
Gazing up, I realize the walls are covered in framed pictures of me. Huge, poster-sized pictures reveal my first days in Sugargrove to my initiation. The black and white shots are erotic, sensual, and a perfect portrayal of a submissive. She is me. And I am her. And this is real. So very real.
Knowing the history between Jack and Serene, I wish I would have realized much sooner the contract Mierne provided in my plight of desperation would be at Jack’s estate. I wanted to get as far removed from Mitch as possible. Taking a contract under the guise of needing to learn more about being a full time 24/7 total power exchange, I had no idea the bitch would send me down the street. I imagined going across the states or to Europe, but they never would have let that occur. I am his precious and his angel, their perfect porcelain doll.
On bended knee, Mitch proposed, sublimely suggesting the details. He didn’t need to say it out loud. I already knew. Despite months of just normal dating, he engaged in a despicable kink and sought a winsome bride to help him fill his tight collar. He used a casual excuse—marry me—to control the outcome.
Not this girl.
I begged Mierne for the contract as soon as I returned from the coast. I never considered the possibility of rejection because I signed on the dotted line for whatever Dr. Jack Kerris, the wholesome, good-natured sadist had in mind. Even if he proposes again six months from now, I doubt I will agree and that will be for the best.
If he had been a normal guy, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. Mitch Daniels is an incredible man, handsome and tall with dark cropped hair and steel blue-gray eyes. Former military, his company is enjoyed by everyone including me. But he isn’t normal at all.
No, Mitch Daniels is very, very fucked up.
And I actually went to Mierne’s office twice.
The first time was New Year’s Day. She agreed to meet me despite the campus offices being closed. I spent the night before enjoying the festivities at New Year’s Eve Bondage and Bash. My best friends—Sal and Cas—and I ended up having a roll in the stable. They thought I was asleep as they proceeded to make love in front me.
It hurt.
And I freaked.
I called Mierne, requesting an immediate placement. She encouraged me to take a few days at a member’s house in Galveston—I did. Mitch followed, acting like a prowler and ravishing my body. I still haven’t processed how I feel about it. I consented to many things—everything—but he pushed too far and topped it off with a proposal.
I wanted to say, “Fuck no, I won’t marry you. You just raped me.”
I didn’t do that because by that point everything was so fucked up. I sped back home and demanded a placement. I had to get away before it consumed every remaining piece of me.
Avoiding the pictures of my truth, I gaze around the dungeon, resembling an elaborate pink jail cell for some famous fat cat. I wonder if maybe a simple—yes—would have been a better choice all around. At least I would know what my future held—a lifetime of being his plastic blow-up doll.
Standing up, I roam closer to the unavoidable portraits. My fingertips caress over the lacquered frames. The picture of Sal and I uniting at our garden party cocktail mingle. We had just been assigned together—Dominant Salvatore Raniero and submissive Iris Kettles. We are in the stable. Our stable. Our secret hiding spot in chaos.
Tears flow as I whisper, “I looked so beautiful, so happy…”
Grabbing the phone, I panic and call Sal. We had a fight before I left—a very bad fight. The phone rings and rings, but he never answers. I lay down and pretend to sleep, thinking if I close my eyes and wish really hard, the demons will come and carry me away.
Hours later, my phone jingles under my pillow. I whisper, “Hello?”
After several heavy breaths, a man slurs, “I-ris?”
“Your drunk,” I declare. I am so pissed off he called in such a pathetic state. I don’t pay attention to the voice. I assume it is Sal. “What do you want?”
“I am going to fucking kill you, bitch. Dead whore. Dead whore. Dead whore.” He cackles maniacally and hangs up the phone.
It doesn’t sound like anyone I know. It really doesn’t sound like Sal. I try to sleep, but I keep opening my eyes at every creak and squeak. I am freaking out, but something about being in the dungeon keeps a feeling of safety within me.
“Dead whore.”
“Dead whore.”
“Dead whore.”
The room is about the size of a large walk in closet. Not diva-sized but enough to hold the twin mattress. The walls painted a pale ballet slipper pink with white baseboards and white heavily engraved crown molding. The opulent chandelier sparkles from the ceiling. Several large polished black hoops attach to the wall and wooden floorboards. If the large bolts holding the hoops are any sign of their strength, I won’t be going anywhere if I manage to get toggled to them. In the corner, I notice a lace ruffled, five-gallon bucket with a lid.
Oh, fuck me. Really?
Laden with disgust at having to use the bucket as a latrine, I sigh. “You signed on for this, girl, you did it,” I mumble, walking over to it, cautiously lifting its lid to reveal a clean, pristine white bucket smelling of cleanser. I squat. “Sal tried to tell you, you weren’t ready. Gonna show his drunk ass I can do this!”
The words boost my resolve for the fight ahead. I know it will not be easy, but Sal contends I can’t do it. He calls me—a little girl—and the words crawl under my skin. He likes to infuriate and enliven my willpower with his head games and mind fucks. I don’t know his intentions and like anything at Juliet, everything is possible and most likely probable.
On the bed, my phone rings again. I yank my panties up above my knees and wobble over fast as I notice L.S.R. lighting up my phone. “Raniero?”
“Angel?” he says, not sounding the slightest bit intoxicated.
“Someone called me,” I say, shivering with a fear I still am not sure is rational.
“What do you mean someone called you?”
“There was no number listed. He said—I am going to fucking kill you, bitch. Dead whore. Dead whore. Dead whore.”
“You’re safe there, Angel. I promise. No one is getting in my house.”
SAL
I miss the first call because I am busy repairing the drywall and cleaning up the dust and shattered glass from our war at the farmhouse. I go take a shower and the second I step out, I notice my phone flashing on the bed. With a cigarette perched between my lips, I call her back and whisper, “Angel…”
After listening to her panic-stricken voice repeating—dead whore—I stay up most of the night researching. I call in help from Georgia, who brings cake, makes pots of coffee, and types impeccably fast into the computer with her long ass nails. Her ease portrays everything looking remarkably simple.
“Let me get this straight—you paid Jack to bid on Iris?”
“Right,” I acknowledge with a deviant smirk.
“Because you didn’t want anyone to know you had her,” she says slowly.
“Exactly.”
“Is it going to matter if they know
or not?” she asks, tucking her hand under her chin. “I mean really, Sal, they are either going to go after her or they won’t. Isn’t she better with than without you?”
I sigh heavily not wanting to hear her logic. Mostly because I feel the same way. I planned on using Jack for a cover. He agreed because I have been his bitch for five years and he owes me. He never actually wanted to keep a slave. At least, not since Janine left years ago. “Hurt too much,” he said. And that is a language I understand all too well.
“You didn’t bid under your name because you are terrified of getting hurt…” Georgia sits back in her chair, shaking her head. She is disgusted by my behavior. And something about that affects me deeply. Maybe because she picked me up after Kace died. “Jesus fuck, Salvatore.”
With my body bent over and elbows to my knees, I glance up, “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Don’t mind me,” she replies, pecking away at her keys with supersonic speed. She doesn’t bother to look up again as she reprimands, “Just watching you run repeatedly into your own damn sword is getting pretty fucking harsh to watch.”
Walking over the desk, I prop on the edge. “What am I supposed to do, G?”
Still, she avoids looking at me. “Oh, I don’t know… Tell her you love her?”
“I fuckin tried that…”
Her fingers rapidly ball into fists as she blinks up. “Sober and without your dick in someone else?”
I glance down. I know she is right. Iris and I have been on a collision course since day one. Her issues, my fuses, and together we create really nice hateful bombs. Hey, at least we do something worth remembering.
I stay quiet the rest of the night letting Georgia work as I pull old files from the Sibyl system and try to find something concrete to base my murder on. Ya, I am fucking pissed. I have ideas who is after Iris, but in order to act on it, I need to get confirmation. I need proof. Not having that is as good as throwing out random accusations and I know with this one, I can’t just speculate. This isn’t any other case where we can toss out our ideas until one sticks. This is inside. Too close to home. And too fucking dangerous to make a mistake. I fuck this one up and it won’t be a slap on the hand, but a bullet to the brain.
The case finally breaks—slightly—at six AM.
“Super hero Sal, come here,” Georgia requests, her hair flurrying about with about a dozen pencils sticking out of it. “I ran a trace on her line, but you won’t believe where it leads back to…
Pacing closer to her, I proposition, “Try me.”
“Kaci’s old phone,” she somberly mumbles with a sentiment that has condolences written all over it. Now, I am really fuckin pissed.
“What the hell…” I stare at the screen.
“The codes are matching babe.”
“Is this her personal line or private one, G?”
“Her private line for Sibyl use only,” she informs, gazing up with tears in her eyes. “Or, at least it is supposed to be.”
“God fuckin dammit,” I growl, stripping off my shirt and tossing on a long sleeve workout shirt.
“Where are you going?” Georgia asks as I drop my jeans and head to the dresser. Her eyebrow flicks up as my naked ass peeks out from underneath the shirt. “That is such an amazingly good look on you,” she lustfully rambles, “But where are you going?”
“To run…” I say, putting on a pair of running pants. They are snug, compression leggings that show off my ass. I don’t put them on for her. I wear them because the rain always makes my joints ache in my formerly broken left ankle.
“Oh—ok,” she says, eying my every move. “Should I stay here?”
“Ya, and take a fuckin nap,” I scoff, shutting the door. I don’t make it to the staircase before storming back into my bedroom.
Glancing up, she smiles sweetly as her eyebrows arch. “Yes?”
“Take me to the cemetery and go check on her,” I growl, tossing my watch on the dresser. “And take her a damn donut.”
Georgia quickly grabs her purse and heads to the door. “A donut, Sal?”
“Ya, she loves plain glazed donuts,” I say, bobbing down the stairs two at a time. “Not warm though.”
Taking one stair at a time, Georgia huffs, “You want one?”
I glance up at her still wobbling her way down the stairs. “Do I look like I need a donut?”
She passes by me and mutters, “Only if we are sticking it around that D and calling it breakfast!” she hollers and twirls her hand in the air.
The inclement weather worsens as we drive through town. The sun is barely up over the horizon, casting an eerie shadow over everything as the mist hovers low. It is a fucking terrible day to go for a run.
Pulling into the cemetery, I stare at the metal sign above the entrance—White Rose Memorial Gardens. Georgia pulls away slow like she doesn’t feel comfortable leaving me, but fuck… I am a damn agent with Sibyl. I can get myself out of any rat’s nest. Unfortunately, I can never mentally escape Kaci Hope’s web.
About fifteen minutes into the run, Serene pulls up. I expect her to show. After all, I am her property and acting peculiar. It isn’t the run setting off alarms, but my lack of communication. I left my phone and watch at home. I just want to run and be alone.
She jogs with me for a while, and I even get into her car thinking I can leave. I can’t go though. I can’t leave her behind. The collar from my wife is turning into a noose, suffocating me and everything around me. Blocked and barricaded, I cannot get past the pixie who handed over the greatest gift I ever had—Iris—but I am fucking blowing it all because I can’t get over losing.
And I hate to lose.
Chapter Five
After the Fall
SAL
MUD SLUICES UP AROUND my fingers as the rain pours over my body. I am drowning in the deluge of pain and sorrow. There are no words for my pain. Nothing to make me come to terms or understanding. No absolute prescription to heal my broken soul. Fragments chip and break away, that is too easy—so easy. Like shattered cups tossed to the ground that you can pick up and glue back together again. There is no glue. There is no repair.
Because I am dust.
And how the fuck do I come back from ash when I keep getting carried away by the wind.
The world I exist in, created for me—the gift from a dying girl.
Here, become this. It will save you from the blood ties. It will save you from yourself. She never bothered to send me the bill of the cost of her deliverance. She never told me that losing her would be losing the key to it all. And without her I would be locked out of who I was, trapped in a cell of her making. I am tethered to her, leashed and chained, and left alone to survive in a world where every gasp of air—harms my sanity.
I am hers. Her dust. Her slave. Her bitch. Her submissive. Her leftovers. Her forgotten—you left me behind you fucking whore…
Here on the ground is who I am—and everything is not okay. I am not full of her ripe, zestful spunkiness. I am not her resurrection with a fucking cock. I am my own man decimated by a woman.
Crashed. Evaporated. Dusted.
I am in a state of disrepair, and no amount of leather or addiction is going to recover this ashen soul covered by her pretty little rogue wrapping paper. Her vibration sinks into my gray matter, churning it into a porous slop.
The dirt is slick underneath my palms, full of rocks, snail shells, and debris. Half-broken acorn shells and crunched up leaves. Her body lays in a box beneath me. Her pink lined, black enameled casket I helped wield to this very spot she selected.
“I want to be buried right here,” she said.
“These spots have been sold for years, Mrs. Raniero.” The elderly man tipped his stained hat as he spoke. He looked the type who wore the hat from sun up to sun down every day. He likely went fishing in that hat, to the doctor in that hat, and held his dying wife’s hand in that hat until it toppled off his head as he mourned her last breath.
Languishing over her body, he woul
d cry and pound his hands on the sheets surrounding her corrupted, aged soul. They had likely spent over fifty years together with him in a hat…just like that. I was angry. And jealous. And hurt. He had those years. I had a few months. Fuck him. Fuck his luck. Bastard would be back with her lovey soon.
“Sal…” Kaci said, knocking me from my thoughts.
“Ya, babe?”
“I want this spot,” she persuaded with her wide smile like asking for a piece of bubble gum. She made everything an adventure. Everything trivial. “Can you find the owners?”
“I can do that,” I confidently assured.
“It’s no telling who owns them,” the old man in the hat grumbled. “People come and buy the spots, leave town, hand them down, but I can find out who the last owners listed were.”
I shook his hand. “I’d appreciate it, Sir. If you can get me their names, I am certain I can find them.”
Yes, the perks of being an undercover black ops agent for a secret society who had a team of research specialists and hackers. We would get her the piece of land. That was simple—burying her here not so much.
My hands shake and tremble as I attempt to light another cigarette in the rain. I fucking hate the rain. I wish it would just go away. It rained on the day I became ash. My fire extinguished, and I crumbled to dust.
The floods came again to douche the lands of its impurity. We even had to wait to bury her until the soil dried some. But for me, it didn’t matter. I was gone in her last breath. My sanity exploded, leaving the shell of a monster she created like paper mâche. Hollowed out and eaten by her disease, my innards dissolved into a mush of nothingness.
She created a walking and talking robot—a machine of her own invention. With mechanisms and infrastructure, my architecture portrayed her specifications without fail. He is a handsome young man with potential and intellect—possibility. How many fucking times had I heard that word—possibility? Fuck possibility. I had no possibility now. I ran on her notions, dreams, and theories.
And we were fresh out of fuel.
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 6
