"They're both very quick," I murmured. "Almost putting on a show, but it could be to hide a slight of hand."
The bottles flew, twisting and turning above them, arcing through the air and catching the lights. Rather like that movie Tom Cruise was in.
"We managed to get a sample of the alcohol just before delivery," I added. "All were clear of benzodiazepines." The drug used for date rapes.
Damon continued to stroke my back, alternating his movements with the odd cup of my breast or butt, all of it an act and mechanically carried out. The longer we were here, the easier it was to do this. Both of us falling into a routine while I observed. Slightly detached from the act.
"You said it was most likely carried out pre-shelving," Damon whispered right in my ear. For all intents and purposes, looking like he was nibbling on the lobe.
"I'm wondering if we were wrong," I admitted. "The show masks the administration, otherwise you'd have everyone drugged."
"Good point, they pick their quarry."
"But what's their criteria, and why haven't they acted on it yet?"
He shook his head against my cheek, then returned his face into the curve of my neck and shoulder.
"It's early," I offered, almost thinking aloud now. "The room's not packed."
"It will be soon," Damon countered. "We'll probably lose our clear line of sight."
Good point. I bit my lip in frustration, already scouting for another spot closer to the bar we could use. Several minutes ticked by, the couple on the stage - different from the trio that had been there initially - both finding their release, the crowd appreciative, but not overtly applauding. The man unbuckled the woman from the bench, rubbing his hands up and down her limbs to return circulation, then almost carried her away as she leaned heavily against him, a stupid, satisfied grin on her lips.
Within seconds of vacating the prime spot, yet another couple walked up on the stage.
"I can't believe so many people want to put on a show," I commented, dumbfounded by their lack of modesty.
"They're wearing masks," Damon murmured against my skin. "They can pretend they're someone else."
The question was out before I even consciously thought it.
"Was it like this the last time you were here?"
The hand on my back stilled, the one currently scrunched up in my hair tightened, then abruptly released. A second later, he resumed his movements.
"No," he whispered. "It wasn't a mystique night, there weren't as many on centre stage."
His voice was rough and uneven. I couldn't decide if it was memories making him sound turned on, or if he was just uncomfortable talking about it with me. I ran a hand over my face, clearing my vision, but not my head. This was like a mountain between us, something we should climb over to make it to the other side, but neither of us willing to take the risk. Knowing we'd not reach our goal unscathed.
Weighted silence stretched between us, I was hardly aware of what the barmen were doing, only superficially watching, my vision more inside my head. The music pulsed around us. Sighs and moans escalated on the air. Sweaty, heated bodies rose the temperature in the room, making it seem musky and humid, and a little bit like I'd envision hell.
How could he have enjoyed this? How could he have wanted to be watched, without a mask, while sharing an intimate moment with someone else? Maybe it wasn't intimate. Maybe it was just an act of release. But why? I wasn't concerned why anyone else did it. Each to their own. But Damon? He hadn't once mentioned this lifestyle. Not once in the three months he'd spent in my bed.
"How many times?" I asked, skipping that whole brain/mouth connection.
He let a long sigh out, it sounded frustrated, as though this was the last thing he wanted to discuss.
"Lara," he started, just as I thought I saw the barman currently opening an RTD make a false move.
"Hold on. We might have something," I interrupted. I narrowed my eyes, tried to determine if what I had seen was indeed his wrist twisting above the neck of the bottle, while his back was to the bar. The movement reflected in the mirror behind it, then reflected in the mirror at Damon's back.
The barman had already turned back to the waiting woman. A petite blonde in a leather miniskirt and barely there halter top. She was shapely, and although her face was covered in a mask, she looked pretty. Her smile sexy, but still sweet. Her laugh captivating those around her.
She was also alone.
Accepting the drink, she offered one last smile and word to the barman and then headed off to a vacant seat on the periphery and sat herself down. Tucking her legs up on the sofa under her pert little butt, she took a sip of her Bacardi Breezer. My eyes darted from her to the barman, who didn't seem to be watching his quarry at all. Too busy tossing bottles, making jokes, and smiling at a muscle bound, bare chested male now.
"Maybe I'm wrong," I muttered.
"Has anyone actually filed an official complaint?" Damon asked, back to stroking down my spine and cupping various parts of my anatomy. Any other situation and it would have been sexy and spontaneous, now it just felt a little like it sounded. Perfunctory and calculated.
"One, but she recanted. Most of it has been word of mouth on the street."
"Trusted sources?" Damon queried, and despite the murders of several of mine and Carl's recently I didn't bite his head clear off.
Simply replied, "Eagle." Which said everything I needed to say.
Damon must have agreed, because he murmured an, "Ah." And then added, "So, that's why you're still watching the woman like a hawk."
"Exactly." Eagle didn't often put me wrong, but he could have been played as well. Someone setting him up to offer tainted information to me.
Everything was so convoluted right now. Connections within connections, some thin, some thick, some just from that feeling I get in my gut. I still wasn't sure if this club scene was associated with the deaths. But stranger things had happened, and now I was here. So, I was determined to follow the leads and see where they went.
At the moment, that seemed to be nowhere. A complete stranger had approached the woman and joined her on the couch. They appeared to be flirting. And the barman was busy mixing yet another drink, focused on his customer and their alcoholic pleasure.
"Damn it," I muttered, as more people flooded the room. "It's getting hard to see a bloody thing."
"How about we circulate," Damon suggested. "Part of attending these events is to get ideas. You need to get closer to decide what you like."
"You would know," I whispered, getting up off his lap and turning to face the room.
I felt unusually philosophical about it all. Damon had come here, he lived in this world. And it was miles away from mine.
His heat flooded down my back a second before his arms wrapped around my body, trapping me against his chest.
"One time," he whispered in my ear, his face over my shoulder. Then his teeth scraped the lobe and he offered a nip.
My heart thudded inside my chest, a frantic beat like the wings of a frightened bird. What did he mean?
"Come on," he said more assertively, his hand stroking down my arm until his fingers gripped mine.
He started tugging me in the direction of the rack, a poor sod hung suspended, his arousal on display for all to see on one side of the device, while his heated butt cheeks were suffering the indignity of a whipping with a short, soft looking, leather strappy crop from behind. The handle thicker than the copious strips of flapping leather. The person wielding it relishing teasing the guy with tender strokes across his back, around to his chest, and down each thigh. He whimpered every time she rattled the tails. His hips jerking, his cock leaking pre-come.
There was no denying he was enjoying himself. Humiliation and pinked butt cheeks aside, he was as turned on as I'd ever seen a man get.
"Please," he pleaded. No, more like begged. "Please, mistress."
"Have you been a very bad boy?" she asked in a singsong voice, her stiletto heels - the only thing
she was wearing by the way - tapping out a rhythm on the wooden floor of the stage.
"Yes. Yes, yes, Mistress. I've been so bad. So, so bad."
My mouth parted in incredulity. Really? This worked?
"Sometimes pleasure can be found in make-believe," Damon whispered in my ear. "For instance, if you were to dress up in a nurse's uniform I would be beside myself with joy."
I rolled my eyes, which was a wasted move, because he couldn't see my face. Then watched as the woman smoothed her hand over the guy's butt cheek, and for all to see, slipped a lubricated finger up his arse.
Oh, boy. This was an education.
With practised ease she massaged his prostate, whilst giving him a hand job, until he spilled in a spraying arc, shouting out his exuberant release.
"Please tell me, that doesn't turn you on," I muttered, turning my head to whisper the words into Damon's skin.
"Not as such." Well, damn. "But if it were you tied to the rack..." he left the sentence open.
I wanted to do another eye roll, but the blonde on the sofa had disappeared. As well as her stranger.
I'm not sure why, but panic consumed me. My stomach roiling, my chest squeezing tight. I stood up straighter, straining to get a look into every corner of the room. My gaze returned eventually, and with a certain clarity I wished I didn't have, to the bar. There was only one barman still serving; the one who had given the blonde her RTD was long gone.
I stood stock still, trying to join the dots. Telling myself not to jump to conclusions, while Carl shouted in my mind, Don't fuck this up!
It was no good. Whether I was seeing too much in things or acting on an instinct Inspector Hart said I was lucky to have, I had to follow my gut.
I stepped away from Damon, who it was becoming clear understood more than I had given him credit, because he was alert beside me, scanning the room.
"Which way?" he asked, no doubt in his mind that my assessment was right.
I glanced around the space again, leaning sideways to see around fornicating couples, ignoring looks from some of the clientèle who'd noticed we weren't watching the new action over on centre stage. You certainly did stand out if it looked like you weren't having fun.
Damon and I were not happy sex room attendees.
"There!" I said, indicating the only other door to the room than the one we had used to enter. It obviously led to the main club. "Now, what should I expect behind that?" I asked over my shoulder leading the way to a huge Pacific Islander - Samoan from the looks of those tats - in a full suit, standing by the door. Had to be security, he was wearing way too many clothes.
"The main club," Damon confirmed, then said what I needed to hear. "And private rooms."
"They'll be in one of those," I bit out, pulling my badge from inside my bra and flashing it at the guard. "Police," I announced, because it always pays to show and tell.
"You can't leave this part of the club," the guy said, moving to block the door.
"Mate," I started, just as Damon's fist flew past my face and connected with the guy's jaw.
"We don't have time for 'mate'," he pointed out, stepping over the now dazed and barely conscious guard.
And God dammit, I knew he was right.
Chapter 20
"Evil is cruel. Evil is ancient. Evil sucks all the goodness from the air."
I wasn't carrying my gun.
I felt more naked because of that than from my ridiculously short dress. But unlike the movies, having anyone else hold your service weapon for you was a sure-fire way to get suspended. My gun was always either on my person or in my safe. And as I had nowhere on this poor excuse for clothing to hide a gun, I was currently weaponless.
I did not like it one little bit.
The door led to another hallway, but Damon seemed to be familiar with the layout here. Thankfully, no more oversized security personnel were waiting for us, just the muted thud, thud, thud of music coming from the back room through the now closed door. Damon had dragged the guard through with us, somehow managing the manoeuvre without anyone alerting the staff.
Clearly the act currently on centre stage had their full attention.
He was out cold, so we left him propped against the wall, and proceeded down the narrow corridor at a decent clip. I limped along behind Damon, unhappy he was in the lead, but using whatever former knowledge he had to speed things along. The woman had been gone for several minutes at least, God alone knew what had happened to her by now.
"How many private rooms?" I asked in a whisper.
"Six, that I'm aware of. They may have added on since I was here. It's been a while."
I ignored the missed beat of my heart, concentrated on the pain in my foot to clear my head, and asked, "How close is the main club?"
"The private rooms are between us and the main club floor."
Good. At least we wouldn't have to cross another crowded area to get where we were heading.
Sweat had started to bead on my forehead and beneath my mask. So I ripped the blasted thing off and chucked it to the floor. It's not like I needed anonymity now, I'd announced my profession, and the proverbial cat was out of the bag. I just hoped we had enough time to secure the scene, determine the woman was drugged and call in back-up before the guard woke up and yelled, "It's a raid!"
Damon removed his as well, but simply tucked the soft material into his jeans pocket. Absently, I wondered if he was keeping it for the next time he chose to come here.
I growled softly and quietly to myself. Get a fucking grip! Focus.
"How much farther?" I demanded, perhaps a little more curtly than I needed.
"First door's right here," he shot back, giving me a strange look over his shoulder. I couldn't decipher it, and anyway my mind was on what we'd find behind door number one. "How do you want to play this?" he asked. "These rooms are locked. We could get management to just open them up."
I shook my head. "They'd request a warrant. I'm working off little more than my gut. I don't have enough to force Police prerogative. I need to see her, to determine if she's been roofied and to force their hand."
"Then we break them down," Damon said, taking a step back and lifting his leg to kick the door open, right at the lock.
It took two efforts and a hell of a lot of noise, which thankfully seemed to be drowned out by the music in the main areas - back room and club floor - or the noises the occupants were making in the neighbouring private rooms. The ones inside this room, however, were well aware their door was being kicked in.
I stepped passed Damon with my badge held high.
"Police, show your faces!"
A slightly overweight, middle aged man stood up in all his naked glory, not in the least worried about his jutting tackle.
"This is preposterous!" he exclaimed. "What right do you have to invade a private room? I'll have my lawyer take your badge for this!"
I ignored him. "You're clear. Carry on," I said, turning and shutting the door behind us. "One down, five to go."
"This is going to get worse, isn’t it?" Damon remarked.
"He was all bluster. Did you see his hands shake? But the next one might have more balls..."
"Good analogy."
"...And call in security. Once they arrive we're up shit creek. Next." I announced, nodding to a closed door.
"My pleasure," Damon replied, then kicked the fuck out of the lock. The wood splintered, a high pitched creak sounded out and then a squeal from the occupants inside the room. The smell of sex met my nose as I stormed in, badge held high.
I did the whole "Police, show yourselves," thing, and found an empty room.
Well, it looked empty; rumpled navy blue satin sheets on a king-sized bed stood sentinel in the centre of the room. Whips, restraints and various other sex toy paraphernalia dotted the walls. And an ornate oriental screen perched in the corner.
"Come out from behind the screen," I instructed. "Don't make me come and get you."
"We've not done anything
wrong," a shaky male voice said. He sounded young and nervous.
"We're looking for someone in particular, if you're not them, we'll be moving on, no questions asked."
"Promise."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. We didn't have time for this.
"Promise." I sounded like I was lying through my teeth. "Bloody hell," I mumbled when they still didn't move.
Nothing for a beat or two.
Ah, fuck it.
I walked across the room, grabbed the silk screen and pulled it forward until it toppled to the floor. The girl sheltering behind squealed again, the young man - no more than early twenties - yelped. Not our targets.
"Have a nice day," I said and spun on my heels, limping across the room with a scowl on my face. This was taking too damn long.
Damon raised an amused eyebrow at me, clearly noting how close I was to losing my rag.
"We're going to have to split up," I announced, once we'd exited the room and shut the door on the two still shaking occupants.
Damon started heading further down the hall. "And how do you plan to break in?" He eyed my hobbling gait.
"Just hurry up, then," I groused. I was feeling antsy about this. Part of me unsure if what we were doing would pay off. Had I got it right? Part of me aware of how bad this could go for the department, if we didn't catch them and got ourselves caught by the club's security instead.
"Why are they even doing this?" Damon asked, puzzlement in his tone, as he approached the next door. "It's a sex club, for Christ's sake. They could have any number of willing participants."
"It's not the sex," I replied. "It's all about control. They've taken the choice away from her. They're in charge."
"Like any other rape."
"More or less," I agreed. "They may believe though, that they have a right because she's here, in this setting. They still want absolute control, however. Probably because what they want to do is bad, even for back in there." I nodded up the hall where we had come from, indicating the back room door.
If I wasn't mistaken, Damon looked a little shocked at that. And for the first time since this whole back room club scene scenario was brought up, out of his depth. Unable to comprehend that level of depravity, or on closer inspection, deeply disturbed by it. Date rape will do that to you, but I think it was more personal than that. Damon looked aggrieved.
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 18
