For His Pleasure

by Shelly Bell

  Was it possible Meg suspected something because of the phone call she’d received from Browner last week? Or did Meg know more than she was saying?

  Dreama couldn’t underestimate her. If there was one thing Dreama had learned throughout the years of working with Meg, it was that she was willing to play dirty to get what she wanted. And she’d made it clear that what she wanted was to fire Dreama.

  No matter who got hurt in the process.

  THIRTEEN

  Cash hefted a bag of dog food over his shoulder and carried it back to the kennels. He hadn’t been on the schedule today, but his sister had called him in when Nancy hadn’t shown up for work. With what Dreama had told him still fresh in his mind, he needed the distraction.

  Thoughts of her being beaten with a baseball bat made him sick. His offer to have his prison buddies take care of the son of a bitch who’d attacked her had been real. He didn’t care that it was illegal. Anyone who would beat a woman, especially Dreama, deserved to be taught a lesson.

  The recent murder of a woman with a baseball bat had to be a coincidence. He’d looked up the story on his phone, but the police hadn’t released a lot of information about the crime. Not even the victim’s name since her family hadn’t been notified yet.

  Part of him felt guilty, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from Googling Dreama’s name. It turned his stomach to read the details of her attack and to see her reduced to just another victim of violence. No one who knew Dreama would ever see her as a victim. The woman was a survivor and nothing less.

  He opened the door to the kennels and rested the bag of dog food against the wall. He then strolled down the aisles to see if any had been adopted over the weekend and to familiarize himself with any new dogs. With the exception of Duke and Harvey, who were somehow managing to sleep through the racket, all the others stood at the front of their cages, barking their heads off.

  He’d come to know some of these dogs pretty well over the last several days. Chewbacca with her long fluffy hair, Barney with his dopey grin, Buck with his frequent sneezes, the dogs were some of the best animals he’d ever come across. They deserved so much more than being stuck in a cell for the crime of being unwanted.

  If Cash had the means, he would adopt each and every one of them so that they had the freedom to run around and play. They’d never live behind bars again.

  From what Rebecca had told him, every Sunday, parents with young kids on their heels came to the shelter seeking to adopt a new pet, but ultimately, most left empty-handed. Families in their county wanted a healthy, non-shedding puppy. Two-thirds of the dogs at the shelter were a Lab/pit bull mix, and families with young children tended to be apprehensive about adopting them. The other third of the dogs had health issues, shed, or were deemed too old. But a few lucky dogs were fortunate to find their forever homes with good people who understood the commitment of animal ownership.

  Among the barking was a familiar whine. Cash walked over to Butch’s kennel and crouched down in front of the dog, who was giving him sad puppy dog eyes. “Hey, Butch. What’s going on?” Still whining, the dog butted his nose against the cage door, inviting Cash to pet him. Maybe Butch missed Dreama. “I’m sorry, boy. She’s not here today.”

  “Saw you at the club on Friday night,” said Buddy from behind him. “How’d you like it?”

  Startled, Cash jumped to his feet.

  So, it had been Buddy leaving the club the other night.

  Shit. Had he seen Cash and Dreama together?

  Cash looked around to make sure no one was listening. “It was enlightening.”

  “Didn’t think I’d ever see you on that end of a whip,” Buddy said.

  Cash didn’t owe the guy an explanation, but something compelled him to give one anyway. “I wanted to know what it was like.”

  Buddy looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads and a set of horns. “Who the fuck cares? If you do it right, it should hurt like a motherfucker. There’s nothing like a girl crying as she takes everything you have to give. Both of you knowing it’s you who holds all the power in your hands. Thought you were a man. Not a fucking pussy sub.”

  Cash’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t an expert in BDSM, but he knew enough to know that what Buddy was describing sounded more like abuse. From what he’d learned in his session with the Dominatrix, subs were no pussies. They were strong as hell. And the power he was talking about? That came from a sub’s trust in his Dom. It was a fucking power exchange, not a theft. With his dangerous beliefs, Buddy was a threat to all unsuspecting subs.

  He could also be a threat to Dreama. If he had witnessed Cash and Dreama together, what would he do with that information?

  At the same time, Buddy could have seen the person who’d tried to mow down Dreama. Come to think of it, where had Buddy disappeared to after he left? There was no one outside other than Cash and Dreama…and whoever was driving that car.

  “Hey,” Cash said, ignoring Buddy’s admonishment. “I left right after you, but I didn’t see you. Where’d you go?”

  He smirked and gave Cash a wink. “Picked up a girl who lived nearby and walked back to her place.”

  Cash had only seen Buddy, but it was possible the girl had walked out the door already. “After you left, did you happen to see anybody hanging around outside the club?”

  “No, but I wasn’t exactly looking around,” Buddy said, squinting at Cash as if trying to see through him.

  Before Cash had the chance to question him further, Rebecca came storming through the door. Her nose was red and tears streamed down her cheeks. “The police are here.”

  “What? Why?” Buddy asked.

  Rebecca swiped under her eyes. “Nancy was murdered. They need to speak with all her coworkers.”

  The words were like a punch to his gut. He didn’t know her well, but she was a sweet woman and a hard worker. What the hell was in the water around there? That was two murders he’d heard about today.

  Poor Rebecca. His sister had such a big heart, she would cry over the death of a perfect stranger, but she and Nancy had worked together for more than two years. This had to be hitting her hard.

  He hooked his arm around Rebecca’s back and pulled her in for a hug. “Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.

  “No, but I have to be.” She sniffed into his shoulder and stepped out of his arms. “The police are going to use my office to do the questioning. I have to go into surgery.”

  The last time he spoke with a cop had been after the accident. Cash hadn’t been in his right mind, overcome at the time with grief and guilt. He’d been honest with the officer, telling him everything he remembered…and didn’t remember. He’d withheld only one secret, the same secret he kept today. The last words he remembered uttering to Maddie were “I want a divorce.”

  In Nancy’s case, he had nothing to hide, but he wasn’t certain the police would agree. While in prison, he’d spoken to several guys who’d insisted they’d been done wrong by the cops simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and had a criminal history.

  Rebecca reached out and rubbed the spot between his brows with her thumb. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if you’re a suspect.”

  How had she known what he was thinking? Right. His damned divot.

  She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and left.

  Wearing a somber expression, Buddy crossed his arms. “Your sister is wrong. We’re ex-cons. That automatically makes us suspects. We might be innocent until proven guilty but in the cops’ eyes, we’re just a bit less innocent than everyone else.” He took a step toward Cash and lowered his voice. “Don’t offer them more than you need to and don’t lie. If they ask about a particular person or place, start your answer with the phrase ‘to my current recollection.’ That way if they find evidence to contradict your statement, you can argue you remembered it wrong. And if you want to hide something, just tell them you don’t remember.”

  Cash gave him a curt nod. �
�You’ve done this before.”

  “Yeah. A time or two. Most of the times I had nothing to do with the crime they were investigating. Other times…” Buddy’s lips twisted up in a grin that scared the pants off Cash. “Don’t worry your head about it. Your sister wouldn’t have hired me if she thought I was a danger to anyone here, right?”

  Yeah, but Cash doubted Rebecca had asked Buddy’s opinion on sadomasochism and misogyny. Most of the time, Buddy seemed like a nice guy. He got along with everyone at the shelter and always completed his tasks without complaint. Then other times, he tended to do or say things that creeped Cash the hell out, like his crude comments about Laci, his misguided beliefs about power exchanges, and the fact he’d snuck up behind Cash a few times without making his presence known. If the police arrested Buddy for abusing a woman, Cash would believe it. But murder?

  Then again, although he’d left Club X before Cash and after Dreama, Buddy was nowhere to be found when the car attempted to hit Dreama. Was it possible that Buddy had been the one who’d tried to run down Dreama the other night?

  What reason would Buddy have to try and hurt Dreama? Or Nancy for that matter?

  Cash needed to know more about what happened to Nancy. “Mind if I go first?”

  Buddy jutted his chin toward the door. “Have at it.”

  He strode down the hall to Rebecca’s office. After getting out of prison, keeping his head down had been his grand plan. Now here he was a week later, and he was about to be interrogated by the cops.

  He knocked on the half-open door, pushing it fully open. Inside, a plainclothes man sat in a folding chair, iPad in his lap, with an empty folding chair across from him.

  Not just a cop, but a detective. With a head of silver hair, a face of weathered skin, and weariness in his eyes, the man definitely wasn’t a rookie.

  “I was told you wanted to speak with me?” Cash asked as he lumbered into the room and sat in the empty chair.

  “I’m Detective Henry. Can I get your name?” asked the detective, typing on his iPad.

  That was new. Eight years ago, the cops had written out their notes on a pad of paper.

  “Cash Turner,” he responded, wondering if the detective had already done his homework on Cash’s background.

  “Thank you for sitting down and talking with me today, Mr. Turner. I just have a few questions to ask.”

  Cash nodded. “Sure.”

  “How well did you know your coworker Nancy Balsom?”

  “Not well at all. I just started here last week.” Cash folded his fingers into his palm to keep himself from tapping his thigh. “Can I ask what happened to her?”

  Detective Henry lowered his iPad to his lap. “Ms. Balsom was murdered. According to what we’ve determined so far, sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning, she was beaten to death with a baseball bat. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Dreama stepped into her apartment and quickly engaged both door locks. She’d been a nervous wreck all day. She wished she still smoked, but she’d quit before Maddox was born.

  This anxiety was different than the kind that led to one of her panic attacks. She wasn’t experiencing any flashbacks or the burning sensation that came with being touched. Since her mother’s call, it was as if a million tiny ants were crawling around under her skin, and she had a feeling it wouldn’t go away until the cops caught the latest bat-wielding maniac.

  Logically, she knew the chance of it being the same monster as the one who’d hurt her was minuscule, but that didn’t stop her from worrying that he’d come after her. She couldn’t get her brain to slow down or focus on anything other than the murder. The appointments after Cash’s had been disasters. She’d been completely distracted and had spent the time between clients refreshing the browser on her phone to see if the article about the murder had been updated. It was after seven and nothing new had been reported.

  This night called for reinforcements. After dropping her stack of mail onto the family room’s coffee table, she strode to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of wine from her refrigerator. Forgoing a glass, she took several chugs of it straight from the bottle to calm herself. Then she grabbed her quart of rocky road ice cream from the freezer, snatched a bag of potato chips from the counter, and brought it all with her to the couch.

  Damn it. This was her home. She should feel safe here. She was so tired of allowing her fears to rule her. It had already run her from her own bedroom. She was still sleeping on the couch.

  Tools like the visualization exercises she’d learned in therapy with India hadn’t helped her anxiety. Cigarettes, wine, and junk food were all poor substitutes for what she really needed—an intense session with a sadistic Dom. Pain and submission grounded her and allowed her to escape herself for a little while.

  If only she could.

  After stuffing her face with chips dipped in ice cream and drinking half a bottle of wine, she shuffled through her mail. She chucked the junk mail into one pile and the bills in another until she came to a large manila envelope with no return address. Frowning, she slid her finger under the envelope’s flap and pulled out the contents.

  Her stomach churned and acid rose into her throat.

  It was a photograph of her crossing the road in front of Club X, with Cash following not too far behind. Her hands shook as she flipped the picture over.

  Whoever sent it had written out a message in a deep red marker. The color resembled fresh blood spilling from a vein.

  Stop looking into Cash’s case or next time my car won’t miss.

  Terror seized her, squeezing her around her neck. As if the photo were a rattlesnake about to strike, she released it from her fingers. The picture landed facedown on the carpet.

  Friday night’s attempt to run her down hadn’t been a random act of violence. Cash had been right.

  Whoever sent this photograph had tried to kill her. If she didn’t do what they wanted, they’d try again.

  She’d already suffered at the hands of one psychopath. She wasn’t eager to do it a second time.

  She snatched her phone from her purse and dialed 911. But she didn’t press Send. Her fingers hovered over the button.

  Inside, she was screaming with a dozen different emotions and they were all clamoring to be released. Her mind didn’t know how to process it. While receiving the photograph terrified her, it also pissed her off. How dare he threaten her life as a kind of blackmail for her silence! If anything, she was even more determined to learn the truth about Cash’s accident. She would not allow this asshole to intimidate her.

  Other than the police, there were a number of people she could call for help. Her parents or Jane and Ryder would be here in an instant. But there was only one person she wanted.

  Mind made up, she dialed his number and hit Send. “I need to see you.”

  FOURTEEN

  Adrenaline pumping hard through his system, Cash knocked on Dreama’s door. After receiving her phone call, he’d left work and hightailed his ass over to her apartment building. Poor Rebecca was working late at the shelter, preferring to keep herself busy rather than deal with Nancy’s death.

  Cash had spent ten minutes with Detective Henry answering questions that gave Cash the impression the police didn’t have any leads as of yet. Since he never spoke with Nancy outside of her giving him his duties for the day, he didn’t have much to offer. Contrary to what Buddy had led Cash to believe, Detective Henry hadn’t as much as batted an eyelash when Cash told him he’d recently gotten out of prison.

  From what Cash could glean from the questioning, Detective Henry was still building a timeline for the murder, but sometime between Friday night and Saturday early morning, Nancy was beaten to death in her home. A bloody baseball bat had been left at the scene.

  For the rest of the day, Nancy’s murder was all his coworkers could talk about. Seemed as though everyone had an opinion, but no one had any real proof. Someone mentioned she’d gotten out of an abusive marriag
e last year and that her ex-husband had probably killed her. Another person believed Nancy had interrupted a home invasion and had died as a result. Laci insisted that Nancy had told her she had a date Friday night and that Nancy had acted dodgy when Laci pressed for details about the guy.

  Any one of their theories could be true.

  As for Cash, he couldn’t get the coincidence of the baseball bat out of his head. If the victim had been a stranger, he could’ve believed it. But for it to be Cash’s coworker? Was it possible Nancy’s death was related to Dreama?

  He hadn’t mentioned it to Detective Henry or to anyone else. As of now, it was mere conjecture on Cash’s part. But since Cash was the only tie between Nancy and Dreama as far as he knew, it would make Cash a suspect.

  Until Cash learned more details about Nancy’s death, he was keeping his mouth shut.

  But what should he tell Dreama?

  He was trying to figure that out when Dreama’s door swung open. She was in her suit from earlier, a sexy-as-hell navy jacket and a skirt that molded to her curves and gave him the urge to ask her to bend over just so he could see the material stretch over her luscious ass. Beneath that buttoned-down professional exterior of hers hid a wildly seductive temptress. She was both the devil and an angel all tied together in one fucking spectacular package.

  He moved inside her apartment before any of her neighbors saw him and stripped off his coat. “I left the fake name you gave me with the guard in the lobby.”

  Her call had shocked the hell out of him. After learning about Nancy, he’d gone back and forth as to whether to call Dreama. He’d just punched out of work when she’d called and asked him to come over. He didn’t know why. She’d refused to tell him anything over the phone, insisting they talk in person.

  Earlier when she’d walked him from her office to the waiting room, she’d pretended she was fine, but she hadn’t fooled him. She hadn’t been fine at all.