by HJ Raine
Shot in the Dark
Copyright © 2012 by HJ Raine and Kelly Wyre
V.I.P
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ISBN: 978-1-61040-364-1
Printed in the United States of America.
Torquere Press: electronic edition September 2012
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
Shot in the Dark
By H.J. Raine and Kelly Wyre
For those in Scene or around Scene who do what they do in and for love.
Ellis Parker took his stance, lined up his sights on the target that was twenty-five yards away, and gently, so gently, squeezed the trigger. Hearing protection made the shot sound like a snap, but the kick of the .357 SIG rounds felt good against his palms. The fourth-generation Glock he was holding belonged to Miss Maggie, the Silver Bullet Range's owner.
The Silver Bullet was the premier indoor range in New Amsterdam proper, and Ellis, who still thought of himself as a hick from the Oklahoma panhandle, felt privileged to serve her facility and her clientele. Ellis was even more privileged to have friends who could wheedle Miss Maggie into allowing her employee to bring all his friends for fun and games after business hours. The chief of those friends was Maxwell Clark. Ellis swore that Clark could persuade a stone to cry water in the desert, but Ellis had sweetened the deal with a promise to clean up the range after they were done.
Ellis' semi-automatic spoke two more times before being drowned by the roar of an automatic machine gun. Tim Akkard and Clark stood by Tim's chest of toys, watching Miss Maggie use an AK-47. Both Clark and Tim had Class 3 licenses and were putting in time at the firing range to keep their classifications. Tim's collection of firearms was impressive. The AK-47 had been captured in Bosnia. One of Tim's earliest stints in the military was with the peacekeeping troops deployed there in 1995. Ellis had heard plenty of AK-47s in Afghanistan, and the rattle of that loose piece of shit made his teeth grind.
Frowning, Ellis put another three rounds in a nice tight group on the forehead of his target with Bin Laden's face on it. With the last shot, the slide popped out, and Ellis released the clip, checked to make sure the firearm was empty, and set it on the firing bench in front of him, pointing downrange. He checked the two lanes to the left of him and grinned at Professor Germain's set. Clark's husband had fine form. The sandy-haired guy in the next lane over, however, creeped Ellis out. Clark had introduced the man as Mr. Fawkes while practically dragging the silent man into the facility. Ellis knew that Clark and Mr. Fawkes worked together, but Clark was never clear about what they did.
What really made Ellis' neck hairs stand on end was that Mr. Fawkes was using a suppressor. A silencer in movie-speak, the damned thing was supposed to make shit out of accuracy, but the groupings that Ellis could see were phenomenal. Nearly as good as Germain's, and the Professor could shoot.
Everyone's heads turned, however, when the Colt 9mm submachine gun started to sing. Clark had it braced against his right shoulder, none of that shooting from the hip idiocy. Clark really knew how to handle the thing, and where Tim had gotten the seven inch barrel instead of the standard ten and a half, Ellis didn't want to know. Clark's biceps bulged, brass casings scattered like raindrops on a puddle, and the target evaporated. The gray-haired man grinned like a coyote in a chicken coop. Clark was happy. It was a rare, golden thing.
Ellis watched in rapt attention. Clark eased up, threw back his head and howled, "I am Ironman, motherfuckers!"
"More like fuckin' Robin," Tim called back, and Miss Maggie snorted loudly enough to be heard through the hearing protection.
"That makes Daniel the playboy with the gadgets, right?" Clark yelled.
"What?" Daniel barked from Ellis' left.
"BATMAN!" Clark clarified.
"Yeah?" Mr. Fawkes screamed in British.
"Oh, fuck no," Tim cried.
"If the toolbelt fits!" Clark cackled.
"I'm killin' somethin' with a fish?" Mr. Fawkes yelled.
"NO!" everyone bellowed simultaneously.
With his weapon safely on the bench, Ellis laughed until everyone was staring at him. He waved them all off with a shake of his head and a grin big enough for a Jack O'Lantern. Clark winked at him, and even Tim seemed pleased. When they were all back to firing at their targets, Ellis pulled in his, neatly packed up his piece, and took the case with him to clear the lane for someone else. He wandered over to sit on an observer's stool at the back.
Clark cocked his head at Ellis, and Ellis waved him into the empty lane. Ellis had met Clark and Tim at a support meeting for veterans with PTSD more than five years ago, well before Clark had ever known Daniel existed. Now Ellis counted the curse of nightmares, daytime triggering, and memories of horror as a blessing, because during those meetings Clark had taken Ellis under his wing. It turned out that Clark was one of the owners of Break, a BDSM club. Clark had been exactly the kind of mentor and sadistic dominant Ellis had needed to channel and use the ugly emotions that spilled over from what Ellis had seen in the Afghan war.
Not that Ellis had been able to tell anyone what he had wanted in the beginning, though he'd been dying to. Good thing Clark had seen what Ellis needed and had dragged the then-hapless Ellis to Clark's bar, intent on getting Ellis to talk.
***
"So you own this place?" Ellis asked, fiddling with an empty shot glass.
"Mmhm," Clark hummed in the affirmative. They were at the shiny wooden bar in the back of Glow after hours. The TVs up on the walls were on mute, the yellow overhead lights were dimmed, and everyone else had gone home. Outside the front door, Twenty-Second Avenue was still busy. The heart of New Amsterdam's shopping district never rested.
"Voted the place to be last year in some magazine." Clark leaned over the bar with his feet on the wooden rungs of his stool. He retrieved a bottle of top-shelf tequila and poured Ellis another shot. "We do a damned fine business. Between this joint and the clubs, I've given up sleep."
Ellis had started out with salt and lime, but now he just sipped the salty warmth of the golden liquid straight. Ellis could feel the heat of it moving through his veins, and it felt good, kept the second-guesses away, like booze always had in Afghanistan. "So, you do much there?" he asked, nonchalantly.
"At Break?" Clark asked, eying Ellis askance while sipping from a glass full of clear liquid on ice. Clark could seriously hold his liquor. "Yeah, fair bit," Clark answered when Ellis nodded, hoping the strong and sometimes secretive man would keep talking. "Been frustrating lately, though."
"Frustrating?" Ellis snapped to attention. "What's going on?"
Clark sighed, resting against the low leather back of the stool and crossing his arms. "Eh, you know, I signed onto the gig because of Lucian Gray -- pretty boy, son of the Mayor?"
Ellis nodded. "Yeah. I've seen pictures. Long hair?"
"Right. Gorgeous, god complex, serious stick up his ass. Anyway, he wanted me on board 'cause of the funds I had to dispense and to check into the background of people who're interested in memberships to the club. I'm all good with that, 'cause I want Break to be a safe haven just as much as Lucian or Tim or Chance do. I've got the connections, I take the job seriously, all's well." Clark paused to drink, gaze distant. "But I guess I wasn't figuring on how much I'd want to take part in the circus, too, you know? I'm in there, and it's high-end leather and chains and whips, oh my. Anything you can think of and then some, and I realize how much I like that stuff and how much I want a pa
rtner in some seriously nasty crimes." Clark grinned at the wall.
The images that danced through Ellis' head sent the heat of the liquor flooding up into his cheeks and flushing down into other parts that made him blush all the harder. "Y-yeah? I can only imagine."
"I know you can," Clark said with the offhand encouragement that seemed to come so easily from him. "I've got some experience behind me in the Scene, know my way around, and I like Break's rules. Hell, I helped write the rules, so I better like 'em, right?" Clark laughed. "There's tons of public stages. Five of them, actually. They're like these quartered-off areas with any equipment you want in them, or you can bring in your own stuff. Everybody watches, and we've got security and people patrolling to make sure it all stays fun and sane. It's good, and I tried a little of this and that in the beginning, but honestly? I prefer the Crypts."
"The Whats?" Ellis leaned forward and took the rest of the shot in one gulp. He had a feeling he'd need it with the way this conversation was going.
"Shit, sorry." Clark took a slug from his own glass. "They're private rooms. Break's this big rectangle." Clark drew on the bar with a wet fingertip. "Club's in the middle, and around it is this hallway, and off the hallway are the Crypts. Places to play if you don't want an audience. As an owner, I get one all to myself."
"Wow." Ellis' head spun at the idea of dozens of people watching, and the relief at the idea of being able to be alone with Clark made Ellis sigh. "So you like doing that kinda thing in private?"
"Yeah," Clark said, emphatic and obviously glad he'd found a kindred soul. "Out in the open's great for some things, but if I'm playing with somebody, I like all my attention on him. No diversions or distractions." Clark's smile was wolfish. "And vice-versa."
Now Clark had every iota of Ellis' attention. "That sounds... great."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Clark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Thick, rich hair that had gone gray early in life. "But I'm having a bitch of a time finding someone who agrees with us. I mean, sure, there's a couple, but then I run into this other problem."
"What problem?" Ellis blinked, wondering how anything could be a problem once Clark got someone into a room with a lock on the door.
"Eh." Clark shrugged and appeared almost sheepish. "It's hard, you know, telling somebody what you want. I get that. Swear to Christ, I do." Clark's eyes widened for a second. "But lately I've been running into people who either won't cough it up no matter what, or when they 'fess up, it's not anything I can do for them."
"You can't do something? But you can do anything," Ellis said, waving both hands in the air. He'd seen Clark in action at the gun range, at the Dojo, and during the support group meetings. The man was fearless.
Clark's smile was tender. "Thanks, Ellis. Your confidence means a lot. But I meant more like limitations on kink. I don't do waste management, I don't get behind the blood letting stuff, no rape fantasies, no humiliation... Shit, hard enough to get into the Crypt to play. The last thing I'm going to do is make somebody feel like hell for agreeing to be there."
Ellis nodded, trying to look like he knew what Clark was talking about. "That seems reasonable."
"Thank you!" Clark exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I think so, too, but the other night I get halfway through this list, and some guy's like, 'You won't call me 'whore' while you smack the fuck out of my balls?' and I'm like, 'Ah, no, buddy. Sorry.' And off he goes to the land of misguided, so-called better Domming." Clark rolled his eyes. "There's plenty of shit I will do. Am happy to do. Bondage, rope, leather, flogging, electro-play, crops, knives, paddles, I can even manage a single tail, but does he hear that? Noooo..."
"Well... um... why does it matter what he wants or doesn't want?" Ellis asked, puzzled. "If you're the Dom..."
"What the submissive wants and will or won't do are the rules by which I play," Clark said, suddenly sober and serious and much, much closer. Ellis' cock twitched, and he had to adjust his position.
Clark smiled. "In my Dominant opinion, that's what any good Dom will do for his sub partner: hear what he wants and make something that works in those realms. And any good sub will be honest with what he can or can't abide and call safeword if he's in trouble or if something scares or surprises him or he needs a break."
"Oh." Ellis closed his eyes, and flashes of the things he'd been seeing in his head since he'd met Clark flowed behind his eyelids. Ellis opened his eyes to see Clark studying him. "That sounds amazing."
"Don't get me wrong," Clark said, sitting back again. "I'll change things up if the need arises or do things within the boundaries we set that my guy's not really suspecting, but..." Clark sighed. "You have to have a good idea of where the hell you're going before you saddle up, and lately people just won't talk to me." Clark sounded very upset by this development. "I mean, c'mon, Ellis, you know me. I'm easy to talk to, right?"
"Yeah." Ellis remembered the sessions at the support group, and how simple a thing it had been to confess to Clark that he was gay. "Real easy."
"See?" Clark said as if Ellis' opinion proved the rule. "I know if you and I were to play that you'd just tell me what you wanted. You know I'd listen, you know I'd get it, and we'd have a damned good time. I'm not this scary fucker you can't approach because you're afraid I'll beat your ass with a crowbar for bothering me, right?"
"Right!" Ellis looked up at Clark and chuckled. "You're only scary in the dojo, sir. And it's been easy telling you shit in the support group I've never said to anyone else. So, yeah, I would do my best to really talk about what I wanted."
"Perfect," Clark praised, sitting to face Ellis with an elbow on the bar and the other on the back of his chair. "Dry run, then, just to help me out. Go for it. Just..." Clark appeared to mull over his words. "One thing you think sounds like fun."
Ellis blinked at his once again empty shot glass and then looked up at the oh-so-attentive Clark. "Well, sir, you've probably heard crazier, but there was this Rambo movie way back when. I rented the whole damned series on DVD just to laugh at the tactics, but there was this one scene, where he gets captured by the bad guys, and they had him... suspended? Each hand, each foot in its own cage, and his head in another, all hung from the rafters. Always kinda wondered what it'd be like to be strung up like that, so that anyone could just push me around."
"Oh yeah!" Clark grinned, completely pumped. "I've seen that one. Maybe not the cages, but rope from the rafters? Absolutely can do. That's fuckin' awesome. What else?"
Ellis came up with another example immediately. "Some of the guys were testin' each other in camp, off hours, plenty of liquor, and nothin' to do, yeah?"
"Fuck yeah," Clark agreed in a been-there-done-that tone.
"Well, two of the guys in my patrol were just whaling on each other with uhm.... I guess they were paddles, and what's those things with lotsa strands?" Ellis wiggled his fingers.
"Leather strands? Handle?"
"Yeah."
"Flogger," Clark declared.
"That's it! But they were takin' turns, seein' how much they could take, and it seemed to pack a wallop. It was kinda hot watchin' 'em, so I wanna try a flogger."
"Mmm..." Clark shut his eyes for a second as though savoring fine wine. "I hear tell they feel pretty good. Rope, and what you're talking about's called 'impact play.' Definitely down for that. Anything else?"
"Uhm. Well..." Ellis bit his lower lip, and longing rose in him.
"C'mon, soldier," Clark said quietly, close again and smiling.
Ellis met Clark's eyes and found his courage. "Yes, Sarge. You... will you fuck me while you're at it? I want that, sir."
Clark made a soft sound, like a grunt from impact. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll take you, soldier." Clark tucked a tiny strand of red hair behind Ellis' ear. Clark had one blue eye and one brown, and both of them held a sincere look of affection. Clark was near enough that Ellis could smell no liquor on Clark's breath whatsoever. "Any last request you want to mention?" Clark's voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, bu
t it reminded Ellis of post-sex pillow talk.
This close to his dreams, Ellis let the words spill from his mouth. "Always wanted to get fucked raw by a leather cowboy from my Okie past, it would..." Ellis grinned at his own foolishness. "I'd like it, but it's not necessary, just a kid's love of the Bad Old West."
"I'll see what I can do," Clark agreed. "You busy Saturday night?"
Ellis' jaw dropped. He had no idea how the conversation had gotten here. "N-no?"
"Me either." Clark slid a black, oversized business card to Ellis. It had an embossed silver rose on one side. "Bring that to Break around ten on Saturday. Show it to the door guys. Meet me in the club. Sound good?"
Not believing his luck, but willing to take it when it was handed to him like this, Ellis nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. Sounds great."
Clark smiled. "I like 'Sarge,' I think, if you don't mind." Before Ellis could say another word, Clark kissed Ellis, gently and quickly, taking Ellis' breath away. "We'll work out anything else on Saturday. Now, how 'bout one more shot before I call you a cab?"
"Yeah... sure, Sarge," was all Ellis could manage, but it was enough.
***
On Saturday, Ellis parked in the Bliss parking lot and walked into the Cathedral-shaped building perched on top of a cliffside. It held both the dance club, Bliss, and one of the entrances to the BDSM club, Break. Bliss was already alive and heading toward what seemed to Ellis a max-capacity crowd. Music throbbed from the cavern beyond the wide entrance next to the front doors, and Ellis could see lights flashing and hear the dull roar of people talking, drinking, and yelling. Ellis had been worried about being conspicuous until he saw how the other men and women were dressed just to go dance. Ellis' coat and simple attire underneath it were a tad overstated.
Ellis had also worried about getting turned away at the doors, but when he approached the Break entrance, one of the two massive guys at the gate politely stopped him. The guard questioned Ellis as to where he'd gotten his card, and Ellis dutifully named Clark and presented his ID. Kids Ellis' age rushed by him on their way into Bliss, and one or two shot Ellis and Break a curious glance, but other than that, nobody paid any attention.
