by Skye Warren
Ironic, considering.
I rubbed my hands along my arms, trying to ward off the chills. It didn’t matter what I looked like because no one was really looking. I could fade away, and no one would notice. No one would care. Faced with such cold indifference, the cruel attention of the men who had hurt me took on a softer light.
Lifting my hand, I hailed a cab. The dark-skinned man behind the wheel leered at the scoop of my neckline. “Where to, miss?”
“The nearest police station, please.”
His eyes widened for a second of concern, before his lids lowered to complacency once again. It only took a few minutes and a couple of turns before we pulled up at a run-down looking building. Precinct 45, it said.
The little monitor was blank. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“It’s on the house,” he said gruffly, not turning around.
Embarrassed by his help, by my obvious need of it, I murmured my thanks and left the cab. For endless minutes, I stood outside the police station, deliberating. Did I have to go inside? There was nowhere else to go. And what would I tell them? I had nothing to offer but the truth.
A man stopped in front of me, wearing a rumpled suit and holding a steaming cup of coffee. I didn’t have time to be afraid, because his posture was clearly so reluctant, as if he hoped I would walk away before he had to intervene. I looked up into his hard face and kind eyes and burst into tears, overwhelmed by the growing certainty that this was my life now and that it would always be this lonely.
He ushered me inside the station and into a small room with a table and a few chairs. His name was Detective Hines, he said, but he would find someone who could take my statement. Probably someone female, I understood.
“No, please.” I didn’t want to face the knowing in another woman’s eyes. The sympathy laced with relief that it wasn’t her who had been hurt that way.
Though it was clear he’d rather be anywhere but here, he agreed. Notepad in hand, he began asking questions. The first few were straightforward: my name, my age, what I remembered of my life. The before was implied.
There was a gap in my memory then, around the time it happened. Not just in the immediate moment when I was taken, but in those weeks, months, who knew how long? It was like squinting into a muddy whirlpool—it made me dizzy to even try.
Talking about my time in captivity was harder. My memory there was spotty as well, but I remembered more than enough details to get the point across. Detective Hines was thin-lipped through my more graphic descriptions but all business, without any of the pity that would have made me fall apart all over again.
I described the day when everything had changed. They were moving us. It was clearly sudden, not well planned. We were outside, naked but not chained. In the mayhem, another man came and told us to follow him. I didn’t recognize him, but we were like sheep—we all would have jumped off a cliff just to obey. People were shouting; I was so scared. I hid in a bush, cowering, waiting for someone to find me and punish me. When no one did, I gained enough awareness to realize this was my chance. I ran.
“I just… kept running, until I reached a town and they gave me these clothes and helped me find a plane that would bring me back.” I spread my hands, pretending they didn’t shake, wishing I could look at him while I lied. “So that’s what happened.”
He had stopped writing during the last, and when I dared to glance up, his expression made it clear that he knew it was bullshit. His voice was even. “That was a pretty lucky break, then.”
“Yes.” My eyes fell shut, then I looked at him directly. “What happened to me was horrible, but I can honestly say I was lucky after that.”
He tapped the pen to the notepad, clearly considering. He nodded, as if he’d made a decision. “All right. If that’s what happened, all right. I’ll need to look into this of course, but without any specifics about where you were, I doubt we’ll find much. Still, we’ll definitely investigate your case. That might be the best clue we have to finding them…and helping those other women.”
I swallowed against a gnawing guilt that I had made it home when they hadn’t. “Anything I can do to help.”
He grunted with something like approval before flagging down a couple of younger cops and barking out orders. The detective escorted me personally to a hotel, where I would have to stay until they had gone over my apartment once again. They had also taken some of my DNA to reinstate me as the real Melody Cole, since my fingerprints had ever been taken and apparently I had no immediate family to confirm.
That part was depressing. I had been nervous about the prospect of some unremembered boyfriend or even husband who would expect my love and loyalty, when I had none to give. But I had been hoping for someone, a mother, a brother, someone to help ease the way.
I stared at the thin walls of the hotel, sat on the thin bedspread and breathed the thin air. What was a home without people you loved but an empty box anyway? Detective Hines had paused before he’d left and said, “It will get better.” But how could it when every second was another one without Sam? I finally allowed myself to think about him, allowing myself to mourn the loss I recognized in his face at the end.
What would he think of the city? Too congested, maybe. I thought he would like Detective Hines.
What would he say if he were here? Spread your legs, subby.
With a private smile, I slipped beneath the covers and obeyed his imaginary commands.
Touch yourself.
No, slower.
We have all night.
There was probably a psychology student somewhere writing a salacious thesis on women like me. Abused, confused, we couldn’t even help it. We paid with sex, we coped with sex, everything was sex to a poor liberated slave. But my body didn’t care about political correctness, and my mind wasn’t too broken up over it either. This was Sam’s gift to me: my sexuality returned, pleasure sharpened.
The timbre of his voice reverberated deep inside me as my fingers stroked my clit, like touching a memory. I climaxed to the brush of his breath, the ache of his hands, the warmth of his praise.
I came back to myself as the AC switched off, casting me in a bittersweet silence.
Chapter Ten
“Are you sure you don’t want to go? You don’t have to play. Just have a few drinks.” Anya frowned. “It’s been two months already.”
Two months of working at this job, though I hadn’t yet figured out why it was so important that we made the regional top sales lists. Two months of returning home to a cold, empty apartment. But the thought of going out into a crowd was even worse.
I stood up from my desk and stretched. “I’ll take a rain check.”
I still didn’t remember how I had ended up in the hands of those men or why I had been targeted. For all I knew, it could have been a random drugging at a kink club just like the one she was always pushing me to accompany her to.
“You need to relax. Have a good time. You can meet a guy who can give you one.” She gave me a suggestive smile. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Rape and torture, though I wouldn’t say so. I wouldn’t risk my friendship, however two-dimensional it was, with Anya, when she had been so willing, even eager, to reconnect with me. Everyone else I met in the hallways had avoided me since I got back, as if my presumed psychological trauma were contagious.
“Look.” Her face softened while her eyes took on a strange glint. “You can tell me what happened to you. Maybe it will help you work it out.”
There was something about the way she focused on me, her posture…
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s kind of hard to talk about.”
She laid her hand over mine. “I know, but I won’t judge you. No matter what they did to you. Seriously.”
A shiver ran through me as I recognized her expression: anticipation. Like she might get off on what I told her. No, that couldn’t be right. Probably just some sort of clinical paranoia shit, keeping anyone from get
ting too close. She wanted to help me.
And I did want to be wrapped up tight somewhere, safe somehow. Maybe a Dom could give me that. The thought of being under a stranger’s control made me nervous, even though I knew that not every man was like them.
I glanced down the hallway to make sure no one was nearby. “Well, it’s hard for me to imagine being with a man… that way. Not just sex, but giving over my power like that. And to someone I don’t know or trust. To be honest, it’s really scary.”
“Exactly! You’ll be afraid as long as you don’t do it. Fear of the unknown. You need to face your fears. Once you find an awesome Dom, one who knows how to treat you right, you’ll be fine.”
I was skeptical but nervous about disagreeing with her outright. I may have been uneasy enough to keep the specifics of what happened to me, especially regarding Sam, to myself, but I was lonely enough not to cut off contact with her completely.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really just… not ready.”
She turned away but not before I saw her roll her eyes. God, I wished I could be back to normal. Back then we had gone out, had a couple martinis, woken up in strange beds in pricey high-rise condos, and compared bruises the next day at work. It was a good time, wasn’t it?
I shook off the feeling that I was being watched in the parking garage. It was a leftover feeling from being held captive, I told myself. Not real.
Dropping my bag in the entryway, I stood in the middle of my apartment. A chic blue sofa sat in front of a flat-screen television. A fake white daisy sat in the windowsill. Though I had quickly fallen into the routine of my work, I had never felt comfortable here. The cool air felt stale, the 600-threadcount sheets dusty.
Maybe I should move, though the thought of packing up all this impersonal stuff made me glum. Maybe I could find a cute little house. Something with trees, where I could see the stars. Somewhere I could breathe again. That brightened my mood, even though I’d have a painful commute.
I wandered into the bathroom, brushed my fingertips across the expensive cosmetics. I had found them unopened in the cabinets, as if I’d been stockpiling for the nuclear holocaust with organic astringent. The countertops had been empty… I paused. There hadn’t even been a toothbrush.
So what had I used before I’d been taken?
A chill ran through me, but it was just that overzealous AC again. Not like the cool moist air by the water, the smell of trees and rain…
She doesn’t belong here. I shivered, as if I heard Brendan’s voice right beside me.
As if unlocked, more disembodied words played in the same dreaded voice, the sound hollow like a lone wolf’s howl. Don’t you love me? Don’t you trust me? I’m doing this for you, not just me. You want to be the best submissive. I want that for you too. I’ll be so proud of you.
I do want to be a good submissive, came my fervent voice. I just don’t understand why you can’t train me. What will they do that you can’t?
You don’t understand. This is hardcore, not the kind of thing we can do in public or in my condo.
Well, I don’t see how I can leave my job for a whole month.
You won’t work when you’re with me, anyway. Stop being selfish, Melody.
God, that was creepy. And not real at all. Brendan had never said any of that to me. My mind had taken my darkest insecurities and deepest hopes and set them to a damn scary tune. I felt bad about leaving Sam to return to my life here—that had to be where this was coming from. But that’s all it was: a soundtrack to a nightmare.
Just forget about all of that, Anya had told me over lunch while I stared out the window, seeing only glass and concrete and smog. Then she scolded me for not paying attention when she was helping me. A rueful smile tilted my lips. If anyone was going to scold me, I’d rather it were Sam. At least he would give me a spanking afterward.
That was exactly the kind of thing that would set her off again.
Sam had abused my weakened state, she said. That wasn’t real BDSM.
Well, he had abused something all right. My ass.
Traumatic bonding, she had read online somewhere.
We had both agreed that sounded kinky.
Well, she was probably right about my mind being all messed up. But maybe it didn’t matter. If I wanted to be with Sam and he liked me this way, it should be enough. Every day, I believed a little bit more. It could be enough.
I had been so confused when I first got back, lost. Everything had seemed foreign at the beginning. Now I examined the apartment with new eyes, like an investigator looking for clues. Who am I? And why would anyone want to live in this sterilized bubble of an apartment?
Clothes hung in the closet, neat. The cabinets were stacked with toiletries and linens, everything so orderly. I remembered this as my apartment; it just didn’t feel lived in.
I went to the fridge where some cut fruit and a jar of milk sat in the front. It was otherwise empty. No clue as to what I had eaten before, no rotten telltale food. Someone must have cleaned it out when I had gone missing. That was smart, not creepy. A missing persons report had been filed, police had been through here.
Despite my own vigorous assurances, I sat on the couch with my arms wrapped around my waist, hunched over as if invisible enemies might storm through the walls. I couldn’t just sit here. I needed to talk to someone.
Not Anya, because I had definitely used up as much support time as she could spare. Besides I wasn’t looking forward to another lecture on how a random Dom could beat me into healing. Been there, done that.
I flipped through the numbers on my phone. My old cell phone had disappeared when I did and never been found. This was a new fancy thing that I couldn’t really figure out, and the only numbers on here were Anya’s and a few other people’s I barely knew. As I stared at the cluttered screen, the phone vibrated and rang. I jumped, startled, and didn’t relax much when I saw who was calling.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Ms. Cole. This is Detective Hines.”
Willy had called every week since I got back, but it had only been a few days since his last check-in. What could be wrong? I smoothed my hands over my skirt and told myself to get a grip. “What is it?”
“I finally got your old phone records here. They were sealed up real tight. Are you sure you don’t know anyone who’d have the motive or influence to do something like that?”
“No, I… ” That was the problem. I couldn’t remember everything. This life seemed so flat, so empty. Had I really lived like this? “I think I’m just your average girl.”
“An average girl with a boyfriend, looks like. One number appears pretty often, especially leading up to your disappearance. Know anyone by the name of Pike? Brendan Pike?”
A rushing sound filled my ears, drowning out his next words. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
The phone slipped from my fingers. Hines’s voice, tinny and small now, buzzed from the ground, and all I could think was: I really don’t belong here. I had to get out. Grabbing my purse, I took the elevator downstairs but paused in front of the doorman.
I would have passed him every day, but he gave me a blank look. “Can I help you?”
“Listen, I know this is going to sound strange, but I was gone for a while and I’m a little… well, I live in apartment 9A. Did anyone used to come visit me? Maybe regularly. Like… a guy?” Well, didn’t I just sound like a stupid little slut? That thought hit a little close to home.
He glanced at the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m new here, so I couldn’t really say.”
“Ah. While I was, uh, gone, someone cleared out my fridge. I was wondering who might have done that? Or—” I waved my hand. “—had access?”
“Let me check with the building owner.” He got on a wall phone. “Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you. There’s a woman here asking about who had access to her place. Yeah, 9A. Okay, I’ll tell her, sir.”
He hung up and turned to me. “Tha
t was the building owner. He says if you can wait in your apartment, he’ll come up personally and answer any questions for you.”
That wasn’t supposed to sound threatening. I was being paranoid. The doorman’s attention had already wandered away, even as I stood in front of him.
No way in hell was I going back upstairs.
I hit the pavement, letting the cold weather and my vigorous pace steal my breath. Finally I looked around. I recognized this intersection; I was only a few blocks away from the club where Anya was. I didn’t know if she could help me, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to, anywhere else to go.
My knowledge of the city was like a dream, the more I grasped for it, the farther it slipped away. Instead, I allowed myself to wander. I turned a corner and saw a crowd of people in front of a building with bold lettering: El Diablo. Recognition flashed, and I knew I had found it.
At the door, the bouncer looked at me, his expression impassive, and then let me in ahead of the line. Still edgy, I slipped inside among the throngs of people. Most of them wore regular club gear, black shirts and tight skirts. A few people wore more obvious bondage clothes, but here in the front there was only drinks and dancing. Play was downstairs, I remembered.
I skated the edge of the bar until I saw Anya’s blonde mane of hair in a smoky corner. She was chatting with a cute young guy, and judging from his hunched position and glazed eyes, she was practicing her Domme moves again. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw me approach. “You decided to come!”
“I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I need to talk to you. Something’s happened.”
“Let’s talk later. Come on downstairs. There’s a guy who would be perfect for you.”
“Please, Anya.” My throat grew tight. “I’m scared.”
She stood and put her hand around my waist. “Oh, baby. You have nothing to worry about, a pretty girl like you.” She gave me a once-over, taking in the cream-colored business suit I still wore. She frowned. “I wish you would have changed before coming.” Then she brightened. “But he’ll have you out of that in no time.”
