Charlotte jumped to her feet, then barely remembered to catch her laptop as it slid from rain-damp pants.
He was there.
With Gail.
Maybe with Gail. Charlotte moved, pacing again. Energy suddenly fueled her to bursting, despite the long day and arduous trek home.
She forced her mind from Master Martin to ponder the issue of Gail. Maybe Gail was with someone else, someone more dangerous.
The thought brought Charlotte up short. Why on earth wouldn’t she assume Master Martin was dangerous? He was capable of anything, same as any stranger. Especially one in the BDSM scene.
But he didn’t feel like a stranger to her. Very odd. Inexplicable.
The fact remained that her client might be in trouble. Charlotte sat again, tapped a nail against the plastic casing of the computer. What was the deal with that dropped phone call? It was probably nothing.
She should go find out.
Excitement and dread bloomed in her. She didn’t care to examine the emotions too carefully.
Charlotte checked her phone one last time. No messages from Gail.
That settled it. She was going to Subspace.
Music throbbed, insinuating a sensual rhythm into her body through the soles of her feet even from a block’s distance and across the street.
The club advertised itself loudly enough. Charlotte gazed at the way the large red neon “Subspace” sign wrapped the corner of the building, its warm light causing the misting rain to glow. Drivers couldn’t miss it, and pedestrians like herself would appreciate the way it lit up a typically overcast night.
The city’s downtown grime looked best in the dark. Though tall buildings prevented views of Riverport’s photogenic bridges and mountains and the wide, deep Wilson River, downtown offered its own urban beauty. Club-goers and restaurant patrons drove and walked with purpose to their destinations. Others loitered without evident goal.
She couldn’t help but notice the Salvation Army service building and other food and shelter centers. The homeless crowded the sidewalks outside each center. Many of the destitute talked on cell phones as they slouched next to shopping carts piled with battered duffels and black plastic bags. Dirty, but definitely not starving. Riverport, she’d heard, had won attention for taking care of its homeless. Downtown represented a kind of mecca for them, and they came from all over the country.
Once upon a time, when she’d worked for Cory but before she’d married him, she’d gone to the farmer’s markets and fairs, pubs and stores, even after dark. Riverport teemed with artists and students, crazies and tourists. She remembered enjoying their open-minded company.
Her comparative suspicion of everyone now struck her. Awkwardness and a sense of not belonging filled her. What was she hoping to accomplish here, anyway? These kinds of people could only hurt her.
Gazing at the club, she backed into a shadow, lifting her forearm to push away a long, moist lock of hair adhering to her cheek. She shoved both hair and raincoat hood back with impatience. She couldn’t quite make herself cross the street to the doorway’s black mouth swallowing the queue into Subspace.
She was stalling and she knew it.
But just as she’d psyched herself up to cross the street, a hand grasped her shoulder.
Charlotte jumped with a small scream.
“I found you!” He started to drag her with him.
She fought the man. “Let go or I’ll Mace you! I’ll Taser your ass!”
“Don’ worry, Lizzie, I won’t be mad.”
“You’re insane. Is the whole world insane? Do you want to be maced and Tasered and kicked in the nuts and . . . ?” She ran out of ideas for threats. But it seemed to have stopped him.
“Huh? You never had a violent streak in your body.”
“I didn’t?” She panted, trying to plot an escape vector. “Maybe I’ve changed. By the way, who are you?”
“I’ve been watching you.” He peered at her.
He was older, grizzled. Rainwater made the slime on his dirty flannel sleeve glisten. His light blue eyes surrounded by red-tinged corneas met hers in a confused stare that rapidly turned demanding. His face was a map of harsh desperation and anger. “You’re not her. I thought you were my Lizzie. Have you seen ’er?” A drunk’s voice, but terrible with intensity. The hand, insistent, slid from her shoulder to her forearm, then tightened. The man—not a wreck of a wino though he was sour with old sweat, dirt, and booze—reached into his front pocket. He shoved a photograph into her face.
Charlotte batted away the photo. “Stop it. Let go!” She tried to yank back her arm, but the man clutched her, his fingers sinking in painfully.
“She’s my daughter. Look at the fucking picture!”
She looked. “Okay, no. Never seen her.”
“Are you sure? Are you completely sure?” His grip tightened.
“Yes, I’m sure. Let go!”
“The lady said to let go, Peter.” The new deep voice warned of dire consequences.
Peter’s grip loosened. “But I’m only . . .”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ve talked about this.”
Peter focused on her again. The wildness in his light blue eyes struck her. “Don’t go in there.”
“What?” She finally succeeded in pulling her arm from him. The man’s intense, haunted gaze transfixed her.
“Don’t go inside. Some people never come out.”
“Okay, Peter. That’s enough.” Her rescuer had more bulk than Peter, and it wasn’t just his long black wool coat that flared like a cape with his movements. Too permeable a coat for Riverport, even with the rain tapered to a drizzle, Charlotte thought irrelevantly. He had dark hair, also longer than normal. Dark eyes. He looked familiar.
“Just a misunderstanding, Peter. Like the last few times. You’ve got to stop doing this. I haven’t seen Elizabeth, man. But I’ll keep a lookout. I promise.”
Peter nodded, finally releasing her from his piercing gaze. His slumped posture aged him as he shuffled away.
Charlotte looked at her rescuer. “What did he mean, some people never come out? Are disappearances common?”
He stared back with a frown. “A simple ‘thank you’ might be more appropriate, don’t you think?”
She bristled. Arrogant men saving her from jerky men. How exasperating. “I can take care of myself.” She heard her churlish tone. “Okay, you’re right. Thank you. Do you often help the resident police force handle drunk and disorderlies?” She looked at him more closely. The unruly dark hair seemed familiar. And his large, slightly crooked nose, and his thin but expressive lips. She gasped as she recognized him. “Oh my God. You’re Master Martin.”
Her X-rated fantasy man. The sexually merciless star of her movie was now also her rescuer. Her nerves felt jittery and raw, even as her body tingled with the proximity to him. Dangerous. Alluring.
“Just Martin for now, please. Resident police force, at your service.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “Also dungeon monitor, rule enforcer, keeper of the peace, judge, jury—”
“And executioner?” Charlotte’s arm hairs rose. He might be the last one to have seen Gail.
She took a step back from him.
“Executioner.” His gaze tracked her movement. “There’s a game I haven’t played.”
“You haven’t?”
His lips curved into a bemused smile. “I wouldn’t have taken you for an extreme player.” He glanced at her clothes. “I still wouldn’t . . . ?” He posed it as a question.
She wrapped her coat more tightly around her broken-in jeans and plain gray sweater that was a bit too loose for any attempt at a sex-kitten look. Gray canvas sneakers rather than black leather boots further supported her lack of interest in extreme play, she’d have thought. She’d avoided the color black for nearly a year.
The color suited him admirably.
She took another step back. “You’re right,” she finally replied. “I’m not into extremes. However, I’m still going ins
ide Subspace.”
He scrutinized her face. “May I ask why?”
“I’m actually looking for someone. A friend.”
He seemed to digest her comment. Then shrugged. “May I be of assistance?”
“I hope so.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His eyes seemed to look at her from within the fantasy for a moment. His most attractive feature was definitely the eyes. She should’ve recognized those eyes right away. And the broad shoulders. Beneath his coat, she glimpsed a sliver of white. A nice dress shirt rather than the plain black one in his photo? She had a sudden, visceral urge to see him in just the shirt. To see the crisp white fabric part to reveal skin down to where the buttons started. To trail her fingers over him and feel whether he had silky chest hair or smooth skin.
She blinked, becoming aware of the sensually throbbing music again. Oh boy. She was in trouble.
Time to get away from him. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave. The danger of the situation was palpable to her just standing outside on a sidewalk, much less actually going inside the club.
Dangerous for a number of reasons. If this man was involved with Gail’s disappearance, Charlotte shouldn’t make him feel cornered.
She angled her body away from his, bending her knees to give her maximum flexibility in case she needed to dart away suddenly. She could just ask him about Gail, but not reveal she knew they met for a date. Charlotte watched him carefully. “My friend’s name is Gail. Have you seen her tonight? She went into Subspace earlier.”
He kept his hands by his side. He met her stare levelly. “I’ve met a number of people tonight, but nobody named Gail.” He sighed. “Still want to go inside? You’ll need to give me a name.”
“I just gave you her name . . . oh, you mean me.” Had Gail canceled the date? Or maybe she’d used a different name. People did, in these kinds of clubs.
Charlotte looked at him. He still hadn’t moved toward her. Except to rescue her from Peter. “I’m Charlotte.”
His stare was cool and composed as he nodded. Considering. Courteous but not quite friendly.
His manner seemed the ultimate in self-control. She couldn’t imagine him even slapping a woman in anger.
He might slap one for a different reason, though. He might consider it foreplay.
As if hearing her thought, he smiled slightly. It reminded her of his photo. It reminded her of her reaction to his photo.
Her cheeks heated.
He stepped closer, and the warmth of his subtle woodsy musk enveloped her. His proximity and his steady gaze combined to disorient her. Fear stirred. Unwillingly, she again saw the movies in her mind. The remembered excitement hollowed her belly.
If her gift for matchmaking was any indication, she’d just predicted her happily-ever-after with Master Martin.
“Oh boy, okay.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
She spoke quickly to cover her discomfiture. “Okay, yes. I’d like your help. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve never been inside a sex club like this before. All those kinky people in one place. It’s a little intimidating.”
“Only at first.” He lowered his head slightly, without taking his gaze from her. “And it’s not exactly a sex club.”
He started to walk across the street. Turned. “Follow me.”
As he led her into the dark entrance, she thought she heard irony in his rich, low voice when he added, “Welcome to Subspace.”
4
Down in the dirty, seedy tunnels beneath Riverport, the man wished for the hundredth time his predecessor hadn’t left. Gregory had depended on his former partner, he realized, for more than the older man’s boisterous, alcohol-fueled loquacity and ease with strangers.
The man had had a carnival-barker’s ability to strike the right balance between horror-fear and titillation-fear. Gregory had less skill in keeping a tourist crowd interested in the paranormal without being frightened of it.
His contempt and impatience with the gullible ghost seekers probably came across, at least to the more sensitive of the tour groups. In addition to making sure nobody wandered off, or slipped a pair of the historic, dusty shoes into an oversized bag, or had surreptitious sex in a century-old bed, he had to dredge up enthusiasm for haunts and spirits despite having zero belief in such fairy tales himself.
But the tour guide biz paid well. Especially now that he had it all to himself. There was that.
Gregory gritted his teeth and tried not to think of the tons of cement and earth and steel above his head. It seemed to threaten to bury him and the ghost hunters alike.
Their fear was contagious sometimes. He sneered up at the unfinished ceiling. Contempt clenched his belly. The money these fools coughed up on a weekly basis astonished him.
Such an impressionable lot. His gaze darted with distaste to the darker crevasses, the filthy, dust-choked subterranean sections of Riverport.
Was that a chill pocket of air he’d just passed through? A teasing breeze, like cold fingertips? Surely not.
Even as he led the twelve people down another steep, narrow stone staircase, farther into Riverport’s infamous tunnels, he found he needed to sternly remind himself not to succumb to their garden-variety superstition. The sheep could stare and whisper fearfully, point their flashlights and take pictures. He was above such ghoulish fascination. He had to be to remain effective. Or at least as effective as a soft-spoken man of aboveaverage intelligence could be in such a position.
However, during the last few tours, he’d heard strange noises. Unexplained noises.
Gregory cleared his throat. If the undertunnels disturbed him on occasion, well, there were worse fates.
He began to speak in a soft voice very unlike his predecessor’s booming tone. He noted with satisfaction how people had to strain to hear him talk about each chamber of horror and the ghosts reportedly still trapped inside. He showed them the holding cells, the woman-breaking rooms, the bloody remnants of glass strewn by unscrupulous crimpers.
Against his will and his wishes, Gregory’s ears stayed cocked for the new sounds. Echoes and cries and thumps that owed nothing to the nearby sex club’s bass music or perverted clientele. The odd new noises didn’t belong down in this old, dirty tomb.
Gregory didn’t believe in ghosts. His rational mind refused the notion. Just the same, he felt his arm hairs rise when he heard the sound of a crimper’s whip. The abductors-of-old employed cruel methods indeed. Riverport’s grimy past should remained buried, he thought, then put the superstitious nonsense aside. He had money to make.
But when a woman’s distant shriek stabbed the dark, he gasped along with his group. The scream sounded inhuman in its despair, yet muffled, as if time itself had smothered and filtered it. It had been ten long decades since sailors reportedly suffered abduction onto seagoing vessels and ladies disappeared without a trace. He heard the sound of a soul in torment.
Gregory cut the tour short, even as the morbid crowd murmured its awe. He hurried them out.
He knew the next tour group later that night would be even bigger and more willing to believe in ghost stories.
Gregory wiped sweat from his brow, wondering how he’d manage it.
The industrial rock bass of the music throbbed, bestowing a gothic vibe. Its rhythm demanded a sensual state of mind, as did the warm yellow arcs of fireballs twirled in dual circles by a fire dancer in the middle of the dance floor.
“Okay. Wow.” Charlotte stared at the spectacle.
Martin shouted over the music. “Amethyst’s talented, isn’t she?”
Talented and gorgeous. The woman’s hair, pulled back into a thick ponytail, blazed snow white with a streak of violet that glinted in the firelight. Her black leather cat suit hugged an athletic, graceful, and curvy form. The dancer made the fire swirl in time to music. Was she performing the dangerous-looking routine in high-heeled boots, too? She was.
Charlotte didn’t know whether to feel humbled or jealous. “She’s amazing
,” she shouted back to Martin.
She looked. Martin was talking to someone else, a large black man who seemed disturbed.
Martin straightened, then leaned toward her until she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s a situation downstairs.” For a moment he looked frustrated. He seemed to want to add more. But then he simply shrugged. “I’ll be back in just a few moments. Don’t go away?”
Charlotte nodded acquiescence.
The next moment, she was alone, surrounded by strangers. She scanned for Gail. Doubtless the plain, sour-faced woman would stand out among this crowd.
A mass of gyrating bodies packed the floor now that the fire dancer’s routine had ended. Bright strobe lights stabbed at the smoky darkness. Among the dancing people, Charlotte saw a lot of black leather, black-ringed eye makeup, latex, piercings, metal collars, and more strategically revealed nudity than she’d have thought legal.
She jerked her gaze down and away from all the unexpected glimpses of clamped nipples and caged cocks and balls. But even people’s footwear commanded interest. She’d never seen so many high-heeled, steel-accented, calf-hugging boots on women, and mean-looking, metal-studded Doc Martens on men.
Gail would stick out even more here than she herself did. A sparrow among peacocks. Gail always wore khaki slacks. Just as dull as Charlotte’s own gray clothes still cloaked by a concealing raincoat, and her plain, nearly makeup-free face. Where would her client be? The bar? The open vinyl booths?
Charlotte looked as she walked. Exposed rock walls, irregular corners, and rough wood beams under the high ceiling gave a first impression of a large cave, but that was just the dance area. The light brightened slightly toward the bar. In two of the recessed spaces, nearly invisible to her eyes still recovering from both the strobe lights and the dancer’s flashes of fire, she saw corroded metal railings that framed deeper shadows of twin stairways curving steeply downward. Where Martin had presumably gone.
“Hey there! Take your coat?”
Charlotte stopped short before the fire dancer, who patted herself on the face and neck with a thin white towel. Charlotte tried not to stare. “You’re Amethyst.”
Rough Play Page 4
