“Don’t touch it. It’s evvvil!” Ratty replied with a strange emphasis. He looked at her. “Didn’t see Time Bandits, did you. Never mind.” He shrugged. “This place? It’s a basement, connected to what’s left of the Riverport undertunnels. The original tunnels are gone. Or so they say.”
She turned, looked at him.
He answered her unspoken question. “In the eighteen hundreds, an underground labyrinth stretched from Twenty-third Street all the way to the Wilson River. It existed to move goods from the docked ships to the basement storage areas. These days, the businesses brick off their basement openings for earthquake-proofing and security. Bad for business to have homeless people sleeping in your basement and stealing your stuff, eh?”
“Naturally.” Charlotte continued toward the post. She lifted the iron ring, let it fall with a thump against the wood. She felt a chill. “This looks like the real version of what Martin’s club-goers play at.”
“Exactly!” Ratty grinned, and she saw his eyeteeth were sharp points. Were they filed or just naturally sharp? “It’s a real whipping post. You’re standing on old blood.”
Charlotte stepped away hastily, looking down. The darker splotches might’ve been blood. Then again, Ratty might’ve been having a joke at her expense.
Ratty lowered his voice to a near whisper she found herself straining to hear. “They also called these catacombs the Good-bye Tunnels. Women were abducted by white slavers to be broken as prostitutes, and men were kidnapped to sell to nineteenth-century ship captains who needed crew. The crimpers—that’s what they called the kidnappers and slavers—cruelly drugged and abused the innocents who fell into their clutches. Literally fell, from rigged trapdoors in the bars above in some cases. Then they punished the ones who caused trouble.”
He nodded to a pile of dust-covered shoes, old-style men’s boots and ladies’ slippers. “Captors took their shoes. They sprinkled broken glass on the floor of the tunnels to discourage people from escaping and to leave a blood trail for them to follow if anyone did. Most of it’s gone, but you can see some embedded glass glittering there in front of that bricked-over opening in back.”
Fascinated despite herself, Charlotte stared. She could see something glittering. “This place should be given to a museum. It should at least be roped off.”
“It was,” Ratty replied. “You sort of went right through it.”
She looked. Sure enough, a thick velvet rope, twin to those partitioning off the play areas, lay on the ground just before the archway entrance. “Oh.”
“Don’t worry. Those shoes and furniture and accoutrements are mostly just props and thrift-store crap. Some of it’s real old though, so, who knows. Martin lets people role-play in here sometimes. And on Halloween he opens it up to everyone. Blood Orange, it’s called. Next week. You going?”
“No.” She shivered. “Definitely not.” Did Martin have a thing for abducting people? People like Gail?
This place was making her paranoid. She’d seen all Subspace’s rooms. Gail wasn’t here.
Her rude client was probably fast asleep, completely oblivious to Charlotte’s investigation on her behalf.
Charlotte looked around, found her path blocked. “Do you happen to know how to get out of this filthy torture chamber?”
“There’s a shower and tub for Subspace VIPs. Martin seems to consider you a VIP. It has fluffy white towels, soap, bubble bath. The works. You could wash the nasty icky Subspace filth off.” He spoke distractedly.
“Sure. Just what I need right now. A bubble bath.” She tried to retrace her steps, but the mazelike room forced her deeper into it.
Ratty followed. “When you mentioned movies and Amethyst doing something to me, what were you talking about? What movies?”
Charlotte passed rusty cages hanging from beams between the old, low pipes. Then her fingers reached out as if with a mind of their own to trail along a towering, many-spoked iron wheel affixed to a sturdy pole jutting out from one wall’s stonework. What might it be like to be tied to it, and at Martin’s mercy?
She frowned, yanked her hand away.
At the far end sat a throne-like wooden chair with its sewnleather phallus dominating its center. Her inner thigh muscles clenched as she looked at the big thing. Martin sported a phallus like that, possibly just as large, from what she could tell.
The scraping noises seemed louder back here. And, was that a scream? It sounded like someone being whipped or caned or something equally barbaric. Tortured by someone like Martin.
“Charlotte.” Ratty placed himself before her again. “What did you mean about Amethyst and movies?”
“You don’t want to know. You wouldn’t believe me anyhow.”
“Try me.”
A small hissing sound and the scrape of metal on rock joined the strange sounds from behind the wall. “Do you hear that?” Charlotte touched the wall, tentative. She was pretty sure Subspace was in the other direction. “Think it’s ghosts?”
“Enough.” Ratty grabbed her. “What do you know about Amethyst? Tell me.”
“Whoa. Rollie . . .”
“I’m Ratty, here. Use my club name here. Now talk.”
“Fine. Ratty.” She tried to shake herself free, but he refused to let go. He did loosen his grip.
“I have visions,” she told him. “Not all the time, but once in a while. They’re like watching X-rated movies in my mind. Whenever I see a pair engaged in foreplay or sex it means they’re a match. Since I’m in the matchmaking business—when I’m not at Burger Town—my unusual skill has some value.” She drew him close by his own grip on her, lowered her voice to a hoarse, confessing whisper that barely carried over the eerie sounds. “I see fucking people.”
It jerked a surprised laugh out of Ratty, but he didn’t immediately release her. “So you say you have prescient visions. Huh. You’re really a matchmaker? You tell your customers about your special skill?”
“No, I don’t make a habit of telling clients about it. My title is dating coach,” she added with some archness. She gazed at Ratty. “Want to hire me?”
“You must not be too good at it, if you’re working at Burger Town.” His words echoed her landlord’s.
“The visions aren’t consistent. They happen when they happen.”
“You saw me and Amethyst together?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You hiring me? I don’t give details out for free.”
“You’re a con.” He stared at her with disgust.
“I’m legit! I said you wouldn’t believe me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“Well, then you won’t believe I saw Amethyst threading your ball sack with red and green pins, and you howling for more,” she snapped. “Guess you’ll have a Merry Christmas.”
His grip tightened until she winced. “I’m not a bottom. I’m not a damn bottom. Why does Amethyst and everyone else in the world assume I’m a bottom?” He shook her, his eyes shooting sparks of frustration.
Ratty squeaked and released her when a large hand clamped down on his own shoulder. He looked at it and froze.
They both stared. That had to be one of the largest men she’d ever seen. For a moment Charlotte thought of the crimpers, wondering if a huge, muscular ghost of one were about to abduct her and Ratty both.
“Ratty, my man. Amethyst wants you.” The large black man eclipsed a number of furniture pieces with his girth.
The name seemed to galvanize Ratty. “Amethyst, again!” Spittle made Ratty’s lower lip shine. His eyes rolled wildly even as his coat’s sequins caught the light and sparked rainbows. His scalp gleamed with sweat, making the rats seem to swim.
The bouncer shrugged. “I’d do what she says. She’ll own the club pretty soon.”
“Amethyst says what suits her. She can go to hell before I’ll come when she calls.”
Charlotte looked at Ratty. His hyperventilating breaths concerned her. He seemed so disturbed and so frail. She touched his arm. “Ratt
y . . .”
“Hands off, both of you. People can’t touch me whenever and however they feel like. I’m not everyone’s submissive. Do I have a sign on my back saying ‘tell me what to do’? Push me, poke me, give me orders? Huh? Do I?”
The bouncer made his mistake then.
He tried to propel Ratty by the shoulder. “Enough chitchat. Amethyst wants—ooph!”
Ratty’s left uppercut knocked the man’s head back, and his elbow jabbing into the man’s diaphragm produced a gruesome retch.
Charlotte stared. Ratty’s violence was as effective as it was sudden. The large man fell to his knees, still coughing.
But on the way down he grabbed a handful of Ratty’s coat.
“Hands off! Hands off!” Ratty beat at the hand fisting the glittering material.
Charlotte took a startled step back—right into an open iron maiden. The sharp metal points inside the casket pierced her sweater and pricked her skin.
“Ouch!” Reflexively she flung herself forward, away from it. She tackled Ratty.
Who exploded in a frenzy of defensive kicks and punches. “Hands off!”
“It’s me—ouch!” she cried out for the second time in less than a minute. Ratty had just punched her. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it knocked her off balance. She stumbled back. “But I’m just trying to—” Her words cut off as her head connected with an edge of rock.
The blow to her head gave her the briefest sensation of tumbling into an abyss. She shook her head violently, grimly using the pain as an aid to cling to consciousness even as she clung to the rough wall.
A shadow loomed over her. She flinched, suddenly back in her slave collar, being put through her paces by Cory. For two days and nights he’d held her, “trained” her, punished her brutally for the slightest infraction.
This wasn’t that. She had to forcibly remind herself this wasn’t Cory come to hurt her again. Those days and nights were in the past.
People who let past traumas rule them, define them, were sad creatures indeed, she mused woozily. This pain was just pain. Some pains could even be combined with pleasure to enhance ecstasy. She had that talent too.
A diminishment to the spirit, on the other hand, had deeper consequences. No way could she allow more damage in the spirit department.
Nobody had better try.
When one of the two clashing shadows got too close, she tensed.
Not ever again.
She thrust herself toward it and swung wildly. She connected only with air.
She heard a familiar deep voice. “Charlotte? Ratty! Oh, for chrissakes . . . Ratty, all of you, stop it this instant. No? All right then.”
A third shadow merged with the first two. Charlotte heard the sound of a struggle. Blows. Someone shoved her.
Her head connected almost gently with the wall. This time she didn’t even try to remain upright. She slid down, letting the wall’s rough surface scrape her. Its roughness seemed oddly distant.
On the dirt floor, she slumped sideways. She was okay. It had been the smallest of taps to her head.
But fast upon it, the shadows grew dark and all-encompassing.
8
Charlotte swam up from unconsciousness. Her head felt cradled in softness and her body stretched out comfortably.
“You’re fine. Please keep still for a few moments, if you don’t mind.”
She barely knew herself, but she knew that voice. Martin’s voice. It centered her with its tone of authority. She felt a light hand on her forehead. Stroking fingertips. She’d do whatever he wanted if he’d continue that delightful touch.
“You bumped the side of your head. Over here.” The stroking fingers moved over her hair, light as a breeze.
She heard herself make a purring noise of contentment.
“You’re lying on an examination table.”
“Examination table?” Her eyes flew open, then squeezed to a pained squint. Light seemed to come from everywhere: white walls, white sheets, and various glinting stainless steel instruments.
She struggled to her elbows.
The hand’s touch moved to her shoulder. A gentle suggestion. “Don’t make a lot of sudden movements just yet.”
She looked at his hand—just as large and capable as when she’d locked it into restraints—then to his face. The compassion and concern in his gaze caused a surge of warmth in her heart.
She tried to ignore her response, craning her neck to look down at her body. The movement made her wince.
“I told you to be still. Stubborn.”
She glanced up at him again, her vision still adjusting to the light. He looked good in the light. Capable. Sort of heroic. She blinked. “People were fighting. You stopped it?” She waited for his nod.
His hand radiated a soothing heat. “I’m going to take a look at where you bumped your head. You’ll be more comfortable lying down for the moment.” His calming voice and warm hand worked an odd kind of magic, and her body started to obey him even before she consciously decided to.
She stopped her body’s movement. “Are you a doctor? I mean, of course you’re not . . . you run Subspace, not a medical practice . . . but do you have medical training of some kind, too?” She sounded foolish and she knew it.
She lay down.
He was amused. “I’ve had some training in how to handle certain situations. CPR, first response stuff. This will be a bit bright, but I need to see your eyes. Look straight ahead.”
She did, straining not to blink as he shined a narrow light into first one, then the other eyeball.
“Pupils react equally,” he murmured. “Now, do you feel any nausea, any weakness on one side of your body?” She shook her head.
His sigh of relief made her smile, which made him smile in return with a cute, completely non-devilish glint in his eyes.
Her mild headache faded under his smile as if charmed away. She shivered, pulled her gaze from his.
She had to remember the danger he represented.
Her first glimpse of his stern look on that dating site had made her body throb. The memory of her fantasies made her tremble. Good thing he wasn’t her type. She wasn’t of his world and she didn’t ever want to be. He was completely wrong for her. Also, he was strange-looking. Maybe not ugly, but way too intense. Not even remotely model material, she told herself a little desperately.
She snuck a peek at him. She had to concede that if commercials and magazines featured nonstandard guys like him, they’d sell more products. Such easy masculinity and commanding charisma paired with that cute smile of his could melt steel.
It certainly melted her. Made her feel . . . willing. And very able.
“Here,” he said, offering his arm. “I’d like to see you walk slowly to that door and back, just to be sure.”
“I’m fine.” But she slid off the table. She shook her head briefly at his offered arm. She walked to the door, placed her hand on the doorknob. She should keep going. For the sake of her hard-won equilibrium, she should keep going.
Her hand tightened on the knob.
Then her hand slid from the knob.
He spoke as if he hadn’t noticed. “We need to ensure you don’t have coordination and balance issues, or any persistent feeling of being confused.”
“I was confused before, so no change there.”
“Yes. About that.”
She turned until her back was pressed against the door.
From behind the door came the beat of music and, more faintly, the sound of voices, reminding her she wasn’t in a real examination room.
She touched the smooth white door with just her fingertips. The room had a long countertop, just like in a real doctor’s office. She recognized some items on it. Bandages and tape, speculums, a Wartenberg pinwheel, tongue depressors, reflex hammers, scopes, needles, thermometers . . . Even the examination table looked real, with a fresh paper gown at its base. Right above the foot stirrups folded discreetly underneath.
She lifted her gaze to
his. “And now I’m more confused than ever. What’s this room all about?”
“You can’t guess?” His smile teased. He put on a white coat, raised an eyebrow.
“Doctor-patient role-playing?”
At his nod, she shrugged. “Not my kink. I don’t trust doctors.” She considered. “I don’t trust many authority figures anymore,” she added. “But I don’t imagine you rescued me only to chop me into little bits. Thank you, by the way. For the rescue.” She smiled and crossed the room, all the while keeping one eye on Martin. Even as she spoke she settled herself onto the table, nowhere near the stirrups, her butt making the white tissue crinkle. “It’s very authentic in here. I feel as if you’ll present your thermometer any second.”
He raised a brow. “Interesting choice.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks heat. “By ‘thermometer’ I meant a temperature-taking device.”
“So did I. What kind of doctor do you take me for?” His mock outrage made her smile again. “Thanks for the compliment. This exam room is one of my more inspired additions, according to the feedback.”
“I’m sure.” Her awareness of him crackled like a force field between them. Every tiny movement of his, every nuance of his voice, she tracked with fascination. Maybe he’d elaborate on the delights this room offered people. Maybe he’d show them to her.
He only looked at her. Then, “So, what do you do for a living?”
She had to laugh. “Small talk? Aren’t we past that?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
“I want to learn about you.”
“It’s good to want things.”
She felt the pleasant tension of sexual frustration. “More fencing.”
“You seem to enjoy it.”
She sighed. Surely he could sense the arousal in her, the magnetism they both resisted. “I used to be a secretary.” She found herself telling him about her short-lived job working for Cory on the men’s magazines. How she’d fallen for the handsome CEO, moved in with him, married him. Then found out they weren’t as compatible as she’d thought. How he’d eventually agreed to give her a divorce. How since that time she’d focused exclusively on other people’s relationships. “So now I’m single and I’m a dating coach with not enough clients,” she concluded.
Rough Play Page 9
