I heard the voice on the other end of the phone say something, and Liam nodded. “Fine,” he said curtly, and hit the speakerphone button once again.
“Lisa, my name is George Sorrento,” the man’s voice said. ‘I work with Toronto Police. Are you okay? Have you been harmed?”
I ignored the ache in my jaw. “I’m okay,” I lied. I was definitely not okay.
“Good,” he replied, and I could hear the relief in his voice. “Try to stay calm. We are going to get you out of this. Put Liam back on the line, please.”
“I’m right here,” Liam said. “And I’m done talking.” He hit the button to end the call abruptly and stood up. He looked at me. “Andrea tells me Anderson used to tie her up,” he sneered at me. “Where does he keep his rope?”
I debated keeping silent, pretending like I didn’t know. Was he going to rape me? I bit my lip. Though I felt that I should fight, kick and scratch, try my best to flee, I knew that I wouldn’t. I would stay quiet. I would endure, because more than anything else, I wanted to stay alive. “Upstairs,” I said finally. “In a dresser in his bedroom.”
He waved his knife at me, and I led the way up the stairs. He followed. I entered Patrick’s bedroom and found the rope. Liam gestured me on the bed, and I swallowed back the bile in my throat. He ignored my panicked expression and just tied my arms thoroughly to the bed. My legs he left untethered. Perhaps he didn’t mean to rape me then?
“God, I need a shower,” he stretched. He went into the bathroom, and I could hear the sound of the running water. Alone, I made another determined effort at pushing back the fear.
I’d lived a good life. My parents loved me, and I loved them. I had friends I cared about, a career that I was passionate about. And finally, and most surprisingly, I had Patrick. My most unexpected joy. It had been a good thirty-five years. A life well-lived.
Before Patrick, I’m not sure I would have felt the same way. Before Patrick, I would have felt a pang of regret for the relationship I’d never been brave enough to allow myself. But in the last few months, even that seemingly insurmountable barrier had fallen away.
But there was still so many things I wanted to do. I wasn’t prepared to die yet. And though it sounded crazy, given my preference for extremely rough sex, I was terrified of the pain. Andrea had been badly beaten. That was potentially my fate as well. Liam had a knife in his hands, one that he’d taken into the shower with him. There would be blood. Plenty of it. I couldn’t even donate blood without feeling sick.
The panic rose once again as I thought of Liam’s knife cutting through my flesh, and I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Think of something positive, I counseled myself. Think of a happy memory.
That first day at the vodka bar. He’d been so good looking, Patrick. He’d carried himself with casual ease. He’d been laughing with his friends, and as we’d made eye contact for a second, my insides had clenched in anticipation. And though guys in trendy vodka bars were more likely douchebags than not, I’d still sent him a drink. A dirty martini.
And then he’d come over, with a bottle of vodka in his hand, thanked me for the drink, and had topped my glass up. He’d checked me out, but discreetly, and as I felt his eyes on my body, I had wanted more. I’d wanted to feel his hands on every inch of me.
I was no stranger to the casual hookup. But even that first time, I sensed Patrick could be more. And then, he’d set up the most amazing medical play scene for me, just to make my fantasy come true, and I had realized – this guy was special.
Patrick was kind and considerate. Not always the sort of kindness you could always talk to your mother about. I could never explain how he touched me in reassurance as he cracked the flogger on my skin. But it was the sort of thing he did so I would feel safe. He understood my needs, and he had always taken care of me.
The sound of running water had been audible in the background, but I heard the shower being turned off, and silence suddenly returned to the house. Before that silence could grow, the phone rang again, and I heard Liam picked it up in the bathroom. “What do you want, George?” he growled.
George must have said something soothing, because the tension in Liam’s voice eased slightly. “Yes,” he said. “I want pizza delivered to the house. Pepperoni. You can see her when she opens the door to get the pizza.”
Toronto Police must have hustled like crazy, because less than ten minutes later, the phone rang again. I’d been untied by this point, and was seated once again at the kitchen table. “They want to see you,” he growled, waving the knife in punctuation. “Go get the pizza. I’ll be right behind you, so don’t try anything funny.”
He held me so the knife was at my throat, his body shielded by mine, and he opened the door slightly. My hands shook as I grabbed the pizza from the man holding it, and we retreated inside.
The phone rang again, and this time, the negotiator wasn’t as successful as he had been before in establishing rapport. Liam listened to the voice for a minute or two, then hung up. “You want a slice?” he asked.
I shook my head silently. My stomach was churning. There was no way I’d be able to hold food down. I eyed the clock on Patrick’s stove. One hour, forty five minutes, that’s how long this ordeal had been going on for.
“Pizza not good enough for you?” he sneered, and I flinched, prepared to be beaten again. But he just shook his head in disgust and ate a slice.
The phone didn’t ring again, not for a long time. Liam looked like he was getting nervous. Finally, he gestured. “Call that number,” he said. “Tell them I want to talk.”
I hit talk on the phone, my hands shaking. “He wants to talk,” I said, a quaver in my voice.
“Are you okay?” George asked quickly.
“Yes,” I lied again. I wasn’t okay. But I wasn’t hurt either. I was as good as I could be in that situation. Not good at all.
Liam took the phone from my hands. “Make me an offer, George,” he said. “I want out of here.” He listened to the voice at the other end of the line, and then he shook his head. “No, I’m not letting her go,” he snapped. “You think I’m a fucking idiot, George? The bitch is my ticket out of this place.”
George said something, and Liam’s shoulders slumped. “I just want all of this to end, George,” he said. He sounded defeated. “I don’t want to run anymore.”
I held my breath. Would he give up? Could I just walk out of here?
No. Whatever George said, it didn’t help. Liam just shook his head, and hit the button to end the call. “Good pizza,” was all he said, reaching for another slice.
I couldn’t hear both ends of the conversation. I couldn’t tell what was going on. I wanted to stay alert and aware, to carefully watch for an opening so I could escape. But I hadn’t accounted for the paralyzing fear. I hadn’t accounted for the sob that rose in my throat as I imagined my parents crying over my mutilated body. I thought of the hopeless sadness that Patrick would feel and I didn’t dare move. All I could do was wait. Endure. Hope for a peaceful resolution.
At ten in the night, there was finally one. The phone had been ringing on and off. Liam had been having several conversations with George. They had chatted about the Jays and the state of the MLB. Whether the Leafs would ever win the Stanley Cup. Then about beer and the bars that off-duty cops hung out at. I could hear the wistfulness in Liam’s voice as he spoke. With each call, he was getting closer to the point where he would surrender.
Finally, at ten at night, after the last call, Liam just looked at me. He had a beer in front of him. His eyes were tired. It didn’t look like there was any fight left. “Go,” he said to me. “Just go.”
I looked at him, afraid to believe. Terrified that he would lunge at me and attack the instant I took a step. But he took the knife, and tossed it away on the kitchen counter.
“Fucking Anderson,” he said again, his voice soft. “It was all so perfect until he interfered.”
I took a step towards the kitchen door, and he di
dn’t move. Didn’t stop me. His eyes were back on the bottle of beer in front of him, his fingers were restlessly peeling the label. I took another step backward, and then another, and I was in the hallway, then I just fled out the front door.
Cop cars were everywhere. Police tape on the street. An ambulance. A fire truck. All silent, to keep from alarming Liam. All ready and waiting. A cop pulled me towards safety, and someone threw a blanket around me, one I hugged gratefully while my eyes searched for the only person in whose presence I would feel truly safe.
“Patrick,” I sobbed, seeing him get out of a parked car and move quickly towards me. I fled into the shelter of his arms, and enveloped in security, pressed against his body, I felt home.
Chapter 12
Lisa:
“I was so afraid,” Patrick said softly. I heard the tremble in his voice, and I put my arms around his neck and pulled him close to me.
“Me too,” I said. I clung to Patrick, reluctant to let go. He didn’t pull away. Perhaps he too felt the need to hold me near. Life was short, and sometimes, we could get overtaken by events entirely outside our control. Like Liam Henderson. At moments like that, you held on tight to the ones you loved.
I held on tight to Patrick, clinging to him as the paramedics gave me a thorough once-over, making sure I hadn’t been seriously injured. Patrick’s eyes narrowed when he saw the bruise on my jaw, and his fingers traced a path over my skin. “He hit you,” he said, his voice bleak.
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I’m just so glad it’s over.”
“They better lock him up for a long time,” he said. I glanced at him, and I could see his hands clenched into fists. He was visibly struggling to stay calm.
“Patrick,” I said. I just wanted to go home and forget about this. I didn’t want him to flip out. “It’s over.”
He looked at me for a long time, and then nodded, his eyes softening. “Sorry,” he said. “I hate feeling this helpless.”
“Me too,” I pointed out, and his lips twitched. The paramedic finally cleared me, and I was permitted to leave.
“Let’s go home, baby,” he said. He led the way to his car, parked across the street. A man in police uniform approached me, and I winced, and Patrick pulled me close to him protectively. “Do you want me to ask him to leave?” he asked me.
I shook my head, both grateful for his protection and the fact that he was thoughtful enough to ask for my permission first before speaking on my behalf. “I can deal with it,” I told him. My fingers tightened in his. He nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at me.
“Ms. Preston, I’m Detective Luke Wade from Toronto Police. I’m in charge of this case. Could I ask you some questions?”
I could feel Patrick’s shoulders tense. “Can we do it tomorrow?” I asked him. “I can come down to the station, if you’d like. I just need to be left alone tonight.”
The detective nodded, making very little effort to conceal his frustration. “Of course,” he said, annoyance in his voice. “I’ll call you in the morning. Good evening, Ms. Preston.” He turned and walked away, and Patrick slowly exhaled.
“Probably a good thing you talked to him, not me,” he said wryly. “I’d have been tempted to punch him, and spending a night in jail doesn’t sound like fun at all.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, glad for the lightness of the topic. “He just has really bad timing,” Patrick said. “He wanted a statement from Andrea right after she woke up from her coma as well. John went ballistic.”
“Can you actually throw a punch?” I asked him. He didn’t seem the brawling type at all.
He laughed. “I had my trouble-making moments when I was a teenager,” he said, “but as an adult? No.” He smiled at me. “Besides, I work with my hands. It would be stupid to throw a punch.” He grimaced. “I would have made an exception for Liam Henderson.”
“He had a knife in his hand,” I pointed out prosaically. When it came down to it, I had fantasies of punching Liam as well, but this wasn’t an episode of Dexter, and we couldn’t go around beating people, as richly as they deserved it. Liam was in the hands of the police now, facing many years in prison for assault and kidnapping. It would take me longer to fully make my peace with what had happened, but at the moment, I just wanted to turn the page and put the evening behind me.
Patrick reached out and touched my bruised jaw again with the gentlest of touches, and I leaned into him again. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and I pulled back to look at him.
“Are you going to feel responsible for this too?” I asked him pointedly, and he laughed a little.
“From your tone, I’m thinking I should say No,” he replied.
I nodded firmly. “Let’s just go home, okay?”
I got into the car, Patrick shut the door and walked around. He started driving towards my condo, and I fiddled with the radio until I found the classical music station, and closed my eyes. We drove in silence, with the soft sounds of the music in the background. I think we were both lost in our own thoughts.
My emotions were all over the place. Relief was the foremost one. A relief that this wasn’t the end. That whatever regrets I had with my life, I had additional time to try and fix. Then, there was the quiet joy that I felt in Patrick’s presence. I wanted to touch him. To hold him, to assure myself that he was real. Of everything that I felt thankful for in my life, and there were many things, Patrick was the most unexpected gift of all.
For thirteen years, I’d shut off a door that lead to a vital part of me, and I had soldiered on, telling myself that I didn’t feel its absence. But I had felt it. I loved my parents and my friends, but when I was lonely or in pain, I often held back from reaching out to them, not wanting to interrupt their lives with my troubles. With Patrick, I’d found a sense of belonging. Of coming home.
The complete sense of peace and trust that came when I submitted to Patrick was wrapped in this. And tonight, I needed him to replace the fear of the last few hours with his loving domination.
***
“Hang on,” I said as we turned into the parking lot. “You’ll need the code.” I told him the access code for my underground parking, he punched it in and we parked in my spot. “Hey, I don’t have any food at my place,” I said, embarrassed.
“Delivery services exist,” he said, amused. “You don’t often have food at your place,” he continued conversationally. “Not a fan of grocery shopping?”
I appreciated the way he kept the topics light. We rode up on the elevator, and I made a face. “It’s because I get sucked in,” I replied to his comment about food. “I’ll see the produce at the grocery store and I totally believe I’m going to cook. So I’ll buy a ton of food, and then real life ends up happening, and I throw it all out. Even now,” I added, my voice rueful. “I’m totally out of control at the grocery store.”
He laughed as we walked in my front door, and a tension I hadn’t realized I was still feeling drained from me as I entered my condo. Patrick noticed, and drew me into his body, rubbing my arms gently.
“It’s over now,” he said.
I nodded. “I was so terrified,” I said, my voice small. “He was so detached from everything. At any moment, he could have turned on me. He just didn’t care anymore…”
Patrick just held me, let me talk and wiped away my tears as they fell. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “Hey, my parents. You didn’t call them?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t sure if I should,” he replied hesitantly. “It was a judgement call, and I didn’t know what you’d want me to do. Tension isn’t good for your mother, and those hours when you were trapped in my house…” He drew a deep inward breath and resumed. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
I sighed in relief. I wouldn’t have wanted to inflict that on my parents either. “I’m glad,” I replied. “You made the right call. They might not see it that way though.”
“Oh, I’m well aware that they are going to be extremely displeased with m
e,” he said, his voice filled with humour. “You owe me.”
I giggled through the tears, and cupped his ass with my hands. “I’m sure I can find a way to make it up,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure you can as well. Now, what can I do for you? Can I run you a bath?”
That sounded amazing. I pulled back and nodded. “Sit,” he said, as he went into the bathroom, but I didn’t obey, and followed him into the bathroom, flipping the toilet lid down and sitting on it, while he opened the taps and let the bath fill up.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I said, embarrassment tingeing my voice.
His voice softened immediately. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be,” I told him. “It isn’t like either of us has any experience knowing how to deal with this kind of thing.”
My stomach growled right then, loudly, interrupting what I was going to say next. “Well,” he said, “I do know what to do next. Order us some food. Any thoughts on what you want to eat?”
“Indian,” I said promptly. For some reason, Indian food was the only thing I wanted, maybe because I associated it so closely with Patrick.
“Indian it shall be,” he responded, and pulled out his phone and dialed.
“You have Indian food on speed dial?” I teased, and he shot me a look that clearly said Of course.
The bath had filled up, so I turned the water off, and added a generous squirt of bubble bath liquid. A smell of jasmine and sandalwood filled the air, and I took my clothes off and stepped in, hissing in pleasure as the heat of the water almost burned my skin.
“I can add more cold water,” Patrick said, his voice amused, and I shook my head.
“Don’t you dare,” I replied. “Join me?”
My bathtub wasn’t big. Patrick got in, and I was scrunched somewhat awkwardly, my back leaning against his chest, but my knees folded so I would fit. But I didn’t want it any other way. I closed my eyes, and just let the warmth of the water fully permeate me. The steam rose in the air, and I slowly relaxed. Patrick held me close, his arms around my waist, and I rested my head on his shoulders.
Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5) (A BDSM & Medical Play Novella) Page 7
