by Roxy Harte
If I close my eyes I can smell the salt mingled with fir in the air, the musky sweetness of the olive trees surrounding the stone house I was raised in. If I listen closely, I can hear Grandfather’s voice: Take good care of your brother, Nikos, and Ari will take care of you. Protect him. All of your days. Don’t forget.
I took his place, protecting him, because Ari would have never survived King Cobra. That isn’t to say that Ari isn’t a dangerous motherfucker, it just means that he isn’t a sociopath. He still cares. He loves. He has hopes and dreams and ideals I can’t even fathom.
I not only survived King Cobra, I succeeded him.
What in the hell happened?
My tower was impenetrable. Whoever came after me didn’t kill me.
At first, I thought whoever shot me, whoever shot my men, was a puissant amateur, but no, my men were left alive for a reason. I was left alive for a reason. Why?
I close my eyes but it is not Greece I am transported to.
“Daniel? What the fuck happened to you, man?” Sean Paul, my beautiful, dark, sometimes-lover caught me as I fell. I’d lived in Paris then, and in all of Paris, he was the only soul I trusted. Cobra happened. That isn’t what I say. “Hold me for a while?”
He stripped us both and laid me down on his bed, but he didn’t fuck me. He held me while I cried. Sobbed. Retched. I could still see their faces, a dozen women, barely old enough to even be called women. Girls. Their eyes so trusting. I’d killed them. All of them. Oh. God. I’d crossed a line. I could never go back to normal. And I’d done it for the sake of Ari. I thought about what would happen if Ari saw me in the condition I was in. If he ever learned what I’d had to do in order to convince King Cobra of my loyalty. I heard my grandfather’s voice that day as I lay in Sean Paul’s arms sobbing. “Take good care of your brother, Aristotle, and Nikos will take care of you. All of your days. Don’t forget.”
I couldn’t let him.
We are twins, identical even to the pain we feel when the other is hurting. He would feel my pain, he would know that something was horribly wrong, and he would come for me. I’d prevented him from taking the assignment because I knew King Cobra would destroy him. I couldn’t fail him now.
Sitting up in Sean Paul’s bed, I made several rapid decisions. First, I’d have to deaden the pain. Emotional. Physical. With a storeroom of every narcotic known to man at my disposal, I decided that shouldn’t be too hard. Second, no one would ever mistake me for Ari or Ari for me again.
Turning to Sean Paul, I said, “I need you to help me do something.”
A hundred hours of tattooing later, I looked nothing like my brother.
Now, I pray to God that Ari remembers the words of our grandfather. “Take care of me for a while.”
“You’re safe, Nikos. Just rest.”
I open my eyes to see Aristotle. He looks haggard. Pale. “You look like shit.”
“You have no room to talk, brother.”
I chuckle but pain slices through my middle. I suddenly realize I’m lying in a hospital bed. “The chains?”
Aristotle gives me a questioning look.
“You’ve got to get me out of here. I’m being held prisoner—” I realize I sound like a lunatic. I look at my hands and wrists. There is no evidence that I was manacled. I’m in a hospital bed, surrounded by blinking monitors. I must have been dreaming. “I hurt, give me something for the pain.”
“Not a chance. Rest.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Seven days.”
“Jesus.” I try to sit up but straps hold me to the bed. I struggle uselessly.
“You are restrained to keep you from hurting yourself. Once we are certain you are lucid, the restraints will be removed. We’re weaning you off the anesthesia, but you need to sleep.”
I relax, knowing that fighting the straps won’t prove I’m coherent.
When I awake again it is hours later. Maybe days later for all I know. I’m confused but lucid, lucid because I recognize the fact that I’m in agony.
Restraints no longer hold me down, but I lie flat on my back. If I try to sit upright tight jabs of pain stab through my middle and ricochet off my spine. There is little I can do but focus on remembering to breathe as it all comes back to me—waking in Shanghai as bullets pierced my body and making it to the United States. I’m still alive, that surprises me. The brightly lit room makes me feel like I’m in a hospital but there is just enough not right that I realize immediately I am not.
I remember my brother grabbing me as I fell.
He would not turn me over to any other than one who would keep me safe.
After a moment of deep focused breathing, I manage to sit up, forcing my way through the agony, recognizing the pain now as tight stitches, holding closed my wounds. I’m weak, but my body is healing. God, how long have I been out? I pull at a piece of gauze to see the damage, hoping to know by looking if it has been hours or days.
“Ten days.”
I jerk, having not realized a man was in the room with us. I don’t recognize him but then I wouldn’t, would I? One of my brother’s confidants I can only hope.
“I kept you sedated because I didn’t think you would survive both your wounds and detox, but you are alive and on the mend. My name is George Kirkpatrick, though your brother usually just calls me Doctor Psycho.”
“Where is—” Damn, I don’t know what name he is using with this man. Should I assume Thomas? That is the name I used to find him, but… “—my brother?”
“Sleeping. Finally. He has gone too many days without rest. It seemed as good a time as any to bring you around. See how you’re doing in the department upstairs.”
“The department?” I am confused until he taps his own head. “I see. You want to know if I’m insane.”
“There is no doubt in my mind you have an antisocial personality disorder. You would not have been able to do your job if you didn’t.”
He knows what I’ve done? He knows that I am an agent? “Who are you? What hospital am I being held in?”
“I am your brother’s friend, and you aren’t in a hospital. You’re in my home.”
My brother has some peculiar friends.
“Your brother has asked me to determine if you will be able to function in normal society within the constraints of urban civilization.”
“Meaning can I control myself when someone cuts me off in traffic, or will I kill them?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” He chuckles and my blood goes cold. Few men have the power to intimidate me. This man, my brother’s friend, terrifies me. “Now, let’s get you out of this bed, get you up and moving.”
I push up, intending to launch myself out of the bed and almost pass out from the wave of dizziness.
He catches my elbow and steadies me. “Easy.”
God, I’m weak as a foal.
He helps me swing my legs over the bed and stand. Pain shoots through my middle to race up my spine and down my legs, and I release a line of expletives a mile long.
“That make you feel better?”
“No!”
“All right then. Let’s try walking.”
“God damn.” I take a step forward. “Holy mother of God.” I take another step.
The doctor laughs. “Nothing like pain to set a man to praying.”
I don’t see the humor and endeavor to grit my teeth through the rest of it. As he leads me out of the small room equipped with enough medical equipment to make me believe I was in a state-of-the-art hospital, I see it isn’t his only specialty room. We stroll past a door with a small window, a quick peek inside revealing a rubber room. We keep walking and we are transported back in time as we enter a stone walled dungeon from the Medieval Ages. There is a wooden rack, an iron maiden, a spiked metal and wood chair. There is a glass case I linger over, in part because I’m exhausted by the twenty-five paces it took to get me here and in part because I’m fascinated.
On display is a metal
device only describable as a head crusher. I saw one once displayed in a Paris Museum, but have never known anyone to have one in a private collection. The doctor interrupts my thoughts. “Fascinating gadget, that one. With the chin placed over the bottom bar and the head under the upper cap, the torturer could slowly turn the screw pressing the bar toward the cap, resulting in the head being slowly compressed. First the teeth are shattered into the jaw. Of course there would be the obvious agonizing pain, and dependent on the executioner, he could reverse and forward the process as many times as he liked to prologue the agony before his victim died.”
I nod, bending forward to inspect the piece. It is elaborate with metal cups in front. “This is different.”
“To catch the eyeballs as they are squeezed out of the sockets.”
“Ah, of course.” I shift my focus to three perfectly preserved Pear of Anguish. “These are very nice. Originals?”
“Yes. French.”
Pointing at each, I guess, “Vagina, anus, mouth?”
He smiles. “Very good. You’re an aficionado of the ancient art of torture as well?”
“To understand the past is to have better control of the outcome in the present.”
“Indeed.” He smiles and helps me amble deeper into his demented space where he has all manner of modern torture devices. He quips, “And this part of the dungeon is for my own pleasure.”
Delightful.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“Not really. Sadomasochism isn’t really my thing.”
We make a wide turn and he starts me walking back toward the medical room. I can’t say I’m not relieved, partly because I’m exhausted, but partly because the man is terrifying. He sounds truly disappointed when he says, “More’s the pity.”
“Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never opened…My words echo. Thus, in your mind.”
T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Chapter 9
Kitten
Life isn’t back to normal, but we’re following our routines, which is a small comfort. We went to the club last night and although it wasn’t a jam-packed madhouse, it was a much needed distraction from the fact Thomas is still away. As we drive back to the penthouse, dawn is breaking, another morning’s arrival without Thomas. I miss him.
He’s been gone little more than a week but it seems like a lifetime since I’ve seen him. If he was with us, he would be driving. I would be in Garrett’s lap. I might be half-asleep, lulled by the car’s motor and the contentment filling my soul, but I would be touching Garrett. Stroking him. Kissing him. Holding his hand. Why is it that with Thomas not here we can barely look at each other?
Garrett’s hands are almost white knuckled on the steering wheel and I wonder if I caused the tension? It could be anything but I’m betting it’s me. I’ve been sulky all evening, I can’t help it.
I reach out and touch the top of his leg, feeling him tense even more, but I don’t pull my hand away. I tease and stroke his inner thigh, following the crease in his slacks that allows me to also tease the bulge of his trapped balls. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t react positively or negatively to the attention and that is encouragement enough, especially since he didn’t come the last time we were together. I think he believes I didn’t notice, but I did.
I dip my hand lower, cupping his ball sac and squeezing lightly. A moment later he is shifting in his seat and I can follow the length of his erection with my fingers. The silky weave of his pants adds to the sensation, feeling good against my fingertips, it has to feel as good on the receiving end. I break the silence. “I want you, Master.”
“How do you want me?”
“Rough and dirty.” Until I said the words I didn’t even realize I was thinking it. Garrett and I don’t have that kind of relationship. Thomas and I do. I close my eyes, regretful and embarrassed. Wasn’t the failed attempt at a little rough kitty play enough to make me realize he just isn’t into me anymore?
He does a U-turn in the middle of the road, startling me, gravity pushing me hard against the door. He doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t explain. He just drives and I keep my mouth shut.
“Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.”
Anais Nin
Chapter 10
Garrett
There comes a time in every young, new Dominant’s life when he realizes that the person he is isn’t enough to take the game that one step farther and that in order to survive the slightly off-kilter world he has entered into, a new identity must be forged. I experienced that day with Lord Fyre. Thankfully, he was experienced enough to see the change in my eyes and christened me Lord Ice.
We are the same, he and I, though as Dominants, we have distinctly different mastering styles. I know the dark places he mentally and physically takes Kitten to, because I have traveled those paths with him, and thus far I have refused to push her as far as I know she can go. Partly, it is because I cherish her so much I could not bear to lose her should the depth of my inner depravity disgust her. But more, the loss of Tony has given me a greater reverence for life. Kitten is so fragile, mentally, physically, spiritually…
Especially now that I know she is pregnant. Or maybe that is merely the way I see her, and Thomas sees her quite differently.
I know she clings to him tighter every time they dance the wire between safe and sane and whatever lies on that other side, and until I am willing to challenge her in the same ways, he is winning. I know…I shouldn’t see it that way. Our relationships are not a competition.
I want her to meet Lord Ice, the way I can be, the way I want to be with her but for some reason have held back. Now is not the time. Now is specifically the wrong time. She is pregnant after all, the proof of her expanding waistline more evident with each day. If anything happened to her baby because of me, I could never forgive myself…but that said. God. I want her.
She’d been naked in my lap most of the night, eating from my fingers, drinking from my mouth. Her changing body left me crazed, and my blood was already boiling nicely just from running my hands over new curves. Then as we readied to leave, she pulled on some clothes from the staff closet, a tight white oxford shirt and a short plaid skirt. She’s never done schoolgirl for me and doesn’t know how it affects me. I reach over and pop the top button of her shirt, my fingers lingering between cloth and skin a moment before undoing a second button. I like that her breath catches and she goes still, already anticipating. I take my hand away, glancing over to see the opened shirt reveals the slightest peek of bare breast. Her breath is shallow, and she is trembling. Her pleasure has started already with the smallest change in me. I imagine the anticipatory tingle speeding through her veins.
Rough and dirty. Her request would have sent Lewd Larry running, but Lord Ice stretched inside me and yawned…slightly bored, slightly intrigued…and as a result I race across town to the one place I know we can play awhile that might curb her desire for filth. I honestly don’t know that I can be rough and I am not out of control, far from it. If anything I am in supreme control of my every thought, my every action, but I will take her to the edge…
Freddie is the mechanic downtown who services my cars. I’ve done business with him long enough that I know exactly when he arrives for the day. Six a.m. I also know he won’t mind if I “rent” his space for an hour, asking him to disappear, maybe get a cup of coffee to afford me some privacy. I pull into a full-service auto repair garage and drive into one of the open bays. Before I even climb out of my seat, I see he is already elbow deep in an engine. He glances up to see who has entered and smiles when he sees me.
“Garrett Lawrence. It’s been awhile.”
I’m wearing my work clothes, a tux and silk shirt, but have no qualms about reaching out and shaking his grime covered hand. “Freddie Martinez. Still keeping crazy
long hours and refusing to pay anyone to help you?”
He scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I’m a greedy S-O-B.”
“If you worked a crew, you could have five times the business.”
“And ten times the headaches.” He laughs but then seeing Celia in the front seat of my car asks, “So what brings you to my borough?”
“Let me use one of your pits for about an hour?”
He looks behind him at the engine he was working on, sucking his teeth as he contemplates if getting behind schedule is worth my good will. When his gaze collides again with mine, the look is one of greed. So, okay, this one is gonna cost me.
“No blood.”
I laugh at his only concession and pat him on the back. “Go have some breakfast. I’ll take care of your place.”
Without regard for whether Freddie lingered or hurried away, I walk back to the car, stripping out of my jacket and rolling up my sleeves as I go. As I near Kitten’s door, she trembles visibly, and need speeds up my spine. I’ve wanted this too.
I jerk open the door and grab her by her hair, pulling her out, at least until the buckle locks, holding her bound to the seat. She hurries to unlatch it, and as soon as I feel the belt’s tension release I pull harder, dragging her out by her auburn tresses. She stumbles but catches herself. I remember belatedly, she is wearing stilettos. “Lose the shoes before you break an ankle.”
She manages to hop on one foot, pulling off her shoe as I force her forward, my hand still wrapped in her hair. She repeats the action, dropping the second shoe, and is left barefoot. My eyes travel up her bare legs to the edge of her purple and black mini-kilt. She has the longest legs, and I allow my gaze to linger. I push her to the metal ladder that leads into an open pit. “Go.”
She does, I follow her down. The walls are lined aluminum cabinets and some mounted tools, the ground is grime and oil covered. The air is heavy with engine fumes.
Facing her across the pit, I watch her as she stands in the corner, wrapped in her own arms, looking none too impressed. I command, “Take off your clothes.”
