After their food orders were taken and a pitcher of beer had been poured into four glasses, the idle chit-chat between them moved onto things they hadn’t been able to discuss at the club. Sheila filled Logan in with her background—she was a lifestyle switch and had been with the Tampa PD for six years, the last two in the Special Ops Division. She glanced at the woman sitting across from her. “I’m glad to have another chick added to the squad. We need someone else who can pull off spandex tights and dress like a prostitute for the perverted ‘john’ stings.”
Dakota laughed and shook her head. “I’m not on the squad yet. I’m still considered to be on loan from patrol. But from your mouth to the captain’s ear . . .” She lifted her glass in a toast before taking a sip.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, girl. From what I’ve heard, you’re the only one Captain Bowman has already approved to take one of the two opening positions; he’s just waiting for the higher ups to sign off on transfers into the unit—damn politicians and the budget are holding things up. And if it wasn’t for that asshole, Fallon, cock blocking you all the time, you would’ve been on before I was. I know it’s no consolation, but be grateful you didn’t have to work under him. We celebrated, without him, when he retired.”
Logan had no idea who the women were talking about, other than the fact they were obviously the former and current supervisors of the Special Ops Division. He wondered what Sheila had meant about Fallon “cock blocking” Dakota’s transfer, but didn’t want to come out and ask. “So, tell us what the stake-out gigs have been like. Since from what we’re told, KK is a Dom, what are we looking for?”
“KK?” Dakota snickered with an amused expression. “Okay, I guess that’s better than saying that stupid moniker outright. Damn press.” She got serious again. “Yes, the FBI behavioral analyst thinks he’s a practicing Dom, which makes our jobs that much more difficult. If you’ve been in the lifestyle for a good amount of time, it’s easy to spot the newbies or wanna-bes, unless a person is skilled in undercover work. Most people find it hard not to stare in a “holy shit” way when seeing certain things in a club for the first time. Also, eye contact or lack thereof is always an easy tell. Like DeAngelis said earlier, Dom’s will never look away when they are speaking to subs unless there’s a reason. Subs should keep their eyes downcast until the Dom orders them to look up, and then their eyes should be directed at the Dom. Looking away, while conversing one-on-one, is frowned upon, and that’s usually an easy way to spot a new sub. When they’re nervous, they’ll look at everything and everyone but the Dom. This bastard has probably been able to pick out quite a few of the UC teams. He’s probably known to the less exclusive clubs and maybe one or two of the more private ones. What the task force hasn’t been able to figure out is where the hell he’s keeping them while he’s torturing them. According to the ME, he’s letting them scream to the point they’re popping blood vessels in their throats.”
“Shit.”
Logan agreed with Morrison. As former military, in this day and age, they’d both been exposed to the horrors of war and torture, Logan especially, but knowing what those poor women went through was a kick in the gut.
The two police officers filled their new partners in on the rest of the details from the case that they hadn’t had time to review and it wasn’t long before their dinners were served and the conversation turned again at the waitress’s presence. “So, Logan,” Sheila said, “Kip told me he’s a retired Army Ranger and LAPD sniper. Before TPD, I did two tours in ‘Stan with the Army too. Where were you before Trident? You’ve got that military walk and talk.”
He wasn’t about to tell them where he was right before Trident, which was in a depressive pit, but he could tell them enough to satisfy their curiosity. Dakota was staring at him intently, clearly interested in whatever he was about to say. “Only branch that matters,” he boasted. “The Marine Corps.”
The two Army grunts scoffed at him and Morrison shook his head, “Yeah, Cowboy was a high-priced bellhop.”
Clearly confused, Dakota repeated, “High-priced bellhop? What does that mean?”
Sheila snickered. “I’m sure you’ve seen the Marines dress uniforms—they look like bellhops in them.”
“Oh, jeez. I never thought about it that way, but I think you’re right.” The corners of her mouth ticked upward. “So, Cowboy, got any pictures of you looking like a bellhop?”
Even though he liked how she felt comfortable enough to tease him, he wasn’t letting her get away with it. He was starting to understand why Ian, Marco, and the others always said they liked when their wives and girlfriends were bratty, because it gave them a reason to spank their asses. Right now, Logan’s hand itched to pull Dakota across his lap and spank her before fucking her silly until she screamed his name in ecstasy. Of course, that was out of the question in the middle of Donovan’s, and she’d probably either rip his balls off or shoot him if he tried. “Watch it, subbie,” he said with a smirk, satisfied when her eyebrows shot up. “Or I’ll tell Marco you volunteered for the spanking demonstration tomorrow. Of course, as your partner, it would be me lighting up your ass.”
While she glared at him, Skipper and Sheila roared with laughter. Logan arched his brow at Dakota, daring her to challenge him. The tightening of her jaw told him he was going to pay for his words at some point in the next few days, and damn it, he was actually looking forward to it. She turned him on in a way no other woman had in years—if ever, and he began thinking of all the ways he could try to wind up in her bed after the case was over. Or maybe before then.
The stench of blood filled his nostrils, flaring his need to inflict more pain, but alas, his latest piece of art was no longer breathing. A disappointment, Lily Stokes hadn’t lasted long at all, and the Dom didn’t think she deserved to be listed among his masterpieces. She was only partially completed. Without her screams of pain, his desire to finish what he’d started began to wane.
Taking a step back, he eyed her naked body, still being held to the St. Andrew’s cross by the wrist and ankle restraints. He hadn’t even had a chance to turn her around and decorate the front of her. Only her back, ass, arms, and legs were deep red with his mark—slashes from each strike of his bull whip. Blood ran down her skin to the floor beneath her, while more was sprayed on the walls, ceilings, and the Dom himself. Dressed as he usually was when he was working on a new masterpiece, he wore only his leather pants and boots. His sculpted arms had bulged each time he sent the whip sailing through the air, and sweat coated his skin, mixing with the submissive’s lifeblood.
He thought he’d chosen well, but for some reason her heart had given out too soon. Should he continue and see if he could salvage what was left of her. Running the leather through his closed hand, he contemplated her skin. There was still some room on the backs of her lower legs. Raising his arm, he reached back and then let the whip fly forward. A flick of his wrist at the last moment produced a satisfying crack, but that was the only sound he heard. No scream. No moan. It was useless. Even his cock was softening and it always stayed hard until he was done with his creation.
Frowning, he set the whip down on the bed she’d been tied to, and undid the restraints holding her up. She dropped like a sack of potatoes. Anger rose within him as he stared at her unblemished chest and abdomen. Rearing back, he kicked the bitch in the ribs several times, but even that didn’t satisfy his lust. No, she didn’t deserve to be one of his masterpieces at all. After the sun went down, he’d load her body into his small boat and dump it in the Gulf of Mexico, just like he’d done to his first two victims. Back then, he hadn’t known how much he wanted the world to see his art, and up until now, they’d been the only ones who wouldn’t be on his list of confirmed kills until he departed this world and they found the diaries and photo albums he was leaving to ensure his rightful place in history.
As he began to clean up and wrap the dead bitch up in a tarp, his mind shuffled through the other submissives who’d caught his
eye recently. Which would be the one who’d redeem him? Two came to mind—Georgia Branneth from The Covenant and that hot little cop, Dakota Smith. He was certain that wasn’t the latter’s real last name, but it was the only one he’d heard so far. Making a female cop one of his masterpieces was a risk, but damn, she looked like she’d fight to the finish. He’d have to think about it, but first, he had to get rid of the wasted flesh that had sullied his track record. Then he’d plan who would be next.
C
HAPTER 13
Logan paced back and forth, his nerves on edge, and tried not to bolt from the club. “Man up, Cowboy. You can do this,” he said aloud, thankful no one else was around to hear him talking to himself. “Just fucking chill.”
The big, wooden, lobby doors swung open and in walked Charlotte Roth and Roxanne London—Mistresses China and Roxy. He’d been meeting them for the past week at oh-six-hundred hours, before either of them had to be at their respective offices. After talking things over again with Trudy, he’d decided to give the desensitization therapy a try, and she’d gone over everything with both women, as had Donovan.
Their first session had been a bit of a surprise for Logan—although he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Trudy had told him they weren’t going to jump right into whipping him, but he hadn’t anticipated what they’d had him do to feel more in control of the situation. Charlotte and Roxy had set up three of the club’s leather, winged-back chairs into a “U” arrangement with Logan sitting between them. A small, empty side table had sat across from him. For the first half hour, they’d joked with him, listened as he told them what he could about his ordeal, and gave him word and image associations so he had something else to think about instead of a damn whip. Then, he’d been instructed to close his eyes and find “a happy place.” Yeah, they’d actually used those words, making him chuckle. He’d heard someone moving around as he thought of being with Dakota on a deserted island somewhere. He hadn’t intended for her to be in his happy place; she’d just appeared.
Roxy had asked him to describe what he was feeling, and he told her about the warmth of the sun on his back, the sand between his toes, and the aroma of the suntan lotion Dakota was letting him spread over her body. Well, actually, he’d left that last part out. When he’d opened his eyes again, the table was no longer empty. A black, leather whip had been sitting in the middle of it, coiled like a cobra waiting to strike. As he’d stared at it, he was asked to describe what he saw and what it could be used for other than the obvious. That had made him think. A rope to restrain someone. Tie it to a tree limb and swing like Tarzan. Shibari. That last idea had made him think of Dakota with dozens of single-tail whips wrapped around her naked body, bound for his pleasure . . . and hers. Yeah, he’d liked that image the best.
The next thing they’d had him do, after Charlotte had picked up the whip’s handle, letting the rest of the braided leather fall to the ground, had been to wrap his hand around hers, then direct their combined hands to run the leather up and down his arms and legs, and in between his fingers. Every few moments, the Domme had pulled her hand out a little further from under his until she was no longer holding the whip . . . it had been in Logan’s hand alone. Once he’d felt comfortable holding it, Roxy had held up her cell phone. “I have a recording of a whip cracking. You’ll hear nothing else.”
The first crack had caused the blood to drain from his face and bile had risen in his throat as he’d flinched. The recording was immediately turned off, and he’d been instructed to go to his happy place. The method to their madness was to give him something pleasurable to think about instead of the horror he’d gone through. He was learning to associate the loud crack with Dakota’s beautiful body, instead of his buddies’ tortured ones. Each session had been run the same way, and he’d nearly jumped out of his skin when the recording began, having a few moments of panic and hyperventilation, but the two Dommes knew their business. They’d monitored his reactions and turned off the recording until he settled again.
The third day, Charlotte hadn’t been able to make the session, after being called by the police about one of her parolees they were looking to rearrest on new charges, so it had just been Logan and Roxy. The doctor had shown him how to wield the whip, which gave him more and more control over the inanimate object and its destructive grip on him and his sanity. In fact, he’d been the only person all week to make the leather crack during the sessions up to that point. Roxy had demonstrated how to flick his wrist to make the leather sing as it arced through the air. At first, he’d only let the last two inches of the whip fly. He’d even flicked it against his arm, feeling the light sting. As the session moved along, he let more and more of the whip sail through the air until he’d finally been holding the handle, letting the entire length snap with only the slightest movement of his wrist.
Today, however, was D-Day, so to speak, and he hoped like hell he didn’t freak out again or puke all over the place. Today, he’d take off his shirt, and while one of the Dommes watched his reactions closely, the other would slash the whip across his back. He’d watched them practice yesterday and knew from his research they never broke the skin. They usually trained using a piece of paper taped to a wall or St. Andrew’s cross, but yesterday, they’d taken it one step further. Before heading to the airport to return to California, Donovan had met them in the early morning hours. He’d removed his shirt, stood face first against the large, centerpiece cross, which had been pushed to the far end of the stage, and reached up, grasping the loops of the cross’s Velcro restraints. While China lit up Donovan’s back with the whip, Logan had sat in a chair, with Roxy at his side, her hand laying on his arm in comfort. She’d spoken to him in that soothing voice most doctors and shrinks seemed to have, keeping him in the present and in Tampa. He’d been amazed at how quickly Donovan had relaxed into the sting of the tail which had left red stripes on his unbroken skin—one would think the muscular, six-foot-five man had been receiving a half-hour back massage instead. When it was over, the petite Domme, who was about a foot shorter than the Dom, had helped him to a chair they’d placed on the stage and given him a bottle of water to rehydrate while she applied Arnica ointment to his back. Instead of screaming in pain, Donovan appeared stoned for a bit until he’d recovered from what Logan had been told was subspace—basically the guy had been high on the endorphins swimming through his system.
“You sure you’re ready for this, Cowboy?” Charlotte had loved his call-sign and used it more often than his real name.
“I hope so.” There was no mistaking the nervousness in his voice.
The auburn-haired Roxy stopped in front of him, her expression soft with understanding. “We don’t have to do it today. You can practice the whip some more if you’re not ready to experience it.”
“And waste a sleepless night trying to psych myself up for it? Nope, let’s get this over with so I can eat something without throwing up.”
The women laughed at his words even though they knew he was only half joking. Logan followed them down the wide staircase to the pit and over to the stage. He lifted the chair Donovan had sat in the day before back up onto the raised platform as the two Dommes put down their purses and prepared everything else.
He’d been doing tons of research on the BDSM lifestyle since being assigned to the case—some of it on the computer, but a lot of it had been during the long stakeout shifts he’d been working with Dakota. And, damn, just the thought of her had his dick stirring again . . . not something he’d expect to happen moments before he’d be getting whipped, but the female cop did something for him he couldn’t explain. As much as he wanted her in his bed, he’d enjoyed getting to know her on a professional and personal level. The latter wasn’t as personal as he hoped, but she’d opened up to him about her background and family a little bit after he’d offered some of his own history, sans his last tour in the sandbox. Next week, things would change between them again as they entered Heat together as a D/s couple—there would be
intimate touching going on between them.
As Roxy and Charlotte climbed the two steps to the stage, Logan’s heart began to pound and he began to sweat, even though the temperature in the club was at a comfortable level . . . cool, even. The two women had agreed Charlotte would man the whip while Roxy would observe his responses. He knew all he had to do was shout the word “red” and they’d immediately stop the scene and begin aftercare, but his legs still shook.
“Cowboy.” He turned toward Charlotte when she said his call-sign in a tender, yet firm voice. “What you’re feeling is normal . . .”
Damn, I must have wimp written across my forehead.
“. . . and it doesn’t mean you’re a wimp or anything. Far from it.”
What the fuck? She can read my mind?
“Go to your happy place and start singing ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer,’ either out loud or in your head. Channel Clutch and the others. They’re double-dog-daring you to do this, and you’ll be damned if you lose a bet to them.”
During their earlier sessions, he’d told them about his teammates, but not about how they’d been murdered. No. Instead, he’d told them what a great bunch of guys his friends had been, all the practical jokes they played on each other, and the mudslinging that always happened when they were busting each other’s chops over one thing or another. He’d also mentioned how he’d sung that ridiculous song to screw with his captors.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded at the dark-haired woman, then did as she’d suggested. He didn’t want to subject them to his horrible singing voice, so instead he counted down those beer bottles in his head while sitting on the beach with Dakota. At least in his mind, she enjoyed his singing. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.
A Dead Man's Pulse: Trident Security Omega Team Book 1 Page 12
