Walk For Me Copyright © 2021 Kay Elle Parker
Published by Kay Elle Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published by Kay Elle Parker on September 23rd 2021
Editor: Chasity Mahala
Cover Design © Designrans
Formatting by Affordable Formatting
This book is intended for a mature audience only.
TRIGGER WARNINGS
Please note that this book contains some topics which readers may find distressing.
I, as the author, do not condone the actions of my villainous characters, and readers should take into account that this is a work of fiction.
Dedication
This year and last have been incredibly difficult for everyone, whether you’ve lost family members, friends, jobs, or your sense of self through the effects of the pandemic.
I, myself, have lost both family and friends this year.
There are no magic words of comfort, no mystical balm to ease your pain, but if you’re reading this, then I hope you know that you are not alone.
As a reader, you are part of the biggest family in the world, one where doors are always open, messenger is a godsend, and no one has to feel as though there’s no one to turn to.
My group is always open. My messenger is there for everyone.
I, and so many other authors, are always here for you.
Never be afraid to reach out.
Kay xx
Walk For Me
Chapter One
Sitting in his truck outside the Handicapable Rehabilitation facility, Atticus Heisler stared at the building with vaguely disguised disgust. He’d seen the brochures, studied them, and from what he could tell, the reality of the place was a whole different story to what they claimed in those glossy pages.
The advertisements painted pictures of sunny rooms, quality food, and excellently trained staff to aid with the recovery and rehabilitation of their injured and disabled patients.
From what he could see, there were fucking bars on the windows.
It had been the middle of May when the strings holding Connie to Alicia McGee—little sister to Boadicea—had finally been cut. The Mistress had held on for so long, putting her own physical and mental health at risk to keep a promise she had no way of fulfilling—and not through any fault of her own.
Alicia was complicated, a mess created by her parents. Withdrawn, antisocial, depressed, she had been throwing out suicide warnings for weeks.
All Connie’s tricks of the trade as both a Domme and a psychologist hadn’t made a dent in Alicia’s attitude, and Atticus knew his friend had damn near killed herself trying to make the girl’s life better.
Cutting the strings had hurt them both, but Connie at least was slowly returning to her former self. Now she had Thane to both dominate her and submit to her, she could begin her own healing process in a way she’d been unable to manage with Lisha under her roof, dragging her down into the same pit of depression.
Atticus rubbed his chin and stared at the ramp leading to the wide front doors. This place was setting his internal alarms into high alert, unsurprisingly, considering it looked nothing like what he’d received in the reports he’d requested specifically to keep Alicia safe.
Heads would roll for inadequacy, once he tracked down the investigator responsible.
Att still believed Braun and Bodie should have looked at other options before shipping the poor girl here, even for a short time, but he couldn’t deny the media package had been appealing. Appealing enough, he thought darkly, for Alicia to be persuaded to come here without too much of a fight—but he believed part of that fell on her desire to unburden Connie.
If his timeline wasn’t messed up—which happened occasionally when work got so busy, and he was inundated with mission after mission— Alicia had been here for ten weeks, and if his sources were correct, she’d done nothing but lie and lie again to Connie and Thane when they called her.
She’d spun webs of the damn things to keep anyone from visiting her.
So, Atticus was prepared to take matters into his own hands.
Braun and Bodie were in no position to take care of the wheelchair-bound girl—teetering well over the halfway point of a very fragile, very difficult pregnancy, Bodie wasn’t allowed to be put under any stress, for fear her body would abort the baby. Despite a heavy regime of drugs and weeks of bedrest, while there was an improvement in the stability of the pregnancy, the doctors refused to give the couple any reassurances they would bring a live baby to full term.
Connie wasn’t an option for guardianship—even if she wanted to take Alicia back under her wing, Thane would put his foot down as her Dom and dissuade her from the idea. There was too much going on in the Mistress’ life for her to have to come home and start all over again with a live-in patient. Her case files were numerous, she had an active and complicated sex life with Thane, and her own mental health was floundering beneath the strain.
Loki, Saul, and Liam were an absolute no. All good men, they just didn’t have the experience required to take care of a girl—okay, he should really stop calling her that—with Alicia’s mental and physical issues. Well, maybe Saul would qualify, but Atticus didn’t know him thoroughly enough to let Lisha live with him.
Jasper would scare the bejesus out of Alicia, with or without his kitten, Anarchy, to soften his sadistic aura. The guy was soft as butter in most respects, but when his mood shifted, he was an intimidating fucker.
That left only two options, and one of them Atticus refused to entertain. No way in hell was he letting that sweet girl—shit, young woman—spend the rest of her life cooped up in a building that resembled a set from an early 1990s prison movie, with incapable staff and goddamn bars on the windows.
He scowled when his phone buzzed insistently in the little spot under the radio. The dashboard screen lit up, announcing Christophe as the caller. He jabbed his finger on one of the buttons rimming the steering wheel. “Do you not understand the meaning of personal day, Christophe?”
“Sure I do, boss, and I can’t apologize enough, but…”
“But?” Atticus growled. Oh, how he hated that word sometimes.
“The Russian butterfly collector you wanted me to meet with regarding the proposed breeding program for the Sinai Blue Baton collapsed and died twenty minutes ago on the sidewalk.” Christophe kept his voice low, using their code words for mob boss, weapons trafficking, and assassination. His tone suggested he wasn’t alone. “I’m afraid he and I did not get an opportunity to discuss any of the proposal before his passing.”
I do not need this on top of everything else today. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Atticus breathed deep. A small faction of the Russian mob was trying to set up camp in Phoenix, with the goal of establishing a base for drugs and weapons trafficking into Mexico. The dead guy was the head of that
mission, and with his death, Atticus hoped it might end the Russians’ aspirations.
Probably not, but he could hope. “Let his family grieve. If they want to revive discussions once the mourning period is over, we can certainly be open to that.” That was code for, Let’s see who takes the asshole’s place. If they try it again, we will finish it. “Any idea what caused such a sudden death?”
“Apparently, it’s a genetic condition passed down through the family. Something to do with the heart,” Christophe replied with a sad sigh. “I believe one of his cousins passed away in a similar fashion only a few weeks ago.”
Poison, Atticus translated, his eyebrow lifting in surprise. Traditionally, poison was a woman’s method of killing, keeping blood and suspicion off her hands. If one of Ivanov’s men had been murdered in the same way, Atticus suspected the culprit was probably hiding low in the Russian faction. “That’s such a shame. Please keep me apprised on anything you learn. I’d like to attend the funeral if the family will allow it.”
“Of course, boss. Sorry to interrupt your day off.” Christophe ended the call.
God, just what he needed. Granted, Ivanov’s death might make Atticus’ life easier for a short while, but until the next mafia boss was chosen and settled into position, he wouldn’t be able to relax.
Att checked his watch and noted he had another hour to wait for the facility to officially open for visiting hours. His truck was the only one parked in the visitor’s section of the lot, and he was interested to see if anyone else showed up.
Alicia didn’t know he was coming. He imagined she wouldn’t be thrilled to see him, just as she was equally unexcited about seeing anyone. She’d buried herself so deep in the mire, not even the prospect of visiting Connie could draw her out.
He’d left his business running itself for the day because it was time to liberate Alicia from this hellhole and get her living again. Maybe even for the first time. She was ten when the accident happened, leaving her reliant on the wheelchair and full-time care. Her parents had treated her like shit, and although he hadn’t been able to source a reliable account of her time within that house, there were plenty of reasons to believe she’d been abused in every way imaginable by them—up until the night she shot them both.
He couldn’t blame her. Hell, he’d have done more than shoot them after what they did to Bodie that same night. Petty little gang leaders, high on their own importance and riding on their arrogance.
Deciding he wasn’t hanging around for another hour, Atticus shoved out of his truck and slammed the door, stomping across the asphalt toward the dismal building. His boots made short work of the ramp, and he was surprised to find the front doors locked up tight when he grasped the handle and yanked.
The intercom to the side crackled. “Visiting hours begin at fourteen-hundred hours.”
He narrowed his gaze at the obviously female voice drifting from the unit, then bared his teeth in a feral smile. What kind of rehab facility utilized military time? Reaching for his wallet, he kept one eye on the door while he plucked his Heisler Security I.D. free and flashed it at the security camera hidden inside the dark gray box. “Atticus Heisler, Heisler Security. I was asked to inspect the premises with a view to upgrading your current system.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have you on my approved list, Mr. Heisler. Can I ask who you spoke to regarding this meeting?”
Atticus ground his teeth together, feigning annoyance. “Someone from your facility called my office and asked me to come assess this place. If I’m wasting my time right now, you can find someone else to mess around with, and you’ll be hearing from my attorneys.” He almost winced, thinking he’d pushed his luck a little too far, but he heard the snicks of the doors unlocking.
“Please come inside, Mr. Heisler. Someone will be along to escort you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted smoothly, yanking open the door before the controller could change her mind about giving him access. “I prefer to conduct assessments by myself, without influence from inside parties. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave.”
The intercom crackled again, and he swore he could feel the animosity radiating from whoever spent their days manning an intercom and a set of doors. He strode inside, letting the door swing closed, and found himself in a small musty-smelling hallway that branched out in three different directions.
The carpets were beige, the walls were a dingy cream color, and there was nothing fucking sunny about it. A sign on the wall to his left told him the office was to his right, the elevators were straight ahead, and rooms one to twenty-five were down the corridor just past the sign itself.
Yeah, this really wasn’t what he was expecting, and he doubted Braun would have sent his sub’s sister here if he’d taken the goddamn time to check it out.
His own checks had come back clean, Atticus admitted grudgingly, with very few complaints on file, and the facility’s quarterly and annual reports from the relevant state inspectors hadn’t highlighted anything hinky. Someone should have yanked the director’s chain over the false advertising in the brochure, so what else had been overlooked?
Returning his I.D. to his wallet, Att sauntered off toward the elevators. His target location was floor three, room twenty-six. He paid attention to the cameras in the corners of the hallway, identified them as sub-standard and easily jammed if needed. Hell, the ten-dollar jammer he’d built from spare parts would fry this piss-poor security system.
Despite his rude entrance, no one had come to intercept him yet. He saw no signs of security guards, which came as a surprise. The facility might work on a voluntary intake process, but Att’s research indicated that not all the guests under this roof were here of their own volition—some families dumped their relatives here like dogs in the pound.
Which meant escapees.
He cocked his head as he stepped up to the dull metal elevator and jabbed the button with his thumb. Cables rattled and screeched ominously as he gave the contraption the evil eye, wondering if he was about to test fate by stepping foot in what sounded like a death trap. When the door juddered open, he braced himself and took the damn step.
It smelled like urine.
Clearing his throat, Atticus tried his best not to breathe in the thick scent of ammonia mixed with cleaning fluids—lemon, he thought, and a hell of a lot of bleach—as he almost punched the flickering button for the third floor.
This was no place for Alicia. He didn’t give a fuck if it had therapists at hand, boasted the country’s top social interaction programs or whatever the fuck it chose to lie about. Now he was seeing the accommodations firsthand, there was no one capable of preventing him from taking her out of here.
His stomach shuddered as the elevator wrenched upward with a loud groan. The goddamn floor was vibrating under his feet as the second floor crawled past, and he got the hell out as soon as the door opened again.
Kissing the floor in gratitude crossed his mind until his boots squelched in something that tried to glue his feet to the horrible gray carpet. Grimacing, he peeled his soles off the substance and stalked down the hallway, noting all the closed doors and the eerie silence.
His instincts crawled like ants, telling him something was off.
As he approached the corner, he heard the quick rattle of wheels rumbling toward him. Ready for a confrontation, he frowned when the noise stopped. Spine straight, acting as though he belonged there, he rounded the corner and kept walking, his eyes scanning the numbers on the plain doors.
He passed a rolling trolley laden with flat trays of food that looked as though they’d been rehydrated six times before serving, and noted the orderly inside the room was pretty much tossing a meal tray at a man in a ratty armchair.
Once Lisha was well out of the way, Atticus decided he’d make it his mission to have the facility investigated and brought to heel. He knew people in high standing, higher than anyone the director of this hellhole could bribe to get past the state inspe
ctions.
People didn’t deserve to be treated so deplorably.
Atticus stomped down the hallway, ignoring the row of grimy windows looking out over the parking lot, and found room 326. With a brief, sharp knock, he pushed into the room and closed the door at his back, struggling to hold onto his temper.
A single bed, a set of drawers, and a commode were the only pieces of furniture in a room with walls painted a murky shade of pink. The paint had flaked off in places, fluttering to the faded matching carpet. Dusty pale pink curtains were half-drawn, keeping out most of the natural light, and a meal tray was resting haphazardly on the top of the drawers.
Lisha stretched out on the bed, almost like an illusion. She’d lost weight since the last time he’d seen her, and Att cursed himself for allowing her to keep her friends away with just a phone call. They should have been here, every week, ensuring this didn’t happen.
Her T-shirt was stained, her jogging pants wet with what he could only assume was urine.
Noting the slow rise and fall of her chest, Atticus wondered if she was asleep. How, he didn’t know. The odor in the room was beginning to burn his eyes, and his fists hurt with the effort to keep from slamming them into one of the pitifully thin walls.
Her wheelchair was in the far corner of the small room, a good ten feet from the bed. There was no way in hell a woman in her condition would be able to reach it. It angered him further, the sight of everything Connie, Bodie, and the Avalon Masters had sent to Alicia—books, CDs, photos, her cell phone—thrown carelessly into the corner behind the chair.
What infuriated him was the thought she was held prisoner on that goddamn bed. She couldn’t even reach the fucking tray of food.
Oh, he was going to rain hell down on Handicapable Rehabilitation, he thought with a snarl. He was going to take them apart, dismantle the whole operation, and see that the people in charge were kept in cages just like this for as long as the law permitted.
Walk For Me: Club Avalon Book 4 Page 1
