Command (Changing Roles Book 1) Page 2
I took the card.
Mrs. Westmoreland’s face softened with hope.
Of all the private investigators in the city, why would they choose the one who hated them the most? It didn’t make sense.
The mayor dipped his head. “We have this as well.” He placed a manila envelope on my desk. “It’s a copy of the police report.”
I pulled the file folder out of the envelope and thumbed through it. The initial police report held details of the case. I skimmed it quickly, then found the coroner’s report attached to the back. Their findings told of a horrific tale of torture.
Mrs. Westmoreland dug through her purse. “Those pictures…they’re horrible.”
And indeed they were. An attractive girl was tied to a beam, her body littered with the marks of torture, her face purpled by suffocation.
She thrust a picture at me. “This is my Elizabeth. It’s from a few weeks ago.”
I took the small photo from her shaking hand. A gorgeous young woman stared back at me. A smile softened her face. Dazzling white teeth attested to good genetics or thousands in dental treatments. From Mrs. Westmoreland’s raggedy smile, I assumed they’d paid a fortune on orthodontics. “She was very beautiful.”
“Please,” begged the mayor. “Please consider taking this case. The police could use your expertise.”
Accepting would remind me of everything I’d lost. I would take it, but I needed a moment to think before I did. I rose to my feet, indicating our conversation was finished. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“Thank you.” The mayor reached to shake my hand. “We look forward to hearing from you.” He took his wife’s hand in his and led her out of my office. The door chimed on their way out.
Mitzy had already left. I was alone at two in the afternoon to close up the office. Not the best way to generate new business, but I needed some downtime after meeting with the Westmorelands. And there was always office work to be done.
I glanced at the card Mrs. Westmoreland had given me. The fetish club imprinted on the thick card stock was not one I recognized, but I was certain someone at my old club, Stripes, would be able to get me an introduction. My reputation was solid in the scene, even if I’d walked away from it.
I’d spent these past couple of years convincing myself I no longer needed to fill the emptiness inside, but after the dynamic duo’s visit, that familiar itch returned. The Westmorelands had ripped me from Stripes, and now they’d given me an excuse to return. I suppose everything happened for a reason.
They’d wasted four days. If I wanted half a chance of solving this case, I needed to start investigating immediately. It was time to revive my old persona. The Mistress of Pain would return to Stripes this evening.
I had a few short hours to find the confidence to wear the signature white of my alter ego. Good thing I kept a whip in my bottom desk drawer. It would be perfect for warming up.
I heaved a heavy sigh, wishing for the impossible. I was trapped in a role where I delivered pain instead of receiving it because giving pain was so much safer than the alternative. The last time I’d been on the opposite side of a whip I’d nearly lost my life.
Elizabeth Westmoreland and I had nearly shared similar fates, only I’d survived mine. I had been forced to deal with the aftermath of my trauma, and becoming a Domme had been my version of therapy.
It had worked well for a time.
Men desperate to escape their ordinary lives worshipped under my whip, achieving release through the pain only I could deliver. In return, their tortuous cries allowed enough solace for me to make it through to another sunrise. Everything had worked perfectly until my evening activities had come to the attention of the public eye.
Specifically, to Mrs. Westmoreland’s judgmental eye.
Once a rising star, now I was nothing but a tarnished ex-cop with a ruined reputation, doing my best to survive as a private investigator. All those television shows had lied when they glorified this job. There was nothing easy or glamorous about it. I was drowning. The morass of small-time cases, cheating spouses, domestic squabbles, and the ever-popular background checks threatened to pull me under every day.
Those jobs paid the bills, but the stench of it—oh, the foul reek of slimy filth—saturated my pores. Not that I judged. No, never that. Background checks brought in the dough. But I barely managed to keep my head above water.
Money had been trickling in, but a steady stream of bills made sure it poured right back out.
And that mountain of debt? Didn’t want to think about that. Working as a PI kept the lights on and paid my assistant’s wage, but it would never compare to the pride of a detective badge or the consistent paycheck.
I turned the lock on the outer door and headed back to my office. I stood behind the secondhand government desk, worn and battered like my reputation, and sighed. Its twin drawers were barely hanging on. The bent handles and rusty rails had definitely seen better days.
With a harsh exhalation, I blew back the hair dangling in front of my eyes and gave the lower drawer a hard yank.
It jammed.
I gave another pull, and it screeched its protest, filling my small office with the squeal of metal on metal. I hated that sound. Reminded me of cats screwing in an alley.
If only I were so lucky.
My dry spell hadn’t been broken in years. Then again, sex had always been fraught with complications. Better to leave it to the electric fuck toy nestled in the top drawer of my nightstand. A nonjudgmental, sure-fire path to release, my vibrator could satisfy the few physical needs I endured.
The emotional ones? Well, no tool was perfect.
And men?
Clichéd or not, I could write a book about them.
The only one I’d ever let in had shattered my soul. He’d showed me what I craved, something dark and twisted. I’d willingly gone with him down that path, knowing what I did would be considered depraved by some. He’d stolen my innocence, destroyed my trust, and left me hollow and nearly dead.
That hole in my gut had come from him.
Now I settled for giving that which I could not receive. I soaked in the screams of men, letting their pain fill the emptiness he’d left behind.
Damn if I hadn’t become a legend along the way.
All it had cost me was the career I’d worked so hard to earn.
Yeah, I could write a book on the subject of men. First chapter would be: “Unless They Are Kneeling at Your Feet, Stay the Fuck Away.”
From the drawer I pulled out a stack of unpaid bills and slapped them on the desk. It was time to begin the daily task—a creative shell game of shuffling my dwindling cash reserves and warding off the creditors for another few days. They hadn’t started knocking on my door, but unless I did something soon, they would come.
My gaze brushed over my bullwhip coiled in its restless sleep and nestled beneath the bills.
It was never a good idea to get out of practice. With the implosion of everything I’d once held dear, my practice had become a twice weekly occurrence. Now nearly a week had gone by since I’d brought it out to train.
An itching in my fingers had me reaching for the comfort of the braided handle. My fingers curled around the plaited leather, seeking a longtime friend and finding the worn areas smoothed out by use. I gripped the handle, pulled it out of the drawer, and measured its weight.
I moved around to stand in front of the desk and focused my attention on the far wall. Suspended from the high ceiling, a steel bar dangled on a chain. Hanging from the bar, five red disks waited, urging me to strike.
I’d modified the gun targets for whip practice years ago and had set the contraption up in my office when it became apparent I would have a lot of downtime in my new job. This was nothing like having a man strung up before me, but I used what I had.
Even if I was no longer an active player in the scene, throwing a whip wasn’t a skill one let go. Constant practice was essential to maintaining accuracy.
Satisfied the arc of the whip would be clear, both behind and to the side of me, I rolled my shoulders and tightened my fingers on the grip. Then I relaxed. My body took the stance I needed to focus.
I shook out the bullwhip. The tip rasped on the polished concrete floor, almost like a whisper of promise. That whisper traveled up my spine, shot to my shoulder, and raced down to my wrist.
Intent on the first target, I lifted my arm to the twelve o’clock position, and muscle memory took over. I’d performed this move tens of thousands of times.
The whip flowed. The fall formed the all-important loop, racing outward from the handle until it broke the speed of sound. I hadn’t rushed the crack, hadn’t thrown my muscle into the move. I kept my arm relaxed and my fingers loose and let the momentum of the whip do all the work. All I had done was aim, a feat perfected after years of practice.
Crack! Ping! One red disk spun.
I lifted my arm again.
Crack! Ping! The second twirled, shaking the bar.
Again and again, I did this five times with my right arm. Then I switched arms. It had taken years to learn to throw ambidextrously, but I was equally proficient with either arm. Being able to switch arms helped prevent fatigue during a long scene.
Five with the left.
Five more with the right.
Forward crack.
Overhead, overhand, and the sidearm throw.
I flowed through each with the ease of a Master, my aim flawless. I hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Damn, I love this rhythm. My breath eased out of my lungs, only slightly labored. My muscles warmed with the effort.
This was so much better than paying bills.
Chapter Two
Kate
The rumble of the ’68 Plymouth reverberated deep in my chest. I loved the throaty power of my dad’s Barracuda. He’d given me the classic car along with a lifetime of advice in the last few months of his life.
Keep your life clean, Katherine, like your guns, and you’ll never go wrong.
His words had provided a moral compass grounding every choice I’d ever made. Only my compass had wobbled a bit left of center. It had finally tipped over, and my world fell apart.
I’d tried so hard to follow in his footsteps, but he trod such an impossible path. He’d been a beat cop. When I began my career, I walked the beat too. I chased down the criminals, outthinking them left and right. It hadn’t taken long to get noticed and work my way off the beat to the rank of detective.
Solving crimes became my passion, but I had a personal stake in putting criminals behind bars. Since I had been a victim once, I’d dedicated my life to ensuring other victims achieved the closure and justice they deserved.
I shouldn’t be driving the ’Cuda daily, but I didn’t really have a choice. My truck had been one of the early sacrifices I’d made to keep my beleaguered business afloat. Now dad’s classic took me everywhere. I loved that car and hated that I abused it daily. I kept it as serviceable as I could, but old cars needed tender loving care.
Like the rest of my life, dad’s legacy was slowly falling into disrepair. I’d sell the car before then, but getting rid of dad’s Barracuda meant giving up the last reminder of the man who’d raised me.
I never had anyone else. Just him and me. And now, just me. My father lived to see me make detective and died before I lost that honor. For that one small grace, I was thankful. Not for his death. I missed my father terribly. I don’t think I would’ve survived the loss of his love with the disgrace I’d made of my career.
The throaty rumble vibrated up from the V8 Hemi engine and transmitted to the driver’s seat, jiggling my ass. The throbbing pulsations moved to my body and fired up nerves already frayed with insecurity.
I’d come to Stripes for a purpose. As much as I hated the Westmorelands, they’d lost something precious. I couldn’t ignore the soul-burning pain in Mrs. Westmoreland’s gaze. It almost humanized her in my eyes. Almost.
Now that I’d arrived in front of my old club, I didn’t want to get out of the safety of my car.
Weak-ass piece of shit.
Me, not the car. I didn’t have time to deal with nerves. Tonight was about strength not weakness. Dad raised me to be strong, and strong women didn’t hide in their cars. I flicked off the engine.
If I were being completely honest, I wasn’t here just because of the case. I had come for another, more personal reason. Elizabeth Westmoreland and I shared entirely too much. The only difference between her and me had boiled down to time—moments where I’d survived and she had not.
A restless need had been growing within me over the last few months, punctuated by the Westmorelands’ visit to my office. I’d cut this piece out of my life, letting that nothingness fester and grow. That wobble of my moral compass? I had convinced myself I didn’t need to hurt men, not when the price had been so steep. But sitting here, staring at the understated brick-and-mortar facade of Stripes, I wasn’t so sure.
Becoming the Mistress of Pain used to come so easily. That burning need to climb inside my submissives’ minds, break them apart, and make them whole again had never been a struggle. My pulse accelerated, thinking about soaking in their screams, even if those cries should be mine.
The white outfit and platinum wig I wore were nothing more than a shield, hiding my true desires. But I would never again bow to another. I couldn’t.
Almost dying at the hands of my Master had erased my ability to trust.
The frantic, thumping beat beneath my breastbone signaled an anxiety attack. I pounded my insecurities into submission with a solid rap of my fist to my chest.
Nerves and anticipation. That’s all this trembling in my limbs was. Think it. Believe it. I made it so.
Two fucking years.
God, how had I ever thought I could live without…this?
My gaze shifted from the familiar and comforting interior of my car to the equally familiar, yet imposing, ten-story brick structure at the end of the parking lot.
Years ago, Stripes had been the thriving law firm of Cavendish, Davenport & Stanis. When urban decay crept toward this part of town, the partners had sold out their interests in the law firm to the current owner. He’d converted the building into a fetish club, an exclusive members-only retreat.
I had sunk ten grand for a lifetime membership in a club where I could escape the judgment of people like Catherine Westmoreland. Stripes had become my home, where I embraced my darkest desires, released my inhibitions and, over time, became a legend.
Now I wasn’t so sure. Shunning Stripes and everything it represented might have come at a cost. Necessary at the time: I’d been reevaluating my priorities, resetting that compass. Not to mention I’d lost confidence in everything having to do with this world. The effort required to transform myself into a Mistress to be both feared and revered had disappeared with the implosion of my career.
The press had had a field day with the golden child of the police force, and my reputation was forever stained. Public disgrace had sent me into hiding. And now I found myself outside Stripes, worried about the welcome I would receive.
People could be so fickle. Bible-thumpers and the fetish crowd were equally guilty of judging when they shouldn’t.
Now, faced with returning to the club that had cost me my career, my passion faltered. My needs and wants were tangled in knots so complex I couldn’t find the ends, let alone unravel them. I couldn’t deny I belonged here, yet I struggled to o
pen the car door.
At least my outfit still fit. I opened the door and exited. I stretched, letting the cool evening air seep through my clothes. In reality, I was stalling. The leather hugged me like a second skin, moved with every twist of my body. The platinum wig crowning my head fell in lustrous and silky waves down my back, tumbling below my waist. Now all I had to do was make it across the parking lot and through the front door without tripping over my heels or letting any uneasiness slither through all this imposing white leather. Accomplish that feat, and I was back in business.
In my hand, the thick card stock Mrs. Westmoreland had given me rasped against my skin. The golden imprint of the Edge flashed in the streetlamps. The fine script had invaded my thoughts all day. Stripes was my go-to club, but I’d made the rounds and knew every club within a hundred-mile radius. Never heard of this particular club. I’d even resorted to an Internet search, which netted me a big, fat nothing. That had eventually led me to slipping on the white leather, turning the key to the ’Cuda, and easing the old car down to sit in Stripes’ parking lot, while I gathered my courage.
Mrs. Westmoreland’s desperate pleas were forcing me to action. The clock ticked.
Too much time had already slipped by. If only the Westmorelands had come to me first. If only they hadn’t waited for the initial coroner’s report. If only I’d still been a detective and been assigned the case when it first came in.
Too many fucking ifs. I might have already solved the case if I’d still been a cop. Now? I shook my head. But, here I was, doing what I did best, following the only lead I had.
There was a selfish reason to take this case, and already I wasn’t 100 percent focused on work. Hell, I wasn’t even 10 percent focused on work. My mind spiraled to images of men strung out before me, their heads tossed back in agony, their tortured mouths stretched with wretched screams.
My pulse picked up, as did my pace.
Images of Elizabeth’s lifeless body strung up on that beam flashed in my mind. My step faltered. The precursor of a flashback hit me, the anxiety from before slamming into my gut, twisting it, and accelerating my pulse. Not now. I didn’t have time for this.