AtHerCommand (6 page)

He flipped through the pages of the journal until a
reference to Mistress Tori caught his eye.

Mistress Tori used
a cat o’ nine tails tonight.
I’ve discovered there’s a very fine line between pain and pleasure. The nerves
stimulated by her whip sent shock waves straight to my cock. Afterward, I
fisted myself as she watched. I loved the way her eyes followed my hand and her
face flushed with excitement. When I came, it was harder and longer than ever
before. What if I can never achieve an orgasm like that with anyone but Tori?

Dalton closed the journal and tossed it on the coffee table.
He didn’t know which made him more uncomfortable—reading his buddy’s private
words or worrying he’d become as addicted to Mistress Bella as Jason had been
to Tori. Shutting his eyes, Dalton scanned the memory of his session with
Bella. Had the humiliation and pain turned him on? Never one for self-delusion,
he admitted some of the discomfort caused by Bella’s toys had produced a
quasi-sexual rush. But it’d been an empty sensation devoid of emotion, like
getting off with a prostitute. No, Dalton couldn’t see developing an addiction
to Bella’s type of kinky stimulation.

Had he enjoyed turning over the dominant role to a woman?
Being brutally honest, Dalton acknowledged that relinquishing control had been
erotic. There were no worries about performance when you weren’t even allowed
to touch your partner in the sexual game. And it
had
been a game, albeit
an intense one. Even in handcuffs, Dalton hadn’t been helpless. At any time, he
could’ve used the safe word and the session would’ve ended. So he’d allowed
Bella to call the shots and that had been arousing.

But the session had been so much more than just arousing.
Sighing, Dalton rubbed the heels of his hands over his tired eyes. If he ruled
out pain, humiliation and lack of control, what the hell had driven that
incredible post-session climax in the shower?
Bella.
For a moment, a
vision of her dancing eyes and mocking smile filled his mind. Despite his
submissive undercover role, he’d felt a challenge from her, a war of wills that
had raced through his blood. The second he’d met her gaze, Dalton had
experienced a sexual déjà vu. It was as if he’d known her intimately before and
she’d finally returned to him.

Snorting with disgust at his sappy thoughts, Dalton glanced
at his watch. Twelve-forty a.m. At loose ends, he gathered up the congealed
remains of his dinner and threw the foul-smelling mess into the garbage can in
the garage. Besides the trash, the two-car garage housed his 1969 Shelby Mustang
and Jason’s Jeep Cherokee. Too restless to go to bed, Dalton grabbed the SUV’s
keys off the counter and his bomber jacket off the peg by the door. A little
night surveillance of the Xecutive Branch sex club was just what he needed.

* * * * *

Dom heaved a heartfelt sigh as the door to S&M Room Five
closed behind her last customer of the night. Tootsie Tom was a harmless foot
fetishist but an evening of dominating him and a parade of other milquetoasts
had been surprisingly exhausting. Her feet in particular were killing her,
unaccustomed as they were to the hot, thigh-high leather boots she’d worn with
Tom’s predilections in mind. Yet the arch pain and toe-pinching were worth it
considering the alternative—Tom’s tongue on her flesh instead of the boot leather.
Dom suppressed a shudder.

She tugged at the hem of her micro-mini leather skirt and
smoothed down her black spandex top. Since puberty, Domino had avoided
form-fitting clothes that showcased a body her first boyfriend had described as
“stacked”. He’d praised her curves as earthy and sensual before they’d made
love but afterwards the jerk had called them “false advertising” when her sex
drive hadn’t lived up to the promise of her figure.

Dom frowned. Eager to be taken seriously by her teachers and
later by her bosses, she’d learned to take her measurements out of the equation
by disguising her attributes under boxy tops and relaxed-fit pants. Domino
wasn’t ashamed of her body but she was still uncomfortable in Mistress Bella’s
revealing clothes. Today’s outfit made her feel like she was wearing a sausage
casing.

Wincing at her aching feet, Dom walked to the sex toy
cabinet, picked up the pad and pen inside and listed the items in need of
restocking. Then she quickly straightened the rest of her equipment. As she
worked, her mind wandered back to the inconvenient subject that had plagued her
all day—Dalton C.

Maybe Dalton having been Mistress Bella’s first appointment
explained her fascination with him, Dom rationalized. But as a veteran of two
full nights at the club, she had to admit the truth—there was something
different about the man. Whether it was woman’s intuition or her experience
dealing with criminals, she knew Dalton wasn’t what he appeared. So, Dom told
herself, it was curiosity not attraction that had her wondering if her
intriguing first customer might return.

With effort, she banished thoughts of Dalton’s steely blue
eyes, yard-wide shoulders and world-class butt. Okay, he was attractive. So
what if she’d felt a connection with the man that had made it very difficult to
top him or hurt him in any way. If Dom followed her grandmother’s advice to
“find a nice man and have beautiful
bambinos
”, she certainly wasn’t
going to pick some guy who frequented a dominatrix.

With a groan, she headed to the supply room. As soon as she
restocked her cabinet, Domino was changing into her street clothes and driving
home. After the last few days, she needed a good night’s sleep. Hopefully this
time none of her customers would invade her dreams, not even the fascinating
Mr. C.

* * * * *

Dalton swung the Jeep over to the curb and killed the
engine. A layer of road grime covered the shiny black exterior of the SUV and
the tinted windows were ideal for his purpose. He opened the glove compartment
and took out the high-powered binoculars Jason had stashed there.

Without a keycard, Dalton couldn’t enter the club’s private
garage. So after circling the block several times, he’d chosen a location that
offered him an unobstructed view of the top parking level. He knew from Jason’s
journal that the open-air roof of the garage was employee parking. Thankfully,
the second-story lot was surrounded by a simple steel fence and not a stone
wall.

Adjusting the binoculars to his eyes, Dalton did a quick
scan of the fifteen or so cars on the roof. There was no movement. He lowered
the binoculars. When did Bella’s shift end? Had she left already?

With his naked eye, he could see the door leading from the
club to the rooftop. Dalton itched for some action. He’d be hot on her tail the
second Bella drove out of the garage.
Damn.
Dalton grimaced. He wasn’t
even inside the building, yet he was still thinking in sexual clichés. As the
interior of the car cooled, he pulled on the gloves balled in his jacket pocket
and tried to think about the case.

Thanks to Suzi, Dalton knew the Metro PD had Victor Xavier
under surveillance. Unfortunately, the club owner lived in an exclusive, gated
community in Northwest D.C., which prevented the detectives from entering the
neighborhood without alerting the suspect. Instead, the surveillance teams were
staking out the street beyond the gate to monitor Victor’s comings and goings.
So far, they’d only managed to uncover the names and locations of Victor’s hair
stylist, his personal trainer and a couple girlfriends.

The club door to the employee parking swung open and two
women walked out. Dalton focused his binoculars on the pair who were bundled up
against the February chill. The women passed under one of the few rooftop light
poles. Neither was Bella. One had reddish hair, artificially arched eyebrows
and exotic eyes while the other had blonde hair that curtained most of her face
except her thin-lipped mouth and pointed chin. As he watched, they got into a
car, drove down into the covered part of the garage, emerged on the exit ramp
and tooled past his SUV. He didn’t follow.

Dalton leaned the seat back and took a cinnamon-flavored
toothpick out of the container in the Jeep’s cup-holder. Jason had loved the
tongue-tingling things and always had a supply handy. Dalton slipped the
toothpick into his mouth and thought of how he’d teased his partner about his
“cinnamon pacifier”. Now the sharp taste of the toothpick was sort of
comforting.

The door to the club opened a second time and a woman in
blue jeans and a bulky coat stepped out. Dalton’s gut clenched and his
instincts went on red alert. He knew even before he put the binoculars to his
eyes it was Bella. As she walked through the shadows, he focused on her
profile. It was definitely the woman he had encountered in S&M Room Five.

Dalton was amazed at her transformation. This Bella was
dressed in baggy jeans and a ski-style jacket. She wore a Redskins baseball cap
with her hair pulled through the back in a ponytail. Despite her casual
clothes, she had a gait and posture that exuded confidence.

“C’mon, c’mon…” Dalton muttered as he waited for her to pass
under a light pole. He wanted to see her without the dominatrix mask but the
bill of her cap threw dark shadows across her upper face. Instead of walking
toward the cluster of remaining cars, Bella headed to the lot’s back corner
where a solitary black and white VW bug awaited. With her back to her watcher,
she slid into her car, started the engine and reversed out of the parking
space. The glare of the light poles on her windshield prevented Dalton from
getting a good look at her face before she drove down the ramp.

“Damn!”

He tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat and started
the Jeep. When Bella’s VW exited the parking garage, Dalton allowed several
cars to pass him before he pulled out and followed. He needed to get close
enough to get her license plate number but couldn’t afford to spook her.

They dodged through traffic and he noted the plates on her
late-model Bug were from Virginia, not D.C. The VW’s unusual paint job reminded
him of a domino and made it easier to keep the car in sight. Dalton trailed her
over Key Bridge into Virginia and onto the George Washington Parkway. Still he
hung back, concerned she’d spot the tail.

As he followed her, Dalton admired her driving—fast yet
defensive, a combination of rebellion and control. She smoothly accelerated and
always signaled as she changed lanes to pass less confident drivers. He wished
he could say the same about the two D.C. cabbies whose taxis had joined the three
other vehicles separating his SUV and Bella’s Bug. The cabbies seemed to be
playing a game of chicken on their race back to the Ronald Reagan Washington
National Airport for a new fare.

“Idiots,” Dalton grumbled as the yellow cab crossed the line
and almost sideswiped the checkered cab in the next lane. Taking his foot off
the gas, Dalton allowed his SUV to fall farther behind the dueling taxis. If he
lost his quarry, he could go through the Department of Motor Vehicles in the
morning to get a list of all two-tone Volkswagens in Northern Virginia.

Suddenly, the driver of the yellow cab floored it, pulled
ahead of his competition and cut over in front of the checkered cab. Bumpers
hooked, tires screeched and the cabs began a twisting, flipping dance that
ended with one on its side and the other on its back. With the quick reflexes
that had protected him in many tight situations, Dalton swerved around the
wreck and pulled over to the side of the road.

Cursing crazy cabbies everywhere, he pulled his cell phone
out of his pocket. Dialing 911, Dalton watched Bella’s Bug disappear in the
distance.

Chapter Six

“It’s high noon on a dreary Monday. Next up, our even
drearier forecast for another frigid week in the nation’s capital.” The disk
jockey’s theatrical sigh crackled through the AM radio station’s static. “Break
out the earmuffs and long johns, kiddies. It’s gonna be colder than a
lobbyist’s handshake.”

Half listening to the soft rock station, Domino cruised down
Route 50 and exited onto a suburban street. The VW’s heater was managing to
keep some feeling in her toes but her fingers and nose were courting frostbite.
One of these days, she’d find time to get the damn car repaired. But for now,
she was late for her meeting with Meyers.

Typical of her partner on this case, he’d chosen a location
close to his home—a park in Virginia’s Fairfax County. Meyers had assured her
the place would be deserted on a freezing February day. Any cars in the parking
lot would most likely belong to married people rendezvousing with lovers over
the lunch hour. To meet openly, she and Meyers were pretending to date—Domino’s
gag reflex jerked at the thought—so getting together at a lover’s lane of sorts
seemed appropriate.

She pulled into the park entrance and drove to the back lot
where Meyers’ truck stood idling. Fire engine red with monster tires and enough
chrome to cover the roof of the Capitol, the truck was the macho DEA agent’s
pride and joy. Domino wondered if the bulked-up Ford F-150 was Meyers’ way of
compensating for a less than impressive “sex machine”.

She turned into the parking spot on the passenger side of
the truck, shut off the VW’s engine and picked up her oversized purse. Dom
glanced around in a casual manner. There were several other vehicles in the
spacious lot but none were nearby. Slipping out of her car, she quickly closed
the door and hauled herself up into the cab of Meyers’ truck before the cold
had a chance to seep through her sneakers. The Ford’s welcome warmth almost
made up for the leer Meyers shot her way and the stench of his cologne. To wipe
the look off his face, she deliberately slammed his beloved truck’s door.

“Dammit, Petracelli,” he snapped.

“Nice to see you too, Meyers.” Domino smiled to herself as
she pulled a sheaf of papers out of her purse. “Here’s a copy of my notes so
far on the Xecutive Branch and its staff.”

With a grunt, Meyers took the proffered pages. Holding them
out of sight of any interested parties using surveillance equipment, he flipped
through the document. Then with a grunt, her partner slipped the papers into a
briefcase he’d opened on the truck’s bench seat.

“I’ll go over these with Lowery tomorrow,” Meyers said.

Dom nodded. Their boss would want to know how the
investigation was going.

“Speaking of Lowery,” Meyers continued, “he’s concerned the
perps have moved the drugs to another part of the building since the cop
stumbled onto them in the loading dock.”

“It’s possible. And it’s a big building but I’m on top of
it,” she reassured him.

“Mmmmm. You on top. There’s an interesting image,” her
sex-obsessed partner joked.

“I know it’s difficult for you to keep half your brain in
the sewer and the rest on the case, but try to multitask,” Dom shot back. “I
can’t be late to the club this afternoon.”

“Fine,” Meyers said. “I just have one thing to give you from
Lowery and then you can get your sweet ass out of my truck.”

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, the lecherous
agent closed his briefcase and set it by his feet. Then he leaned over the
bench seat to retrieve something from the back floorboard. A prickling of dread
ran through Dom. Meyers was up to something and she wasn’t going to like it.

Smiling, her partner set a flat-bottomed canvas tote on the
bench seat next to Dom. Recognition made her choke.

“No. No way, you hear me?” Domino held up her hands,
refusing the offering. “I will
not
use Smokey on this job.”

At the sound of his name, the unofficial mascot of the
Virginia DEA office poked his head through an unzipped section of the tote’s
top. A Chinese Crested small-breed dog, Smokey reminded some of Dom’s coworkers
of a steroid-pumped rat with a very bad haircut. Trained to sniff out drugs,
the dog had participated in a number of undercover operations. Domino was fond
of Smokey but no self-respecting agent wanted to use the silly-looking pooch on
a case. It was downright embarrassing to be seen with the yappy thing.

“Sorry,” Meyers said, though it was crystal clear he was
getting a kick out of the situation. “Lowery said Smokey will save you a lot of
time and risk when tracking the drugs.”

Her partner pushed the tote bag closer to her and Dom
gritted her teeth. If Sam Lowery had ordered Meyers to give her the dog, there
was no use arguing with her partner. She needed to go directly to the source.

“I’ll call Lowery on my way to work and get this
straightened out,” she said. “There’s no way I can explain bringing a dog to
the club.”

“Whatever.” Meyers acted disinterested.

Domino gathered up her purse and the tote bag and then
reached for the truck’s door handle.

“Hey, aren’t you going to give me a goodbye smooch to cement
our cover?” Meyers smirked. “One of the bad guys might have tailed you here.”

“I’d rather kiss Smokey. At least he’s had his shots.” Dom
shot him a sweet smile for the benefit of anyone watching.

Ignoring Meyers’ glare, she struggled out of the truck and
carried her load to the VW. Once inside, she started the engine and turned up
the heat. Her partner burned rubber out of the parking lot while Domino checked
the tote bag for Smokey’s wardrobe. The practically hairless canine had his own
collection of sweaters to ward off the winter chill. And he’d need his clothes
if he spent any time in Dom’s freezing car.

Choosing a tiny, fleece-lined Redskins jersey, she slipped
it onto the shivering dog’s bare, liver-spotted body. Thanks to static
electricity, the silky tan hair on Smokey’s head, tail and feet stuck out at
crazy angles. Domino smiled. It wasn’t the dog’s fault he’d been assigned to
this case.

As if he could read her thoughts, Smokey turned his dark,
almond-shaped eyes in her direction. With a whine and a lick on her hand, the
foot-tall canine settled down in the tote for the ride to D.C. Domino picked up
her cell phone, bracing for the argument to come, and dialed Sam Lowery’s
private line.

* * * * *

The organ music swelled, vibrating through Dalton’s leaden
body as he slumped against the hard back of the pew. He looked up toward the
church’s rafters, blinking away the tears pooling in his eyes.
Jason’s
funeral.
Over the last week, part of Dalton had refused to believe his
partner was really gone. But the church service just ending had brought the
stark truth home.

A gentle hand on his arm tugged Dalton’s thoughts back to
the petite woman sitting beside him at the back of the church. She was almost
unidentifiable in her lumpy winter coat and salt and pepper hair. Suzi Cho was
wearing a disguise in case anyone from the Xecutive Branch showed up at the
funeral. She couldn’t afford to be recognized as the club’s newest masseuse and
blow her cover. Despite the risk, Suzi had insisted on attending Jason’s
memorial.

Dalton had volunteered to escort her to the church and the
cemetery. Captain Bennett had agreed with the plan without suspecting his
detective’s ulterior motive. In the clothes, gray hair and posture of an
elderly man, Dalton too was unrecognizable. Since he was continuing his own
investigation of the club, Dalton didn’t want to be made as a cop.

With Suzi, Dalton watched as the mourners left the church.
Striking in their dress uniforms, somber police officers from the Metro PD and
police forces in nearby states filed past their pew. Despite newspaper reports
that Jason had died of a drug overdose, his friends and coworkers knew better.
And a remarkable number had shown up to honor their fallen comrade.

Sprinkled among the dress blues were the dark colors worn by
civilian friends. Quite a few of these acquaintances were young, female and
blonde. It looked as if the entire contents of Jason’s little black book had
attended. That thought had the corner of Dalton’s mouth quirking up. His
partner would have been pleased to see the turnout. Jason hadn’t had any family
but he’d been well-loved.

“I guess we should go,” Suzi said, as the last of the
mourners straggled out. Her voice was husky with unshed tears.

Dalton nodded, taking her hand to help her out of the pew.
Moving slowly like the elderly couple they were portraying, the detectives
walked through the church doors into the overcast Monday chill. The steel-gray
snow clouds mirrored Dalton’s dark mood as they made their way to Suzi’s green
Honda Civic.

“Why didn’t you buy one of those Minis or better yet a clown
car?” Dalton dissed her small car in an effort to make her smile. “Lime green
is the perfect color for the circus.”

Suzi unlocked her economy car with a remote and opened the
driver’s side door. “This car is plenty big. You’re just a jumbo-sized human.”

“I’d probably be more comfortable riding on the roof.”
Dalton began the aching task of folding his six-four frame into the car’s
passenger seat. “At least you could let me drive.”

“Sure, as soon as you let me drive that classic Mustang of
yours,” Suzi shot back.

“In your dreams, Cho,” Dalton said, as she started the
Honda’s four-cylinder engine. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that much
horsepower.”

Suzi blew him an impressive raspberry and they drove in
silence the short distance to the cemetery. Skirting a long line of parked
police cruisers and unmarked cars, she pulled into an empty spot and turned off
the engine. The quiet after the noise of the car was almost eerie.

Dalton stared through the windshield at the crowd gathering
by the freshly dug grave. The reality of his friend’s death stabbed like an ice
pick to his soul.

“Did you know I was supposed to go undercover at the club,
not Jason?” he asked.

Suzi turned to look at him but Dalton couldn’t meet her
eyes. “You mean the teenage runaways case?”

He nodded. “I…” Dalton cleared his throat and tried again.
“I talked him into drawing straws for the assignment and now he’s dead.”

“Oh.” The compassion in that one word made his chest ache.
“Bull, you can’t blame yourself.”

He twisted to face her, anger at himself warring with
frustration at her attempt to assuage his guilt. “Then who am I supposed to
blame? God? Captain Bennett? Jason, for letting himself be killed?”

Suzi didn’t react or look away from the pain he saw
reflected in her eyes. Instead, she leaned toward him and spoke in a calm,
clear voice. “I don’t know what you believe about God, Fate, predestination or
karma,” Suzi began. “But I believe when a person’s time is up on Earth, it’s
out of his hands.”

When he started to speak, she covered his mouth with her
fingers. “Just shut up and let me finish,” Suzi ordered. “I believe it was
Jason’s time to go and it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been eating a steak
dinner at Morton’s, making love to one of those blondes,” she gestured to
several women getting out of a nearby car, “or working a case at the Xecutive
Branch. And you’re playing God if you think you could’ve prevented it.”

She slipped her hand off his mouth but continued to stare
determinedly into his eyes. “Jason would be pissed at you for beating yourself
up over this.” Suzi’s voice was now scratchy with emotion. “Besides, leaving
you his cat was punishment enough, don’t you think?”

Dalton made a noise that came out half laugh, half groan.
Suzi smiled and motioned toward the mourners across the winter-dead lawn.
“C’mon, Bull. Let’s go say goodbye to Jason.”

Dalton got out of the cramped car, feeling as old as his
disguise. He slowly rounded the car’s hood and linked arms with Suzi. Together
they made their shuffling way to the grave.

Standing on the edge of the crowd, Dalton and Suzi scanned
the faces for anyone suspicious. The minister murmured a few last words over
the walnut casket, which was resting on the mechanism that would lower it into
the earth. With an “amen”, the minister closed his bible and motioned for
Captain Bennett to come forward. Their boss walked up to the casket and drew a
sheet of paper out of his pocket.

“I said my piece at the church,” Bennett began, “but I have
a few words here from Jason’s partner Dalton Cutter who couldn’t be here
because of a case.”

Suzi squeezed Dalton’s hand in hers and he held on as if it
were a lifeline.

“Jason Walters was my partner for six years and my best
friend,” Bennett read Dalton’s typed words. “I trusted him with my life and he
saved my sorry ass more than once.”

Many of the police officers laughed at that and the captain
stopped reading until the noise died down.

“Jason was an upright guy—no graft, no slacking off and no
drugs,” Bennett continued. “He was squeaky clean, if you don’t count his
fondness for pretty women.”

This time a few watery female chuckles joined the laughs
from the men.

“No one who knew Jason will believe he took the drugs that
killed him,” Bennett read as several police officers nodded in agreement. “And
when the Metro PD is done, that stain will be gone from his name. That’s all I
wanted to say except, goodbye, Jason. I’ll never forget you.”

Captain Bennett folded the paper and slipped it into his
pocket. Beside Dalton, he heard Suzi sniffling but couldn’t see her through the
blur of his own tears. Jason was truly gone.

Dalton bowed his head and closed his eyes, ignoring the two
tears that squeezed from under his lids. And there, standing at the grave, he
vowed again to avenge his partner.
I’ll get the bastards who did this,
Jason. And I’ll make them pay.